Detachment // August Prompt

 With a sigh, Ira held out a mittened hand to grab 'The Sounds of India' from the corner of the third shelf- a vintage, moth-eaten affair sandwiched between 'Call of the Valley' and 'Passages'.

Back in Philadelphia, on those crisp winter evenings, Mama would tempt her with her homemade stews, as she would wait patiently, straining her ears for the sound of the leaves in the garden crunching under the weight of her father's heavy boots. As soon as he had tossed his jacket in the direction of the sofa, he would place a record on the turntable by the window before proceeding to amuse Ira with bizarre tales from his day at work.

'In New York' used to be a winter favorite. The quiet, contemplative notes of Raag Marwa from the 1968 album always blended in well with the fresh cup of after-dinner coffee. 

Ira stepped back and ran her eyes over the rows of old Indian classical records hastily cramped together in the corner of the dark, musty second-hand vinyl store down Mirza Ghalib Street. Among them, she spotted the 1967 vinyl release of The Sounds Of Subbulakshmi- one of her mother's old favorites.

Ira sighed again. A healthy relationship with her mother would probably have solved ninety-seven percent of her problems. She had not made an effort to contact her mother since her return to Calcutta earlier this week- the conversations had been rough for more than a year now and no phone call would end without one of them angrily hanging up, frustrated, and teary-eyed. 

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Once again, Ira let out her hand to feel the frayed edges of the record sleeve, only to realize that someone else besides her was present in the shop, and had reached their hand out to grab the same record that she was holding. Both of them let go of the record abruptly. 

'And is this going to accompany your butterscotch caramel coffee tonight?'

In the faint lighting of the store, Ira could make out the portly figure of a woman wrapped up in multiple scarves and outerwear- much like the figure at the kitchen counter humming to the cheery pop sitar renditions in their little house in Philly- now looking a little weary. 

'Er- why are you here?'

'Love, I have been living here for over a decade now. Living amidst these records- the country tunes, ragas, the slow jazz- the question, I suppose, is for you.'

Without a reply, Ira clutched the record, paid for it, and walked out of the store. 

'Well, I guess I shall be seeing you later tonight- over the coffee, of course-' Ira began, but the lady was already walking down the dimly lit street towards the buzzing main road. Ira began to walk the other way, glancing back only once to look at the receding figure. As she looked away ahead, at the road in front of her, she found the view slightly blurred. 

This short story was originally selected as the winning entry for the Creative Writing Contest (August prompt) hosted by the Union County Library System.