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That day the pen got tired. Hopeless and hapless. Her words shattered it whole.
“Where were you?” demanded her pen. Like any possessive lover, it hovered on the face, again.
Rolling her eyes and fidgeting the fingers, she fixed it in bun.
Fiddling the nerves she inhaled whales, in despair and desperation.
The pen choked. It suffocated and scuffed. Fought hard to breathe some ink and drink some words.
She warned, whispered to its nib, “Cease your words. Can not you see I am having fun here? You are walking on sword, beware!”
“Oh you Pell-mell. For God’s sake, stop living down in the dumps. Fight, you damn. Write it into words.”
Day and night she caressed those weal. Skulked the bruised eye gags, under those shades. Sometimes, when her voice croaked, the brain shushed, “Overlook silly! It is absurd.”
“Listen to your intolerance. Speak your gut,” advised the pen in rage and stir.
“Stop preaching, moron. Love travails. Houses are built with patience. With mouth shut. It is no fairytale” “If, not for you let me reunite with my love and kiss the paper. Free me into words and verses. Write. Write, before you die. Before I die. For freedom, before repentance.”
“Go away. I need you no more. I am tired of this hide-o-seek. Under the closed palms. Untidy bun. Inside the last shelf of the drawer. Into the cracks of my heart. Go, go please.”
That day the pen got tired. Hopeless and hapless. Her words shattered it whole. The Sun dimmed. The Moon cringed. Universe pitied. While she tittered at her cowardice..
Lifeless. Listless, it lay there.
Then, lights thundered under the dark sky. Shaking in fear, she stretched her fingers. With a penchant to survive.
Survive to narrate. Survive to share. The pain, no sane.
She broke down. Like those zillions stars. Scattered in the sky. Her pain needed a pathway. She moved aside and let it glide.
The invincible pen, “Write it right and write you must”, screamed her pen with hope and trust.
As the pen met the paper, words sailed in. Like a whirlpool. Seeped in deep. Into the soil. Drought it was. For years and alas!
She wrote. Yes, in that white fluttering sheet. At the edge of window side table, under the mellowing sun.
“He used me abused me, in the name of love. No naïve I was, but unsure thereof. Now, that I have courage and want to hold on. With the Leap of faith and some air, I wish to tell. Yes, he is insolent. He assaulted me and pushed me into silence, night after nights. I defied his writhe with fright, but the demon that side enjoyed my plights. “I like resistance”, he glares at his win. “You know, I feel supreme”. I stopped to fight. I killed my might. “Brawl you kitty. Don’t behave like a corpse.” Satisfying it was as painful it got. Bruises, clots, marks. And what not. But today, as I hold it in one hand and lines in another, Two pink ones. A new life. Oh my God, am I? Yes, yes, a mother. I vow to unveil his disguise and end the torture Undersigned the paper to expose his curtained hover. Brutal, cruel and undercover. It was time for the world to know, no peace is virtue of crime. He will have to pay for everything and plead dime.”
The nostrils flared and eyes twitched. Walking past that doors she let the pen kiss to hitch. They found their solace…in that piece of paper. In this story. Once and forever.
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A researcher, an advocate of equal rights, homemaker, a mother, blogger and an avid reader. I write to acknowledge my feelings. I am enjoying these roles. read more...
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"I chose to go out into the remote, wild, unknown, and make it home," says entrepreneur Kiranjeet Ahluwalia Chaturvedi, who owns Birdsong & Beyond.
The story of my mountain home Birdsong & Beyond started taking shape in 2009, on the internet, the way many stories do these days.
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Even when the exegesis justify the act of giving away the daughter, considering it a ritual to mark the initiation of the daughter into her husband’s gotra and her becoming the part of his family tree.
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