A Writing Quill

  Ahalya woke up with broken legs. She did not know how or when it happened. Huge, thick, white bandages wrapped around her legs nauseated her. She was trying to ask the nurses, but it seemed her voice was choked inside her throat, and not a single word had pushed out of her mouth. She felt tears pouring from her eyes, and she picked up the small piece of white cloth on the bedside to wipe her face, only to find it dry. Where had the tears gone? She looked for some mirror or shiny objects to validate her situation but could not find anything. She became restless. A sudden desperation flooded her mind and body and she wanted answers for everything. She lay helpless. Ahalya woke up. She was panicky. She searched for her spectacles rigorously on the bedside table. She had kept them on it before she slept at night. She remembered clearly. She was unable to see anything now and she wanted them back at any cost. In haste, she had pushed the novel on the floor that she had been reading be...

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...

#awritingquill 

  Sunaina pushed the blue door with her entire body force. The long steel handle on each door of the pair was enough to establish a firm grip. But its texture suggested it to be cumbrous, made up of pure teak wood, very large, lofty, and high. She had never seen such a door in her life and was amazed by its beauty. She whispered in her husband’s ear, ‘What kind of door is this? So big and blue in colour. No thief on earth will ever be able to break it open.’ The husband pushed her to the left, with a fake smile to the waiters scattered all over the restaurant near each table, eager to serve and take orders. It was dinner time. The man had never taken his wife to such a costly restaurant earlier. Earlier, it was mostly the ‘ chat’ houses serving ‘ panipuri ’, ‘ tikki ’, etc. He had recently started earning a lot when a business venture had clicked at the right place. His long-awaited dream of dining with his wife in such a luxurious eatery had finally come true. They dressed th...

 

 

  The magical realm of death and life is the ‘forbidden’ space. One knows everything about life and nobody knows beyond it. Death is never escapable, and when it happens, the body is free from all pain and suffering. It has always been the reason for mourning and sadness, but the countless corpses brought every day to the Manikarnika Ghat situated at the bank of the river Ganga in Banaras city is a vivid example of a place where death is celebrated and is never a reason for unhappiness. The departed bodies are not wrapped in a white shroud but enshrouded in elaborated, colorful, vibrant red cloth, as is done for a bride when she is sent forever to her husband’s home, ‘bidai’, from her father’s doorstep. The feelings resonate similar intentions where the souls are sent to the other world, to their original homes, to the supreme God, Shiva , for moksha . The experience that one receives at Manikarnika Ghat is unexplainable in words. It is one such crematorium where anyone can at...

  'My wife is always right, ’ the man exclaimed in an assertive tone. The wife stared at her half-drunk husband with those big, round eyes, darkly accentuated with the kohl that her maid had prepared at home under her strict supervision. He thought it was a compliment that would make her smile; instead, the repercussion was contrasting. The other drunk person replied, ‘You are correct, Mr. Bose. My wife, too, is always correct.’ And then there was a wave of laughter that had spread inside the huge hall only among the masculine junta . And soon it was realised by all that it was a sarcasm presented in a complementary way, which eventually turned comic. The females were not happy and soon started to quit the party, whereas the men continued grilling their favourite subject- women as a wife. ‘They say women are subjugated and oppressed. But I argue, in the last fifteen years, have I ever been able to win a single argument from her? She uses all her verbal prowess to defeat me, ...

She had been sitting unwaveringly for the last two hours now. Not a single drop of tear had rolled down her gentle and wrinkled face. The only words she repeated whenever someone would talk to her were, ‘Good for him. Who would look after him if he had been bedridden? I am too old now.’ He was 97, and still took care of his lady, who was in her 80s. She was sick and had aging, fragile bones. He was, though, sturdy enough to hold her hand and walk her inside the house; he had been her delicate buttress-weak physically but morally strong enough to support her. Even though he was sometimes sick, he had never stepped away from performing his domestic duties towards his better half, children, and grandchildren. She had been away at her daughter’s place for a few days after many years and could not talk to him for the last time. She regretted. But they had been together for 65 years, and now they needed no words to communicate; they just knew each other’s thoughts, and so life went on. ...

  The sun was shining bright. The sultry afternoon made Bajender think of his worth on this earth. He was sitting under the tree seeking the cool breeze. But not a single leaf moved, making the place hotter than before. His wife, Sunita , shouted from inside, ‘ sunte ho! Pani to bharo .’ The Gram Panchayat had recently arranged for the supply of clean drinking water in the village. As the election approached, they had expedited some delayed works to secure the majority vote by the ruling ‘ Sarpanch ’. This happens every five years. After the results are out, the Panchayat committee hibernates for nearly 3 years and then resumes the leftover work of the last 3-4 years. Not a single toe moved from him. He was lost. Worldly visuals found him there, but his mind had been oscillating between the past and the future. He time-traveled with the mission of rectifying some mistakes of the past that would change his present and so would reshape his future. His three children were hopping...

  There is always a first time. This recent first time was not at all appreciative for me. I was hurt, and it pained so much that my decision to consider that experience had jeopardized my future decision-making capabilities. But later, I did thank myself for taking it up. The constant shrieking pain in my molar tooth on the extreme left of my mouth drove me to a dental doctor who had 27 years of experience in dentistry (written vividly in her signboard).   My appointment was scheduled at 11 A.M., but it was delayed by 10 minutes for a reason that made me firmly believe in her medical capabilities. She was chanting some mantras loudly and was audible from outside before she began her day at the clinic. I conceived that if she is starting her day with the blessings of God, then she is a lady of great affirmations and would perform her duties with full faith and dedication. My silly musings were interrupted, and I was called inside. The dusky lady in her 50s, after examinin...

  It was Sunday. I hoped the world would stand still, and I would not be required to get out of bed. I had never been so lazy on Sundays, except when I had to reduce my cabinet to essentials. Each shelf meant a separate row for each variety of apparel that belonged to me. The sarees would stand still, supported by the hangers on the right corner. The jeans were supposed to be hung down too, while the t-shirts were to sit quietly near them. The salwar-kameez and the kurtis would lie happily on the lower shelves. And the office attire , consisting of trousers and shirts, would be in a descreet section inside my three-door almirah . These were the images of the wardrobe inside my head. In reality, The sarees were clumsily stacked one upon the other. The jeans, salwars, kurtis, and T-shirts were crammed inside two shelves like a mixed vegetable dish. It took me so much pain each morning to search for the correct pair, and every day, I was determined to declutter my wardrobe ...

  “Hey blud!! Pass me the ball.” The young boy in his early 20s shouted from the centre of the field. I chose to ignore it, assuming he was screaming at his teammates. I gave him a short glance for his unique raspy voice, which might have happened due to his constant screams for an hour, and returned to the book I was reading. I sat on the bench, emplaced at the farthest corner of the ground. The hoarse voice now sounds very near to me when he enquired harshly about not passing him the ball. The ball was lying near my feet. I noticed it now. I was surprised and replied, ‘What? You were talking to some ‘blud’, maybe your teammate. How am I supposed to know?’. ‘Huh! I was looking at you, and by blud, I meant you.’ ‘My name is not ‘blud.’ I made a rather crabby expression.   ‘OMG! FYI, ‘blud’ means friend. IYKYK .’ He laughed, he mocked, and he ran. ‘BTW, that jacket u wear is gucci.’ He shouted. I replied sternly, ‘No, it's Puma . I cannot afford a Gucci man.’ He stopped and la...

  The old man would sit by the sea all day, not eating or drinking much except for the loaf of bread with a bottle of water at noon. He would dress like a gentleman and stare at the sea for hours and hours. Few people would come to him and say a few words. The same people every time. He would ask them certain questions, and then they would leave. These people sometimes would laugh; sometimes cry; sometimes smile; and sometimes, left with no countenance. The shopkeepers from a distant would assume whatever they liked. There were a lot of conjectures among the daily visitors of the sea. Some would greet him with a suspicious smile, while a few would stare at him from the corner of their eyes while pretending with some of their workout moves. A teenager was a regular runner. Her mother accompanied her always, who was one among the few visitors mentioned above. She would smile wearily at the old man if their eyes would meet while she tried to sneak it, but unfortunately could not. The...

Who would rescue when the lonely Suzain would find no solace in her solitude ? She kept wondering. Always. She would not go out to mingle with people and sit at her desk all day writing something beautiful, that no one had read. She says it is lovely but who knows what it is. One fine morning she woke up determined to conclude her loneliness. Dressed beautifully, as she said, gone out of the house in search of the knight in shining armor . She rambled in places and coffee shops. She ate and shopped. Upon reaching home, she realized she had not done what she was meant to: search for the knight in shining armor. So went out the next morning again, determined and confident, as she said. She saw the water park , and after walking a few miles, excited and elated, she bought the ticket and went inside to explore it. She had fun while she tried every game. Came out of it in the evening, tired but happy. She lost track of her determination and surrendered herself to the cozy bed at her home a...