Play Along

by Manaly Talukdar (January 2026)

The paint had begun to chip off the walls. The dodger blue-aproned nurse led the way as her flip-flops slapped ahead whilst my monk strap ankles matched the squeaky rhythm of the floorboards. It was an unending maze of hallways. The aged relaxed on sun-dried plastic chairs on the balcony, their eyes glued to the horizon; zoned out at the waves of industrial buildings. My ears perked up to the faint echoes of mucus heavy coughs and clacks of canes. “Just play along.” The caregiver’s fingertips pressed against the varnished door which swung open with a ripple of cackling creaks. The afternoon sunlight intruded from the louvered windows. There she was. Her buttermilk cotton saree fluttered along with the breeze. The mosquito net roofed her bed as its knotted corners strung on the wooden bars attached to its four legs. Although the skin of her duvet pilled, it was neatly folded on the thin foam mattress. She was combing the frizzy hair of a porcelain doll, ready to be sat on the cushioned head of the chest next to its lifeless sibling. Their attires mirrored each other. Both twinned in yellow rompers coiled with black stripes.

The nurse announced our arrival by clearing her throat. She found this interruption unusual. Her eyes ping-ponged to me and then back to my chaperone. “Who’s she?” She broke her hesitation to query. “She’s one of their friends.” The nurse pointed at the bumblebee-coded dolls. She scrambled to her feet. Her scamper was a whiplash; her grip was handcuffed around my wrist. There was a glint in her eyes. A hope that they are coming back to take her home. Dimples pinned on her paper-thin cheeks whereas the feigned smile plastered on my face felt like a piercing pinch. Neither could I nod nor could I shake my head. My neck strained. Her brows furrowed, her head cocked to the side. The butterfly wind-chimes danced in the background to ward off the deafening silence.

“They have sent something.” I rummaged through my brick-red tote bag and slid out a thick black folder. Her raisin wrinkled fingers traced through the typewritten words, unable to comprehend its complex legal terms. “It’s about your house.” I clarified with a slight stutter. I was tongue-tied to elaborate on that until the nurse loitered behind the hunched-back resident and mouthed the words play along like a mime. “What about my house?” She asked. Vulnerability glazed her sandpaper voice. Renovation was one of the best explanations I could pitch at that moment. It was a half-truth after all. Her calm resurfaced, but it was temporary nonetheless. She beamed at the prospect that it was an indication of her children coming back to stay after a proper restructuring was done to their home. “I need you to sign it.” I snapped her back from her daydream, handed her a ballpoint pen which she clutched onto not to scribble down her name but rather she fiddled with it. Her cheeks reddened. The carer galloped out of the room and then back in with a stamp pad after gesturing to halt for a minute or two. She smeared her quivering thumb in the sponge soaked in blackish blue ink and pressed it above the dotted lines. This sealed the fate of her generation old Barn house. Yes, it will be up for renovation … just so that it could be rented out to strangers. I never dared to inundate my clients with questions but before my visit to the aged hospice, I had to. When I did, the fraternal twins pursed their lips. Although their expression soured at my audacity to second guess their decision, they had a simple response: it benefits both them and their mother. “She needs constant care.” Her beady-eyed daughter said. “We can’t always be there.” Her son concluded, his legs crossed, his hands folded. I failed to see a drop of guilt in their demeanor.

I could feel the air thinning in my lungs as I made my way out of the Assisted Living Facility. But before I stepped out of the threshold of her now forever home, I looked back to get a last glimpse of her. She was waving goodbye. She gracefully covered the dolls with a baby comforter. How long will she wait for them? I bit a cigarette out of its pack, the metallic lighter sizzled out a flame. The first drag burned. Brittle bones, grey hair and parchment-like skin were all life had to armor her with to be abandoned and tossed to the side. Her own blood left her behind, like all the residents living in that institutional palace. Smoke blanketed my vision. I killed the burnt butt on the sidewalk with my heels. My jaws clenched. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat. All I could hear was the ticking of the needles in my wristwatch. It’s ticking … for all of us. Is this how it ends? I pressed the buttons of my car keys which unlocked its doors with musical beeps. The sweltering heat of the humid summer turned the inside of my Sedan into a furnace, although my palms were slathered with cold sweat. I drove off, taking a final glance at the towering rhino-grey building with fissures tattooed around like vines in my rearview mirror. It was a solitary black hole for many whirl-pooling toward their end.

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Manaly Talukdar‘s work has been featured in Wilderness House Literary Review, Across The Margin, BlazeVOX Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Coalition For Digital Narratives, Masque & Spectacle, Corvus Review, The Broken Spine, Cotton Xenomorph and Kaidankai Podcast. She was also chosen as a finalist for her short fiction “Where is Grandpa?” in “The League of POETS” Weekly Contest (Week 1). You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @manalytalukdar and read her stuff on: https://linktr.ee/manalytalukdar.

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