At this time last year, my family and I took a visit to Chicago where we planned on seeing my aunt. It was about 5 p.m., and that’s when the chilly yet soothing wind started to pick up. My aunt’s backyard was filled, just filled with gracious (but tall)10 feet cornstalks for at least one square mile. After a filling Indian lunch with steaming hot lentils, I sneaked out of the house cautiously; I turned back to ensure that I was alone.
After closing the back door, (bravely but in a fearful manner) I thought to myself, "Why not embark on a journey?" I entered the vast mighty field and stood amidst the natural beauty around me; the cheerful birds announcing the arrival of autumn and the breeze playing a serene tune for the trees and bushes to dance to and over me and absolute clear sky calling me, just tempting me to take advantage of the gorgeous day.
Strolling into the cornfield, I felt elated to be surrounded by such eloquence and nature that filled my soul with nothing but excitement and anticipation. To know that I had so much to discover and dig up (metaphorically and literally) was a splendid feeling.
I played with worms, dug up mystic rocks in the middle of an open plain, and continued to explore even more of mother nature’s offerings by walking around. How privileged I was to be surrounded by such wonder. I ooh-ed and ahh-ed at wondrous plants and animals that I laid my eyes on.
After a little while, I had to retreat back to the house when I heard my mother holler: “Raavina... Raavina come back here, we’re starting dinner!!”
I did not want to go back. I sighed in a dreary manner. I was engrossed in the natural wonders and there was so much yet to discover that I couldn’t do it in just an hour! However, I didn’t intend to worry my mother by being silent and therefore quickly shouted back, “Coming, mom!!”
There I was rushing through the field, like never before in a hurry to eat the hot delectable dinner that awaited me on the wooden oak dinner table.
Halfway through the maze of green and gold, I stopped to ensure that my heart wasn’t going to plunge out of my chest. After taking a few deep breaths, I turned my head, for a small shiny cobweb like thread caught the corner of my eye.
I followed it with my gaze to a larger web to which it was connected. To my horror, on that web lay a colossal monstrous spider.
This creature was drenched in streaks of pitch black and vivid yellow. The eight eyes on the arachnoid glared at me, and I bolted as fast as I possibly could to the big brown house where my spaghetti dinner was. My whole twelve years of life flashed in front of my eyes. At that bloodcurdling moment I pictured my obituary: "Here lies Ravina," it read. "She was only twelve when the spider swallowed her whole."
Back at the house (where I luckily didn’t find my obituary) I shared my story with the entire family, my aunts and my parents (who surprisingly weren’t surprised!) along with my skeptical brother and awestruck grandmother.
I was out of breath when I finished telling my intense tale.
“And that’s, how I’m here now,” I dramatically paused to make a deep effect (or so I thought).
After my theatrical narrative, (for which I was expecting an applause) my grandmother and my mom started chattering away, my brother and my uncle resuming to their conversation about college, and my dad headed towards the kitchen to collect the salt.
After we sat down for dinner, I felt an emptiness. I sighed heavily with a hint of disappointment. "Aw, man!" I thought. "I should have stayed there and watched that spider — that was so cool!"
