Mystery Unlocked….

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With shivering hands and shaking heart

I held it….

Had dreamt of it

Had heard of it

Had seen it never ever before….

It came from the past

From times long lost

Or perhaps forgotten…..

How it survived no one knew

It had a certain mystery behind its very existence

It had defied all -

The wrath of nature,

The fury of humans,

The ferocious antipathy

Of kingdoms at war,

Raging lavas had burnt it not

But etched it in stone,

Making it permanent

And immortal unlike us

Plain book…

Full of ancient wisdom

It asked me just one question

Do you dare to open me?

I, of feeble mind and heart,

Hamlet-like,

Confused, bemused, befuddled

Wondered what to do….

A whiff of breeze alerted me

The pages crinkled too…

Tempting me with their sound

The scent of antiquity

Numbed me and yet I was awake….

I touched the cover

It felt mossy

Underneath the verdant tree

The leaves rustled

The branches creaked

The broken twigs

Scratched against my naked feet….

I dared to open the flap

The words that danced before my eyes

A jumbled hodge-podge…

Is this ancient wisdom?

I stood bewildered

When the words magically flew

One sat on my nose

And said I am Pride

One sat on my heart

And said I am Love

One sat on my eyes

And said I am Perception

Choose out of these

One word you must

Before you proceed….

I was petrified

Had never seen Words

Come to life like this

Let me choose Pride

What will I get?

I asked.

You get nothing else

Except you yourself

A life full of ego

A life without friends….

What if I choose Vision, then?

You make of choice of mind

It makes you think a lot…

You ponder and you brood

Your knowledge is just impressions

That you make on the path of life

You get an understanding

But you often get misled

By that which you fail to understand

What if I choose Love….

You make a wise choice

Since with Love comes

Empathy

Compassion

A heart that is receptive

Is better than Midas’s touch

It leaves no place for hatred

It spares no room for pride

It makes you see without bias

And love’s perception is always kind

I choose, I choose

Oh I choose Love then…

Tell me, my ancestors, what next I should learn?

Turn the page again

Oh Curious One, a voice says.

I flip the pages,

One after another,

And another, and another

I see nothing

No more words to read

No more words to hear

Is this all that I need to learn?

I question a little loudly,

A little angrily

I feel offended

That after having laid my hands

On this treasure

All I get is this…

So I ask

What more do you need?

What more do you want?

It is Love that surpasses all.

When you ask, it is not Love

But Pride that makes you question

That makes you doubt

So shun all

But Love

That is all that matters

The Book will close and disappear…

It is up to you to Love or cease to be…..

I am participating in this creative activity organised by makers of The Path of Zarathustra in association with BlogAdda

Story the Broken Pencil Wrote

That morning seemed promising. It was cold but sunny. The chill of the breeze felt less bitter as I sat cozily in the corner of the coffee-shop I used to haunt every day. I was a writer who found not just peace but inspiration as I sipped my usual cappuccino and watched people coming and going. There was so much to notice, so much to observe. Some wore worries to their workplaces, while some wore smiles. Some fidgeted in hurry, checking their phones or watches every second, as if time would stop or change in doing so. Some were calm as a gentle breeze on a spring morning.

That day was special. It showed me something I did not see every day. She stood outside the coffee-shop. Disheveled hair, torn clothes, dirty little hands and in those hands, a broken pencil. The moment I spotted her, I would have looked away but as I told you, I am a writer. So I see what others overlook. I notice what others ignore. I engage where others shun. So I persisted in my gaze.

She had apparently picked it up from the sidewalk. As she stared at it, her first impulse probably was to throw it away. It was hardly of any use to her. She did not know how to hold it properly. She glanced at it from all angles, looking at its color and the tiny pictures drawn on it. I wondered what she was thinking. Then, she threw it away and walked a few steps only to retreat and pick it up again. This time, she tried to hold it hard against the floor, which broke it in two small halves. It startled her momentarily. I know it because she looked around with a start, fearing a beating maybe. But nobody had seen her, except me. And I was out of her sight.

She tried to make a mark on the floor. Maybe she did make some mark. I cannot say for sure, for I sat far from her and although I am a writer, I have physical limitations. So I narrate only that part of the story that I saw.

So let us assume she made a mark and was not amused with the results. Or maybe she tried to make a mark but failed. Whatever happened, she gave it up. Then she started tapping the broken pencil’s two halves against each other. She seemed to be humming too, for her frail body swayed to the tune of her lips and the tap of the pencil. Her eyes lit up. She seemed happy. She got up and danced her way out of my sight, leaving me enthralled by her performance, entranced by her story.

Since I am a writer, I felt happy that even a broken pencil held a promise of joy. It did not teach her to write, but it did engrave on her face a moment of pure delight. Maybe, the broken pencil wrote on her heart a story of joy. Who knows! I however felt content, sitting in the coffee-shop that day, noticing people come and go. Yes, the story of that day was complete!

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

If you liked the above post, you might also like these two short stories I wrote :

If Only Things Had Been Normal

Food for the Goddess

Daughter's Diary

She sat brooding over her diary. Had she been a dutiful daughter? She kept wondering. She wished for a time-machine that could take her back to the good old days of happiness and togetherness. ...the times when she was still her dad's little girl, laughing at his jokes, finding comfort in his sturdy hands. 

It was all gone. The life ahead was solitary. She had to wipe her own tears. She had to stand for herself. 

Everyone thought she was happy. She would often smile. She had learnt that a smile was the best tactic to avert questioning glances. She had observed that her smile could hide the guilt she felt at having left her mother alone. So she would often smile.

Sometimes, she wondered why she felt so guilty. Sitting on her imperial blue sofa, she would frown and look down at her diary. That diary was her confidante. It was another matter that it was wordless. Every time, she tried to write, her eyes would well-up and tears would roll down her cheeks on to the blank pages. As a result, the pages had become stiff - very much like her own life. The moistness, the vitality was lost somewhere.

She had no right to be far from her mother when she needed her the most. She had no right to live a life of her own when her mother was weighed down by sorrow and loneliness. No, she had not been a dutiful daughter. She felt bad. She felt guilty. She had failed. Would she fail in other duties as well? Would she fail as a wife and as a mother? Perhaps, she had failed there too.

 Anxiety gripped her. She hoped for a time-machine that could take her and her mother to some cozy place where the two could smile. But then guilt possessed her again. Would it not be unfair to the people they would leave behind? She looked down at her diary. She picked up her pen. She wanted to write that she was dutiful. She wanted to write that she loved, she cared, she felt pain, she too cried. But instead of writing, eyes welled up again and tears rolled down. 

She called it a day.......

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.