A Writing Quill

Manoroma was dressing up in front of the mirror. She adjusted her pallu broadly, covering up her upper body so that she is fully impeccable to the world. She had put a little kohl on her wide eyes, accentuating them slightly. She had done that after many years of protecting herself from the world that might taunt her for doing so after her husband’s demise. She had stopped going out, meeting her friends for fun, and having some relief and happiness. It was not because she was financially dependent on him; she was quite secure enough to take care of herself in a very respectable way. What was the reason for the prohibition? Most of the women consider themselves vulnerable and completely surrender to the norms of society; Manoroma is no exception.   Her mind is functioning in a way that has been trained as per the do(s) and don’t(s) for a widow. But the main catch is, the world will see you as you see yourself. Maybe she has understood this concept and decided to be a little bold a...

It is never easy to start something new, especially if it’s your long-lost hidden passion. But, once you make up your mind to give wings to this fervent burning desire, it may be answered with certitude that nothing comes amid. The monotony of our day-to-day existence pushes the desires that were always embedded somewhere in the farthest corner of our mind and heart, which have certainly been lost in memory. The evocation of this fervent memory burgeons at some point in life when we regret not achieving it earlier, and for pursuing something that was never our sphere of concern. This little sprout germinated from the intense thoughts of our mind starts putting out its shoots. Here, the mind plays a trick, making the individual vulnerable both emotionally and mentally. The ploy is to make us comfortable in the present unbothered ‘sphere of concern’, both financially and physically, and then make us regret not pursuing our desires. Those who can rise from this delusional trap have achi...

  Village. ‘Mr. Ananta Suri, lawyer. He is from New Delhi. He had read about our struggle from the news article that we had published last week in the newspaper. He is here to support us.’ Lobsang was relieved at the presence of someone from the capital city showing interest in their cause. He introduced this young, handsome lawyer to Athang. Also, inside his mind, he was ambivalent about this stranger suspecting it to be a foul play of the opponent. Lobsang was disappointed to see Athang with no one by his side, ‘Where is Sheshnag? You had promised me to ...’ St. Athang’s head was already drooped in embarrassment. ‘Sheshnag instructed me to be here. Rest, I don’t know.’ Both were dismayed. Anant talked with the villagers in their local language with empathy and concern so that everybody could relate to him. In a short time, he was popular in the village. After learning the views from the villagers, his next agenda was to know the company that was to do the construction. ...

  Village. The ‘ mukhiya ’ was sitting on the pedestal of the huge statue of the first chief of this village. The pedestal was made such that it extended outward, creating space for a person to sit comfortably on a higher platform than the rest of the sitting area, imitating a king’s throne. For the first time in his tenure as the ‘ mukhiya ’, Lobsang was clueless about the solution for which everyone had gathered today. Lobsang was a kind-hearted person with acute decision-making capability. The Dihang River was the life of this village. The abundant nature, comprising both flora and fauna, was considered to be blessed by the Dihang. They regularly worshipped the mighty river to receive its blessings. ‘We need to save our Dihang from the encroachers.’ An octogenarian shouted from behind. ‘I am leaving for Amarnath to meet St. Athang. I believe he has a solution for us. I agree, we want development in our region but not at the expense of our Dihang.’ Lobsang looked at eve...

Little Meena, oblivious of her circumambient, was twirling, dancing, and hopping around her mother, firmly clenching the  pallu  of her saree. The teeny-sized frock and the two bunches of hair tied securely near the scalp, symmetrically on either side of her round head, also accompanied this whirlwind. The frock was gifted to her by her aunt just a few months ago during Durga Puja and she has already outgrown its length, evincing her fast growth. She was giggling and shrieking in joy. The mother would now and then reprimand her softly with a buzzing sound while she unreservedly toppled over her head. ‘Ma.. ma.., what are you plepaling?’ The three-year-old enquired with a lisping and sputtering voice while her eyes scrutinized the ingredients that her mother had kept aside to prepare her famous mango pickles. Some of these were introduced for the first time to her eyes. The only element known to her was the mangoes because of her excessive affinity towards these delicious drupe...

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