A Writing Quill

' Didi ... o didi, open the door.' Mithu banged continuously the front door of Suchitra's apartment. Suchitra woke up shakingly at this sound and with faltering steps, she strided towards the door. Her eyes were still half closed evincing to be in a sleep. But as she followed the same path every morning, she instinctively reached the entrance and unlatched the door. Without even opening it entirely, she turned back and threw herself on the sofa. Mithu, without wasting a single moment, began her daily chores. She picked up the newspaper and the milk packets kept inside the basket just outside the door. ' Didi , get up no. The chai will be ready in 5 minutes. After I finish here, I will need to go to the other houses too'. Suchitra pushed herself out of the sofa and dragged herself to the bathroom. Mithu kept on blabbering all the gossips of the entire building whilst  Suchitra, least interested, kept herself quiet while she lazily brushed her teeth. The moment she ca...

  'Geeta... Geeta... what are you doing inside the kitchen?' Anuradha's voice echoed inside the house as she saw her little daughter escaping narrowly towards the kitchen. Geeta, panic striken,  dropped the spoon made of stainless steel on the floor with a clank as soon as she heard her mother's stern voice admonishing her from the bedroom. She had just taken it from the shelf but could not make proper use of it. Anuradha knew her daughter's fetish for the 'mishti doi'. She had many times caught her stealthily creeping downstairs towards the fridge. Today was no exception. Geeta's affinity towards this dessert had developed when for the first time she was fed rice, 'mukher bhat' - the rice eating ceremony. She was about 6 months old. Her grandma had tasted it to her  with the silver spoon gifted by herself to Geeta as a custom. Geeta would cry incessantly during her toddler days for this sweet dish that the sweet seller was once summoned at the w...

Sometimes when life gives us lemons, we may not be able to make a lemonade of it. Rather, might require to accept its sourness. May be it was destined. It is always easier to inculpate the destiny even if the efforts of making a lemonade was possible but was not done. What if it was never possible?  It leaves a scar on our mind... heart... life. For instance, losing someone dear to your heart is destined and also putting efforts to bring him or her to your life had been absolutely cent percent. But it was not possible because the destiny played its part. But what about those who stayed back? Say, the widowed wife. The society puts restrictions on her entire cocooned  world.. On a single turn of faith, her vermillion on her forehead is wiped off, colour of the saree is transformed, food habits get transposed and without even realising once, her life gets substituted. This blemishes her from inside which cannot be rubbed off. She becomes volatile as well as heavier within, laden...

I wondered, how they survived without the mother, when she would go out to fetch food for the newborns. They had been recently hatched out. I, a spectator, would love to see the little birds, still with the closed eyes, anticipating the mother's arrival. The custom I followed as a child when I would sit near the window for hours until she arrived in the evening from her routine endeavours. The longingness for the mother's warm hug; an unquenchable feeling. Her hug was mystical sometimes compounded with the healing impact. Ah! how could she do it? I was cured of the mild headaches, pain and surprisingly even nervousness. The smaller me, believed she was a magician. Once, after a fracas at school, I ran to her. I was stifled and edgy, full of angst, when she had hold me tight and kissed my forehead and the magic happened. I thought, if every mother was a magician? Maybe. The little birds clenched each other with a trust of not letting go the siblings while their protector was a...