Few Words of 'Hope'

She looked at herself in the mirror.
Baggy eyes, with dark circles moistened by tears rolling all over her face till her chin and then slowly dripping into her hand, kept on her knees gently. Her lips trembling. She looked terrible. She wondered how she had completely changed her looks within these three months to become more shabbier than ever.
And she didn't want to write. Never again. Each time she read a book, she threw it away. She hated authors, she hated poets. She wouldn't go up looking for sites where people could self-publish their books. All of these hurt her.
She wanted to stay away from books and novels as far as possible.
She kept herself cut-off from the world, as much as she could; because the myriad thought of writing or reading made her sad. She was jealous of all those novelists who could get their work published, who could show their work with so much pride to their family members, who in turn encouraged them to portray their talent to the world.

Yes! You got me right!

She wanted to write. She infact wrote novels. Even when her age was not so experienced, her friends did admire and appreciate and encourage her works; Instigating her to write more, complete a tale, and proceed to writing another. Especially her sweetheart at school, would start admiring even when she hadn't started writing anything! He knew how fearful she was, how uncertain she was about her own abilities. He knew she had hidden talents, which required encouragement. O! How lucky she considered herself to have such a caring man in her life!!
And then she wrote, made him read, made her friends read. They all appreciated. Made her continue, and from that, a novel was made, 'One-Fourth of My Life'.

She re-read it again and again, kept on editing it.
And, It was popular! At least among the school friends and peers!


***
She remembered, as she saw her writing pad. She scratched and tore the pages ferociously. She was becoming unstable in her mind. Though she loved to write.. still she hated to write..


***
She then remembered how lovingly she had presented him the book on their fourth anniversary (literally, the day he proposed)as a gift for him to read it and re freshen their lost memories. And to let him learn about her childhood- what a superstar she used to be earlier!!
And how much care he used to take of it...

***
Tear rolled down her cheeks. Some more. They as if had promised, would not leave her face. Her fists thumped on the writing desk, as the inkpot fell, and ink slashed upon her white writing pad.
She bent her head down, to cover her face with blue.. and black..
All Over.
There wasn't any Nikhil to calm her down, on whom she could rely upon and whose shoulders she could borrow o wash away the cascade of emotions.
She was alone.
She had to get over it... somehow.. someday

"And not cry!" She added to the list.


But she cried, remembering how his mother came to know about that book.
And kept it with her.
Three months. Yes, in between three months had passed. And she didn't get it back. In her heart, she was sure she never would. She was sure it ws burnt.
She knew his mother.

She hated her. Because she was in a relationshp with him. Indian mentality.

297 pages, got burnt into the flames of jealousy, nito flames of ignorance and flames of anger of a witch, who made her son her prisoner, whom she could never meet ever again.
She had lost her lover, her precious hardwork.
The sight of that pen would anger her.

And she cried.

***
"No, Whatever happens, hope should not be lost. If you lose, you would be a loser and in this life is a competition. None would be willing to help you if you lose, to put you back on track!" She remembered his words.

And her reply, "Won't you, too?"

"It's not necessary that I woul be there with you forever. But if you lose, I won't be able to search for you. Be famous to the extent we all know you! Admire you, become your fan!"

It was then she understood the real meaning of his words.
She loved him. She had to get him back. A little failure shouldn't pull her leg back from the big step she was attempting.

She had to win him back.
She had to succeed.

She shook, as she picked up her writing pad to tear the inked page and refilled her pen, to start all over again...
And she wrote,"One-Fourth of My Life" by Riya Bagchi.

Yes, she was the author. :)