A Day of Four Suns
Image created on Canva
On a white May morning, my neighbour, an honourable secretary of our residents’ welfare association, is watering his small outdoor garden with a hose pipe. Among delightful floral hues, first rays of embracing golden sunlight, I find noiseless solitude invaded by the splashing of free-flowing water.
Its illimitable stream is drenching the plants, the brick-walled boundaries, the iron railings, and gates, overflowing onto the asphalt road, shining from the accustomed bath. This deluge is going to perish all living creatures. Elsewhere sacred relics of the life-saving liquid have instated, perhaps a never-to-return joy lost along with its disappearance.
I remain content, inundated in my pictured haven, with an unblemished surety that everything is as it should be. We are in the age of Atonatiuh, “the Sun of Waters.”
As the day proceeds, I see huge cranes and men in yellow headgear positioning themselves to cut the lone mango tree in our locality. A sleek bird singing in an undaunted voice, perched on the topmost branch, quietens. The timid creatures living on the tree — squirrels, birds, insects — flee helter-skelter, and so does the perfume of botanical existence.
When the tree is finally axed, the huge trunk falls onto the ground, with a loud bang, sending seismic-like tremors. A sudden calm followed by human ecstasy — yelling, shouting, clapping — as if giant nomadic caterpillars rejoicing after decimating the tree. It’s perhaps the age of Tlalchitonatiuh, “the Sun of Earth.”
Soon after, I hear furious trumpets bonging in the wind — unhindered, unchecked — smashing over the bricked structures. Uprooted trees and barren lands lie deceasing, unstirred. Even the humans have altered along with the universal change, their minds unresponsive, manners facetious, reminding one of the long-forgotten spring.
A batch of red-eyed monkeys, hundreds or maybe thousands — countenance dipped in umbrage, presumed to be brought by the wind — invades our area, seizing control over our habitation. They are everywhere in our houses — window sills, balconies, stairs, front yards, backyards. The simians don’t seem to be real, appearing like winding toys for toddlers. Are they humans changed into monkeys? Are we in the age of Ehcatonatiuh, “The Sun of Air”?
I recall having seen posters, murals, banners, hoardings with Quetzalcoatl’s message teaching the virtue of vegetal life — “Plant trees. Save the Earth.” All have been disregarded. Hopefully, the art of life will be understood, promising its return another day.
As I venture into the yellowing heat, with the sun blazing overhead and the dusty street beneath me, I feel uneasiness within. In the deserted grey, I think I have descried green living forms on the balconies of the smouldering, high-rise buildings in the arid environment.
My nose, irritated, starts shedding tears. As I brush my palm beneath my nostrils to quieten the surge, fresh blood appears on my skin. With an audible heartbeat, I squint to catch a glimpse of the raging Sun. I espy a fleeting white cloud in the azure sky. Is this the age of Tlatonatiuh, “the Sun of Fire”?
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Sreelekha Chatterjee
Sreelekha Chatterjee lives in New Delhi, India. Her flash fiction was included in Wigleaf’s Top 50 Longlist 2024. Her short stories have appeared in York Literary Review, Flash Fiction North, Friday Flash Fiction, National Flash Fiction Day, Borderless, Usawa Literary Review, Storizen, Five Minutes, 101 Words, Bulb Culture Collective, The Wise Owl, Prachya Review, Literary Cocktail Magazine, and in numerous anthologies such as Fate (Bitterleaf Books, UK), Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series (Westland Ltd, India), Wisdom of Our Mothers (Familia Books, USA), and several others.
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