number four private drive

Mr Dursley, as usual, had a perfectly normal, night-owls-free day or so the story goes. He shrieked at five to eight normal people, made several important telephone calls and a wee bit of normal shouting. He did fawn over those who deserved.

In his normal desire to hit someone he yelled at his mother-in-law, dashed the remote against the wall and stormed out of the room. She stood rooted to the spot with her mouth agape in horror and could see that the present wasn’t perfect. She went to ‘heat’ the alphabet soup to feel a little healthier.

“shhhh…h take the shit!” Father breathed quietly. He picked up the pieces and tried to assemble it.

He was humiliated at Dudley’s first birthday celebration when he brought 38 gifts for Dudley. 160 less than he desired. As usual, Dudley threw a huge tantrum. But father took the shit. He always did. Later report cards journeyed thousands of miles and Private Drive consistently echoed with Mr Dursley’s fierce roars. Father always took the shit and fondled anticipating at the possible cause of blissfulness.

During Mr Dursley’s normal shouting, oftentimes the blubbergum continued to whine and frisk in the mud, in the need of “A fat wad of notes”. Equally adept at giving a frightened look in the time of need. And all needs were shrouded in several layers of normalcy. Sometimes shit went heavy and father said ” Celebrate the shit…”. Harry’s cavalier heart yearned for a breather.


Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is a mother of two lovely kids and hails from the northeastern town of India Gorakhpur. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures with her kids.

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