It has been 3 days since she started thinking about writing a story. September issue of women’s monthly carried a glossy advertisement for the search of budding female writers. The Jury member, a social activist famous for her pro-feminist works, had been quoted:”Today, literature has lost its sensitivity. Mass appeal is what everyone is looking for. The emergence of fresh talent will surely help in regaining the ..........”. She didn’t bother reading the rest. What caught her attention was the photo given in the middle of the page: an attractive woman in mid-twenties, holding a golden statuette, which had the graceful silhouette of a female. She wanted to touch its curves. To clutch it tight and feel the hard metal. She felt an irresistible urge to replace the woman in the photo; to hold the statuette, to look like her, to smile like her.
She was no stranger to stories. In fact, she had won prizes in Story Writing while in college. Every year, the college magazine carried one of her stories. She represented the college in all the important literary events and managed to win. She was used to the exciting whispers that followed her whenever she passed the hallway. Awed expressions and jealous looks invoked confidence in her. Those days her world revolved around letters and phrases and ideas. She devoured books. Her nights were filled with dreams about faraway lands and unknown faces. She even boasted one Ayn Rand and one Paulo Coelho was enough to keep her confined to the room for two days.
After graduating, getting a small government job was easy. It made her a much sought-after marriageable commodity. She had prepared herself for the inevitable long back. After all, marriage is the ritual everyone follows at a certain age. Her parents informed her how good the proposal is. He too was a government employee with own house. They will make a perfect pair. She nodded politely. Her only condition was, she should be able to take her collection of books with her. The husband-to-be smiled proudly when she put forth her demand:”Don’t you worry. I am very fond of books. The house is a bit small; still I will find some place for them. Trust me”.
And she did. When she shifted to the new house, the books came with her packed securely in a yellow cardboard box. The porter carried the box to the drawing room with some difficulty and looked at her inquiringly. Before she could reply, her husband motioned the box to be moved to the attic. As if responding to her glance, he said:”Let’s settle important things first. We will arrange the books once the drawing room is set. I am planning to get a book shelf with dark brown panels. It will compliment the sofa set, don’t you think so?” She nodded in agreement. After all, it’s a matter of just a few days. She settled herself in the new life. And she fitted well with the monotonous chores of a perfect wife.
The book shelf with dark brown panels never came. And the yellow box had remained unopened. During the first few months after marriage, she tried to bring up the subject. Her husband was always ready with innovative excuses. Sometimes there wasn’t enough money and sometimes they needed the money for other things. The book shelf moved down gradually, and finally disappeared from the priority list. And life didn’t give her a chance to open the yellow box again. She stopped dreaming. The musty smell of books slowly evaporated from her life. The only things she read were office files and woman’s magazines.
Now, six years and two kids later, she found herself thinking about the past, which was conveniently buried underneath the burden of life. She smiled to herself. The sound of kids fighting over breakfast jolted her back to the present. Smell of burning milk floated in the kitchen. Muttering to herself, she hurriedly removed the charred milk pan from the gas and placed a fresh container. Husband glanced at her curiously. She gave him a half smile and busied herself with lunch preparations. All this while, her mind continued working on ideas. She contemplated the theme of the story. Triangular love story.... or something based on Mahabharata... terrorism...
“Mummy.....I want more cornflakes”
“where is my grey shirt???? Find it fast, got a meeting today.”
“Mummmaaaaaa.......mummaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”
“Can’t you hear the kid crying?”
“Mummy where is my cornflakes”
“Mummmmaaaaaaa......”
Her hands started shaking. She blindly clutched the cornflakes carton and forced herself out of the kitchen.
“Here, take this. And now eat without making a sound. You are getting late”.
“My shirt???????How many times do I have to yell for it??????”
The time consumed by the burnt milk pan cost her usual 9 o clock train. She went to her desk, only to find that she has been allotted more work. She started going through the files. The story kept on coming back to her. I will get back home early and start writing right away, she reassured herself. She tried to be fast, but couldn’t concentrate. Once again she was lost. The office and files ceased to exist.
“Madam!!!! Is the September ledger ready???”
“uhhhh...just couple of hours Mr.Shah..will finish it in a jiffy”
“You sure? It has already taken you half a day”
“Sure...I am on it”
As anticipated, the job consumed the next half of her day and more. It was late by the time she reached home. Nights were no different from the mornings. The same chaos. The same chores. Only the cornflakes replaced by rotis, she thought wryly. She cooked, cleaned, fed. Once everything is finished, she went to bed.
She waited till the husband is asleep. She went to the window and opened it wide. The stale city air gushed in. Wriggling her nose, she closed the window. Midnight was approaching. But she didn’t feel sleepy. She sat down with pen and paper. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander. Tip of the pen was touching the paper. Concentrate.... let it come to you...let it pour out of you.... she waited for the familiar sensation. Images flashing around. Letters dancing at fingertips. Mind filling up with the joy of creation.
Nothing came. The paper remained blank, as her mind. She stared at it incredulously. Why??? She asked herself. May be I am too worn-out, she thought. Relax now. Relax. She sat there silently, her mind bleak, forehead creased in thought. The only movement was the occasional tapping of pen on the paper. Hours passed in silence. She lost all track of time. High-pitched screeching of the alarm clock ended the meditation. The paper was still blank except for tiny dots of ink, where the pen had pressed hard for a long time. I had been out of touch, she tried to convince herself. It’s only a matter of a few days. With heavy lidded eyes, she got up reluctantly. Yet another lifeless day was beginning.
For days, this miserable condition prevailed: whole day she would brood upon the story, only to find out at night that she is incapable of transferring it into paper. A couple of times she was able to write a few sentences. But she felt it was worthless. The pages were crumpled and thrown into waste basket. She would stay up all night. Dark circles appeared under her eyes. She became restless and irritable. The husband tried to ask what the matter was. She remained aloof. Children were extra careful not to agitate their mother. The entire household waited anxiously for the lady of the house to return back to her old self.
Yet another night of disappointment was dragging away. As she sat gazing at the wall, a distant memory slowly filled her mind. Something that had long ago been moved to the farthest corners of heart. As it came back, her mind lighted up. She got up and tiptoed out of the room. Careful not to make any sound, she climbed the stairs which led to the attic. It was a return to the had-beens. She could hardly resist herself from jumping the steps two-at-a-time. A wild excitement filled her. With unsteady hands she fumbled with the handle. The door finally gave in.
The yellow box was no longer yellow. It wasn’t even a box. The sides of the box were no longer holding together. They were torn along the edges, making the contents of the box spill through the sides. The lid was slightly askew, as if someone had opened it but never bothered to replace properly. She gingerly went near the box. A huge nest of termites greeted her. They were everywhere in the box; crawling around arrogantly. Most of the books were converted into chunks of paper pasted together. Some were reduced to covers. Some others had half the volume missing, with the page edges displaying non-uniform zigzag patterns. Loose pages were scattered around.
She picked up a handful of pages. They crumpled to dust. She closed her hand tightly around the remains, as if to keep them from escaping. A bunch of termites were crushed along with the paper. She felt moisture in her hand. Opening the fist, she brought her hand near the face. It had that faintly acidic smell of dead insects. Dead termites were sticking to her palm. As she looked on, a few started wriggling.
She bolted down the stairs, rubbing her hands against the night dress. Locking herself in the bathroom, she poured liquid soap over her hands. She furiously washed and cleaned them till the skin was all red and raw. Panting and sick, she leaned against the wall. Her reflection stared back from the mirror. The woman in the mirror was a total stranger with pale skin, dark circles and dull hair. With a start, she realized that she had not slept for the last few days. All the stories and statuettes vanished from her mind. Only one thing mattered: a peaceful sleep.
Back in the room, she stood watching her husband sleeping on the bed. He always slept on his side, with mouth slightly open. It had always annoyed her but now, it seemed endearing. She slowly lowered herself to the other side of the bed and put one hand over his body. He stirred slightly in sleep. As the familiar warmth began transmitting, her eyes slowly closed. And she lost herself in deep, dreamless sleep.
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