They ran a tight shop, the Xings did. Everything was in neat orderly proportions or in stacks- neat stacks right up to the ceiling, of brown and yellow things.
We were hunting for a hack- a hack to getting a life, on our own terms.
That led us to the back of the Xings’ shop, right from the day we saw it being bought over and renamed from the grocers it once was to the Xings, in big iconic letters- from that day onwards we were destnied to end up at the back of that shop, staring up at the stacks of hundreds of clay pots right up to the ceiling, wondering what the meaning of life was and why it seemed at that moment to be so interlaced in those clay pots, in their grains, in their pieces as we smashed them down with our hands and cricket bats and school bags and feet. I’ll never forget the expression on the elder Xing’s face as he ran out at the commotion and stood there seeing us smash to smithereens all those pots, all those clay pots. There were tears running down his face. Did it feel good? That was all he said. He didn’t call the police. He didn’t tell our parents. “Did it feel good?” That’s all he did. Those words were almost chilling.
He stood there letting us see his tears and snot all mix together and dribble down into slimy little splatters on the floor.
We yelled, as if yelling somehow made us alive, and ran. We didn’t touch anything besides those pots.
This account is pure fiction.