The Release

“I can’t take it anymore.” I want to put an end to it all”.

Even through the phone she could hear the pain and desperation in his voice.

“But you can’t, it’s against nature”

“I don’t care, It’s too much to bear”.

He slammed down the phone and sat looking at the pills for a long moment. Finally he picked them up and swallowed them quickly.

Then he leaned back, closed his eyes and waited for the release.

After a while he opened his eyes and smiled. The painkillers sure made his migraine go away in a jiffy.

Naturopathy be damned!

This Drabble was written in response to this week's  Write Tribe Prompt.

A Drabble, for the uninitiated is a short story of exactly 100 words. 

(Pic credit http://www.morguefile.com)

Sepia Tones

I found this scribbled in a journal I used to write on and off while I was in Tokyo a few years back. I used to live in a concrete jungle then and I suppose I didn't like it much!

This seems like a good time to reproduce the entry here !

16th July, 2007,

The rains in Japan are not the same as the rains in India. Somehow they seem more impersonal here. There is no rejoicing, no sense of relief that the parched, scorching summer months are gone. People go about their business as usual, hidden under huge black umbrellas, shapeless in their raincoats. 

No one puts out a hand to catch the raindrops; No one stands with their face turned towards the sky, letting the rain caress their face.

There are no kids splashing in the puddles,or trying to float little paper boats. I suppose the Japanese kids are better behaved than ours.

The rain doesn't make the same sound in this country. In India it has a soft comforting sound, enveloping you like a soft blanket. Even when it is falling on tin roofs there is a certain melody to it.

Here the rain has a bit of the typhoon in it, it slams against the buildings, bangs against my glass windows like whip lash and falls incessantly on asphalt and tarmac.

And right now I would give anything for the smell of wet earth!

Sunday Solitude !

On Sunday, I decided that today I will keep myself away from all distractions. So I switched off my Laptop and the TV.
There was on one at home. It rained the whole day, so i couldn't even go anywhere. 
But I didn't mind it. Because I had the best company one could ever hope for !

I discovered that there is something very comforting in the sound of rain falling softly around you. And that there is no perfume on this earth that can match the smell of wet earth ! 

So how did you spend your Sunday ! 

A Soul's Torment

We sit in the car

My friend and I

On our way to work

Songs play on the radio
We sing along, talk inanely
I tease him about his long hair
how it clashes with his formal attire

His phone rings
Still laughing, he answers it
Pin drop silence
Suddenly he screams

Scream after torturous scream
Like a soul tormented in hell

And then, his body shaking violently
He cries bitter tears
Of agony, fury and despair

I sit there frozen, silent, helpless
A mute witness to his anguish
Death, in one fell swoop
Alters lives forever 

Why I write

It was a balmy summer morning. It had rained the previous night and the morning felt fresh and cool. The air was heavy with the fragrance of mango blossoms and somewhere in the distance a Koel bird sang happily in anticipation of more rains. 

The Old Man and the little girl walked through the mango orchard. Her small pudgy hand clasped in his is large one, as dry and wrinkled as autumn leaves. His big strides slowed down to match her little ones.

They walked in silence down the row of trees, past the fields where wheat stalks swayed gently in the wind and towards the river swelled with the monsoon rains. He, immersed in prayer and she unwilling to disturb his conversations with God.

Finally as they reached the river, he finished his prayers and sighed softly. This was her cue. She looked up at him eagerly and said “Dadu, tell me a story”.He had been expecting this. Every day she asked for a story and everyday he told her one. Sometimes, it was a story from the Panchatantra or the Ramayana and sometimes it was a story out of history, tales of battles fought and kingdoms won. 

But today, instead of beginning a story, he smiled, his eyes crinkling with the effort and said “why don’t you tell me one today”. He expected her to squirm and say that she didn't know any. But she looked up at him confidently and with a gleam in her eyes began to speak.

She started a story about a tiger and a woman it meets in the jungle. She prattled on, her childish imagination on fire, adding characters, making up the story even as she spoke. He listened quietly without interrupting her even once.

Finally he asked her where she had heard the story.” No where Dadu, I made it up just now. I love making up stories.”

He didn’t say anything, but the next day he got her a notebook and a pencil and told her to write whatever came to her mind. And she, who had barely learnt how to string full sentences, confidently wrote day and night. She wrote childish stories, or descriptions of the day she had spent, telling tales of their walks near the river, the mangoes that fell during the storm and the frogs that jumped about after it rained.

Her notebook became her prized possession, something she never showed to anyone but him. He would correct her English, teach her new words but he never ever questioned or curbed her flights of imagination or her writing style.

The ritual continued over the years. The first thing she did when she went to her grandparents’ home during the summer vacations was show him whatever she had written over the months. He would read it and nod, and sometimes when the piece was exceptionally good she would be rewarded with a pat on her back. In spite of being the prolific writer that he was, he was not a man of many words. But to her the pat was like a benediction.

She stopped writing after he passed away. She couldn't bring herself to write anymore. But after a while she realized she missed it too much. Writing for her was almost a need, a release. It was the only way she knew how to express herself. So she picked up her pen and began writing again.

That little girl was me. And perhaps that is why I write. Because my grandfather taught me how, because I inherited this craft from him and because this is his legacy that I carry forward.