I can't remember not loving to read.I can't remember the moment when I realised what was always true...people made the world in books...worlds that I loved!And so I read...in the car,in the bathroom,on my bed,under my favourite tree...At night the charechters floated through my dreams,and by day,they waited,watching,lurking just behind the periphery of my sight...
As surely as I knew that I loved to read,it took a rainy mid-winter afternoon to teach me that I wanted to write too.
I was reading,sitting at the kitchen table set for lunch...ma stood cooking at the stove.I suddenly looked up..her face had the distance and distraction of one just about to cry.
I had seen that face often in recent weeks,my dadu (ma's father)had just died.Whenever she would reach a moment of pause...watching a traffic light remain stubbornly red..hearing silence conquer laughter..some command from within,would draw her face away from us,the present...the world that now to her lacked someone so dear..
I asked her that day what was wrong,and her lips almost smiled..her face almost came back to me as she told me how he would feed her dollops of buttered rice and mashed potatoed,pretending they were eggs of rare birds...how she hid behind curtains and he pretended to search for her...how his skin always felt smooth and cool as she hugged him and slept in scorching afternoons.She told me how dadu had gifted her and her siblings ducks,and the euphoria that she had felt
afterwards.How he had always cared about her petty things that otherwise went unseen...
She told me these,and after she spoke,tears flowed along her cheeks,fell from her chin..and exploded in the hot pan below.She cried,then she smiled,and then she cried again.
I stared at ma,and in the egotism of teenage,I couldn't imagine that she would one day be nomore..and with her would be gone her unuttered thoughts..her unrealised dreams...With her would be gone,her story...
I felt sorry for her,and I grew angry with the thought of myself standing over a stove,having to explain to a child how dollops of rice,games of hide'n'seek and quacking ducks can make a grown up woman cry!!
I resented my books then,and the stories they told of other people's lives...and that resentment fuelled.I believe now that envy taught me why I wanted to write.
I decided that night,as ma's tears fell with the ease of the rain,that I would tell my own stories...I would teach the truest of my thoughts to find expression on pages...
I wanted to realise what it is truely to be human..and some voice within,whispering in tones too quiet to be clear,tells me that writing is my way.....
MISS YOU DADU..
LOVE YOU MA...
10 comments:
Superb!
Very nicely written..the ingredients have added to the flavour of it...the
emotional attachment of an aching heart with that of a living soul has been displayed with the verses from the deepest treasures of your heart....
Also the childish nature within each and every individual has been beautifully portrayed...
but also as the saying goes:
Men are no more immune from emotions than women; we think women are more emotional because the culture lets them give free vent to certain feelings, "feminine" ones, that is, no anger please, but it's okay to turn on the waterworks.
u almost brought tears 2 my eyes !!!!!!
as any movie critic says that the second half dominates the future of a story telling movie....same happens here too amon..at first it felt as if words were being forced rather than coming from heart....but as soon as your mother's feelings were shared with immense emotions....it was bull's eye....you hit the correct note in writing style...passion flared...and thats why its a quite touching narration..truly ..as you have put...we do have to sense that one day our loved ones will be no more and we can't do nothing about it...but at least i think of that possibility that if we have been righteous throughout our lives....we can hope we will join them in a place where we don't have to let them off yet again.. :)
almost can feel the emotions there myself like i was standing at the corner of that kitchen...vivid i says!!
it's just the start. welcome to blogland. enjoy your stay.
now we're comrades-in-arms. :)
and worry not about your writing style or anything. there is no such thing called "style". it's how you express yourselves, your emotions and inner thoughts that counts.
@Siddhartha..I'll keep that in mind.. :)
@Dilettante..thank you
@Shadowcat.. I hope so too..
@Stanley ipkiss.. comrades-in-arms we are.. :)
i love the narrative....amazingly well written....extraordinary since it is the "truest emotions" expressed on pages......this is just the beginning i presume....go on girl th world is waiting.....it will bow down to you one day....you are the most expressive girl.....i have said it to you before....and this shows.....in the lucidly written "art" of yours..... kudos to you.....
Just read it. Outstanding piece of work .. Ca'nt explain the feelings in words.. Awesome .. Now will eagerly wait for the next one ..
hey ritoja....gr8...thats it.its gr8...i loved every word of it.i myself have tried my hand at writing...never made anythng public though, and i think u rock...sincerely i do....wonderful job...and u have to believe me for u knw perhaps i am not the kind of person who says pretty words just for the sake of it...rock on and write on!
u have proved once again what the Russian Futurist, Velimir Khlebnikov, had said ... words are the living eyes of secrecy...
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