There was Krithi surrounded by all the odd and wonderful furnishing ideas of IDEA. Her eyes rounded at the possibilities that all the abstract and tantalizing ethnic patterns offered, lying displayed in neat aisles. All the rugs, sheets, curtains, fabrics, floral arrangements, tiles, pillows, all of it waiting to be arranged with care in her own humble home. The paisley, teal curtains with crushed silk borders called out to her. Then just as easily as her fingers went to crush the fabric, rustling and feeling the vibrancy of the colour that lay translucent against her skin, her eyes welled up. Sunil looked at her disapprovingly, and she looked back at him shame-faced yet angry that she ended up no better than her mother.
Ma had doomed herself the moment she had pronounced the words, “ I know how to make do” after a lengthy and silent yet seething battle that had gone on between the parents on how to furnish their new home. Their father had as always fallen under the spell of words, this time the real estate agent's and had bought a “swell fixer-upper” and still remained floating on the illusion that he was the handy man to turn this shanty into a sensational dream home. From there on, their house lay in various disarray of half finished projects. Looking each day more or less like it had been burglarized by a considerably, neat robber or a tornado keen on tidiness. Her mother’s dreams of crystal figurines, cherry wood furniture and full window treatments died with the flyers that advertised their discounts on glossy, smooth pages.
Seeing how her mother had bitten back and physically swallowed each wanted item, as if consuming her material wishes would allow her to create the same satisfaction of actually owning the objects themselves, caused Krithi to promise herself she would not be left compromise on her creative instincts.
But here she was looking forlorn, running her fingers along the racks of globular spice jars and shiny metal-lidded canisters waiting to be filled with her kitchen’s spices. The spices she deliberately hid at the back of their tiny kitchen closet, ashamed as she was to be seen in their stained and varied, used container forms. Krithi looked over at Sunil as he looked with great interest at the store map tracing his finger towards the entrance, jabbing his stubby finger at the exit sign marked by a small red x. He looked over knowing she was sizing him up once again, and he knew without words that she was always sizing him up, her liquid eyes calculating all the while about all that she could not afford and would not buy.
He shuffled over to her and poked at her shoulder “You know Krithi, we can buy one thing for one of our rooms and come back each time for something else”, her frown deepened at this, she knew this was like plying an insistent child with a lolly in hopes she’d forget the more expensive toy that had caught her attention. “Well you know I would buy it all for you right now Krithi, but it would have to be borrowed.”
Krithi winced at that word “borrowed”. Ma had long ago instilled the fear of being drowned in debt, especially with their father being the ever hapless victim of pyramid schemes. They would rather beg than borrow and would rather make do then buy on credit. The words “potlucky” coined by her aunty, still terrified her. She remembered how their otherwise solemn aunt, cheerily and grinning too much had explained how if they all contributed an amount each month and drew lots each of them in turn would be able to reap the benefits of the combined efforts. And after Ma cautiously joined in shaking her head in agreement along with her already rapidly nodding father, the phone calls had begun. Her doting aunty at the end of the month would transform into a screechy, cursing woman. She would rant how she never did trust Shukla who drew the winning lot last time and then refused to be a continuing contributor. She would whiningly imitate the various potluckers and their reasons as to why they should receive the lump sum. Desperation sometimes over rode the drawing of lots but not without resentment. And at the end, she would wheeze and remind Krithi that “Mummy-Pappa must be on time with their amount this time, last time too late, too many headaches this was giving Aunty…but it was good, very good for all of us ok Krithi-beta?…Remember to tell Mummy that.”
And all the while Krithi wondered, her ear and hand sweating and hurting from clutching the phone and pressing it too hard to her ear, why her green crayoned message staring back at her looked oddly, menacing. Why her parents’ faces looked so drawn as they motioned with their hands to each other to remain quiet while aunty was on the phone.
To Be Continued...If There is Interest.
Marked for re-reading.
am trying to finish it...have root idea...am wondering how to get it out...and it has been penned I am wondering will it have the wanted impact?...my editor rules over my creative director too much these days 
An innocent soul caught in the trauma of long-suppressed pangs of neglect and suspicion!
What a twist! What a twist! Now, who is to be pitied? Who feels more wretched? Treachery and deceit all the way!!! 
...I know it is a negatively themed story but I wanted that "thunderbolt" effect! I wanted readers to struggle when thinking who is the better person or even if there is one...I wanted readers to see the "gray" and not just the black and white. I also primarily wanted to use different forms of communication: dialogue, letters, diary entry....
for faithfully reading this story...it means a lot to me. 