No doctor, you can’t fathom the
Depth of this wound which,
Runs through my soul and
The blood smeared ball of muscle with
Both of which carry deoxygenated blood.
I have little hope from,
You, and the philanthropists who,
Offer to stitch my heart severed into two.
No doctor, I don’t doubt that,
You can’t heal my wound and
Also, a local anaesthesia wouldn’t do.
Via Daily Post: Local
Focus on what you want to, let everything else be background noise.
16th June, 2017
Via Daily Post WPC: Focus
Mr. Bhusan was up at five in the morning as usual. Hastily washing his face, he opened the small window by the wooden table and got down to finishing his latest novel. It was the thirty-third draft, which he was about to discard, out of his eternal, persistent fear. Mr. Bhusan has remained an aspiring writer from his teenage, owing to the fact that he never managed to complete any of his works in over two decades. How could he? He has always suffered from an intense fear, almost like a phobia- his fear of unknowingly writing something that already exists. Of course the ideas could be similar, but what if his entire work turned out to be an unintentional copy of someone else’s work?
It all started some twenty-five years back, when Mr. Bhusan won a prize at his college for an essay. Since then, he decided to become an author. He confided in his sister his dreams, who had playfully remarked, “Beware, you might write something which already exists, and you won’t even know.” Alas, what was said in innocent humour proved to be Mr. Bhusan’s biggest fear. He wrote dozens of poems, expressing his love for doe-eyed women who he hadn’t met; tons of pages, novels about lost empires, heart-breaking tales about failed marriages and about anything possible under the heavens. But he never built up the guts to read them out in close circles of family or friends, let alone publish it. He wrote pages and pages and tore them down to unidentifiable pieces. There was his reason, lying in the open- who knew if some author hasn’t already penned down exactly the same things? He would be laughed at by the others. Or worse, people would call him a cheat. He was scared for a reputation which he hadn’t built, in the first place. He never had the nerve to show anyone his works. He stared blankly, his hands shook and the soles of his feet went ice-cold when someone even vaguely mentioned of his literary practices.
After years of struggle, when last Sunday, he almost convinced himself of the originality of his work, like he had done before on rare occasions, he headed to the publishers. But as always, halfway to the office, he had to stop. His heart beat crazily, sweat broke out all over his face and there were visions of him standing upon a podium and his readers throwing his book at him, along with paper balls and eggs. All he could manage was to take a sharp about turn, and walk back home rapidly.
But the good thing about him, or so he thought, was that he did not discard his dream of becoming a writer. So he woke up early in the morning everyday to finish a few hours of writing before he went to the kitchen to prepare lunch for his wife, who was a professor, and very particular about timing. Presently, he was intently working on his thirty-fourth draft, when his wife’s shrill cry broke his trance. “I don’t know how I fell for an aspiring writer and still staying with the same aspiring writer after nineteen years. My life is a farce!”, screamed an infuriated Padma. Mr. Bhusan sighed, and quickly got up to go to the kitchen, so that his wife could leave the house as soon as possible. She wouldn’t understand. He needed a peaceful environment to think, concentrate and write. Probably this time, he would make it to the publishers…
Via Daily Prompts:
“So, are you ready to do me a personal favour?”, she ask me. I stood still, I did not answered. I was scared. Mother taught me to run from business like this. Mother told me that God loves good people. But I think I am good no more. I stealed. But I was so hungry. I got no food for three days and three nights. Nobody give me money when I beg. So all I take was one apple! That lady has so many apples. Look like a mountain of red. Then she call me a thief. She said she will call the police to put me in jail. But if I do her work, she won’t call the police. I say I will do her work, because I don’t go in jail. Think I can’t say no, even if she ask me to do some bad work for her.
“So now that you have agreed, meet me tomorrow outside my house early in the morning and I’ll give you a packet which you shall deliver, at a certain address”, the shopkeeper eyed the young boy sharply. He was clearly nervous, but she knew he wouldn’t dare budge from his promise. He was too scared to be put behind bars. She smiled scornfully at the ‘thief’.
When I reach her house this morning, she gave me a big brown paper bag. It was sealed. She didn’t say what it has inside. Just give me an address. When I ask her, she looked at me angrily. So I kept quiet. I started walking. It’s a faraway place. I has to walk fifty miles outside the village, eastwards. Today she gave me two apples to eat on my way. Maybe she isn’t that bad. Maybe she’s just acting around nice because she knows she given me bad work to do. But what’s in the parcel? I shaked it too many times on my way. Nothing. No sound, no movement. Alright, I don’t want to think. I feel very scared though.
As I walked and walked in the told direction, I finally reach a house. It was old, almost falling apart. Trees grew around it, the windows have no glass. I knocked on the door three times as she said to do. After some time, a man opened the door and look at my face. He was confused, but he smiled broadly when he saw the parcel in my hand. Grabbing it, he rushed inside. Meanwhile, a small dirty boy came and stood behind him and watched me curiously. He ask when the man left, “Who are you?”. I wanted to ask him the same question, but I said, “I am the delivery man.” “But mother never had a delivery man!”, he blurt out. Shocked, I ask, “Who mother?” The child replied happily, “My mother has a fruit shop in bazaar. Every month she sends fruits and sweets for us. But she broke a leg a few days ago, so we thought no sweets for us. But she remembered.”
I manage to ask, “Why don’t you stay with her?” The man called out to the boy at this point. Scared, he look back. Before hurriedly closing the door, he quickly whisper to me, “Because we are her sons from the other father.”
When it’s done, there’s no question of how