The Prioress's Tale

I wrote this many moons ago for a BBC Competition that required entrants to adapt The Canterbury Tales for a modern age. I found it while rooting through some old files, and thought I would share. Hope you enjoy!

EDIT: Hm, the apostrophies appear to have borked. Sorry about that.

With all his heart, the boy sang to her, and with all her heart she wept with joy. Masum was the gift that her husband had left to her when he died, and this gift was special in so many ways. Sadia never stopped smiling when she was with him.

Since before he could talk, it seemed, Masum liked to sing. His every word that flowed from his mouth had a rhythmic quality that sailed through the air like a feather floating to the floor, and when he read passages from the Koran to his mother, Masum brought the words of Mohammad alive. Though as much as she enjoyed listening to him speak, she loved to hear him sing, and as he sang to her now, tears of joy rolled down her cheeks.

Even at seven years of age, Masum did not know any tunes, let alone the lyrics that may go with them. Instead, he sang whatever felt right to him, and to Sadia, her son’s songs were better than any which had been recited in the past thousand years. Masum sang of love and war, of broken hearts and of peace. He sang of birds that flew, and fish that swam, but mostly he sang the praises of Allah, and all the while his mother cried at the beautiful music. She was forever proud of his gift, of her gift, of her son.

Masum stopped singing when the noisy-smelly man from next door clapped and grinned at him, then showed his dirty toothy smile to Sadia. The noisy-smelly man was poking his crooked face over at them from the other side of the fence. Sadia didn’t know that he had been listening; she had wanted to keep Masum’s gift all to herself – Masum was, after all, her gift given to her by Miraj before he left to lay so very still six feet under Bangladeshi mud a hundred thousand miles away. She knew that others didn’t always like his songs – sometimes they didn’t understand them, and sometimes they didn’t want to listen.

Masum, on the other hand, was happy that someone else wanted to listen to him – he liked to sing for anyone, for everyone. He too, knew that not everyone wanted to hear him though, and was glad when anyone appeared to show such enthusiasm.

The noisy-smelly man beckoned the boy over to him, and asked him to hold out his hand, and close his eyes. The noisy-smelly man loved to hear Masum’s songs. He didn’t pretend to always understand them, but they always warmed his heart. For years, it seemed to him, he had been covertly listening through walls and fences at the wonderful words, and was happy at last to see the boy sing them up close.

Masum felt something cold in his hand, and then heard the noisy-smelly man clap again. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was now holding a small collection of shiny coins – more money than he had ever held in his life. He looked up at the noisy-smelly man, who was giving him his dirty-toothed grin.

The noisy-smelly man whispered in Masum’s ear – he told him to waste the money on sweets and toys. The boy was to spend it all, he said, to spend it all on drinks that went ‘fizz’ and chocolate that melted in the hand.

Masum looked to his mother, who was smiling nervously. For a moment, he thought that she was going to take his present away. He was relieved when she nodded her acceptance.

Without squandering any precious chocolate moments, he ran from his mother and the noisy-smelly man towards the shops. He ran down the dark path between the old houses, the path with rubbish of every sort which littered its sides; the path with the barking dogs; the path with the bigger boys that sat on the wall.

The path his mother told him to never follow.

Just this once wouldn’t hurt, he thought to himself. It was much quicker this way, and at the end of the path, Masum could see the tiny corner store.

At the end of the path between Masum and the shop was the dirty grey wall, on which the bigger boys sometimes sat. They were there now, drinking from gold and silver cans, and they smiled as he passed them, but said nothing.

He cheerfully crossed the road, and went into the shop, immediately eyeing up everything he fancied, from ice cream to sherbet lemons and fizzy drinks. He had more than enough money for everything he desired. But every time he reached for something he wanted, a pain inside him told him his mother would like to share his present from the noisy-smelly man. Eventually, Masum compromised with his conscience, leaving with only the bare necessities: a chocolate bar that was so large it would last him a week, and a can of orange fizzy drink. He hoped that he wouldn’t upset the noisy-smelly man by not wasting it all like he promised.

He began to sing to himself as he walked home, and as he turned towards the path between the houses, he felt happier than he ever had.

Then somebody else laughed behind him, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. Masum fell quiet as soon as he heard it - it was a mean laugh, a sort of guttural groan that made his heart sink. It was a laugh meant to mock him.

Masum turned to see that five of the bigger boys stood just a few feet away – he hadn’t seen them on the wall as he had walked back, and wasn’t sure if they had been following him the whole time. They smiled wide smiles as they begged him to sing for them, but for the first time he could remember, Masum didn’t want to. Then they walked towards him, calling him strange names he didn’t understand, or names he knew were not his. They said they knew what his father did, and that they didn’t like it.

Masum also knew what his father did, and he didn’t like it either – his father laid very still six feet under Bangladeshi mud a hundred thousand miles away. He wondered where these other boys’ fathers were.

Once more, they asked him to sing for them, poking him in the ribs. Another walked behind him, and before he knew, his filthy hand was deep in Masum’s pockets, and out again: he had taken all his mothers money. He tried to snatch it back, but yet another boy pushed him away. They started calling him horrid names, laughing at him, joking about the songs they did not understand. They pushed him to the floor, saying untruths about his mother, and lies about his father. The chocolate in his hand was sticky, and he dropped it to the floor as one by one the boys began to circle him. One of them kicked him, and he cried out a little as he fell down. He was surprised when almost immediately the boys stopped, apparently surprised that what they were doing hurt him.

It was the last he would see of his money, he knew, and Masum kept as quiet as his mother had always told him to be with others. He no longer wanted the drinks that went ‘fizz’ – all he wanted was to be safe, to be with his mother again. He slowly stood up and kept walking toward his home. They called out after him, each cry a thousand horrible lies of things they did not understand. Under his breath, he began to sing to himself again. He found that the song gave him a little more happiness, and a little more hope.

But then the boys began to walk toward him again. Masum knew that he could not run to the end of the path before they caught him. It was too far home, and he had too few friends that were too far away.

And as time passed, the sun sailed across the sky.

It had been several hours since Masum had left for the shop, and he had never been this late before. Sadia knew that she should have gone with him, but now as she paced the hall of their home, she also knew he would be back soon, and that everything would be fine again. The noisy-smelly man from next door was out looking for Masum, and within a few minutes, perhaps less, he would knock on the door and bring her son home to her.

But as if out of her mind, she countered every one of these rational thoughts with the irrational and began to panic, looking through every place in her home where Masum could be hidden. He had to be playing a game - she knew she would find him, if only she kept looking.

Her ears ringing with worry, Sadia barely heard the knocking at the front door. But within moments she was downstairs, and fumbling with the locks to open it up and greet her son home. At the doorway stood the noisy-smelly neighbour, carrying Masum in his arms. The neighbour looked worse than usual, Sadia thought. His hair was greasy, as if he had been running for miles and even his dirty, toothy grin had vanished.

Sadia didn’t look at the lifeless body of Masum. She already knew. Instead, she simply cried as she fell against the wall, and the noisy-smelly man laid the child on the floor.

The police came, and made plenty of notes as they looked around her house, around Masum’s things, asking her questions. Eventually, they left, but she never knew at what time – the whole day was beginning to flow from one moment the next with such rapid succession that she wasn’t even sure if it was the same day anymore. They left her with promises she barely believed would be fulfilled, and with an aching heart.

The funeral came quickly – far too quickly for Sadia. It still felt like only minutes had passed since she had been sat in the garden, listening to her son sing to her. But the funeral came, speeches were made, and sympathies were offered. Men that Sadia didn’t know came to her, and made genuine offers of help and support, but she turned them all away. Today she wanted little more than to be with Masum again, though she knew she never would.

The noisy-smelly man from next door walked to her, and whispered in her ear to go home, and get some rest. As he did, she felt him slip something in her pocket.

As the sun set in the sky, Sadia went home alone while the men took Masum away to lay him very still six feet under English mud, not so far away, but yet somehow a hundred thousand miles from home. Just before she closed her front door behind her, she heard a police siren as a car sped into the estate. Tomorrow she would hope that they had come to find those who were responsible; that they had come to punish the guilty. But right now, Sadia was tired, so very tired.

She sat on her favourite chair, and put her hands in her pockets to keep them warm. To her surprise, she felt something cool and round in one of them, and took it out: she was holding a gleaming white pearl. But as she examined its beauty, she realised she could stay awake no longer, and began to drift away where she sat. As she closed her eyes she fell away to another world, a world where the boy was singing to her again with all his heart. He sang of love and war, of broken hearts and of peace, though mostly he sang the praises of Allah. And with all her heart she wept.