Why don't you write anymore?

 

“Keep writing like so.”

“Why?”

“Whenever you write I feel as if you are trying to convey your own emotions, something that you might want to say directly but can’t.”

“Nothing like that.”

“So you're telling me that the characters in your story aren’t used by you to express yourself?”

“They are just characters in my story with their own opinions and thoughts. They reflect emotions which are generally felt by people anyway. Don’t think too much of it.” He lit his cigarette, sending a puff of smoke in the air as he smoked … blurring Meera’s face. She smiled and said “Whenever I read your stories I feel as if I know something more about you.”

“That’s what you think and what you think is a misconception.” He stood up and said “Just read what I write, don’t read into what I write. Don’t analyse. You might start thinking of things that don’t even exist.”

That was six months ago. He kept writing, she kept reading his work. Only, she stopped commenting and giving her feedback. And then he didn’t publish anything for four months. Such quietness from someone abuzz made her wonder if everything was right with him. She went to his home that evening.

“I thought you forgot where I lived.”

“Oh shut up! I was just going past and thought …”

“For heaven’s sake Meera!” He laughed out loud “What do you mean by “just going past”? My home isn’t in the middle of a market nor does any of your acquaintances live anywhere near here. Your excuses are just as badly cooked as your food.”

She made a face and said “I just came to look up and see if you’re ok. You haven’t written for some time …”

“Because you read me a lot and I want to save something for myself. If I am left with nothing then you will leave me. Just like we discard a plate when there’s nothing left in it.”

Why God?

I look into your eyes
And ask God
"Why can't I see him
Everyday, forever?"

I hug you tightly
And ask God
"Why isn't it in my fate
To be held in his arms?"

I hold your hand
And ask God
"Why can't I walk the
Path of my life with him?"

God pulled you apart from me
And said
"How can I give him to you?
He simply isn't in your destiny".



Sheetal S

I Too Want To Touch The Stars

 

I too want to touch the stars.
I too want to fly
High up in the sky.

My wings are tied.
I am told to break free
God alone knows how hard I try.

And when I do manage to
Wrestle and break free
I am told
There are no stars left for me.




~ Sheetal Soni

I'll resume the fight

 

The wolves howl,
The woods scare
The darkness sneers
I have to go through anyway.

The winds pierce
The cold bites
With no respite
I have to march ahead anyway.

I have done this
A hundred times before.
I will have to do this
Many times more.

But tonight my dear,
I’m drained,
I'm scared.
I'm lost.
I’m bared.

Please hug me tonight
Please hold me in your arms lovingly
All through the night.
Tomorrow I'll be stronger
And I promise …
I'll resume the fight.

A Permanent Scar

I had been going to a patient's house for over eight months as a carer. My patient was an old woman who needed help with medication and personal care. Her son lived with her. The carers were given strict instructions never to leave her alone. Usually it wasn’t a problem as one of her sons was always present.

Last week however the son left when I came and promised he'll be back within half an hour, which is the length of my visit. Half an hour passed, he didn't come. I got ready to leave but suddenly the woman held my hand and cried, telling me not to leave her alone. I called the office and asked them to contact her son. He responded that he'll be back in 15 mins. I assured the woman but she just stood at the door refusing to let me go. The son came, apologised profusely and explained the reason for his delay. He was sorry for his mom's behaviour too but I said it's ok as I still have time for my next visit. This happened again during the week.

Yesterday her son told me the reason behind her terror of being left alone. "We three sons had always known to have happy parents. Mum always made sure the house was In perfect order. We were sent away to boarding school. Whenever we came back from holidays mum would be so happy and she simply wouldn't let us go back. She would cry and plead. We assumed it was her motherly love. Till we grew up. My brother was studying psychology and he insisted that from now on we go to meet our parents without informing them. I found it odd but agreed. So one day we three brothers decided to take leave from college and go meet our parents. The eldest brother had the keys to the house. We reached our house and as we unlocked the door, we saw the horror that our mother had been hiding from us all these years just to keep our childhood normal. My dad was mercilessly beating her with a stick. We rushed in, took mum to a doctor. Dad was too drunk. In the hospital mum cried and told us that he used to hit her only when no one was in the house so that there would be no witnesses. Also, the reason why we were sent away to boarding school. We eventually made mum file for divorce and it's been 5 years that my dad has passed away. But as you can see, the mental scars remain".

I listened with moist eyes. The fear, the terror lives on even after the tormentor dies. That's the cruelty of domestic violence.

The Tree

 

He went and sat under the tree in the forest beside his house.

It wasn't that he didn't have any friends. He had many to play with, to talk to. But none that he could really talk to without being judged. He had once told his friend that he was scared of the dark. His friend told everyone in the class and he got teased about it in the playground. He had then come running to this huge tree and cried. And he felt relieved. Ever since then, he would run to the tree whenever his father told him off, his mother chided him, his teacher scolded him or his friends fought with him. He shared his achievements and jubilations with the tree. Sometimes he would go and sit under the tree and tell all his secrets, all his wishes, his aspirations, his fears.

The tree listened silently … just like it listened to many others like the boy. It was least bothered about the events in the boy's life. And he knew it. But it didn't matter to him because for him it was enough that he could lighten up himself, unburden himself beneath the tree. It's presence gave him solace, his presence didn't matter to the tree.

Some people are trees too.

Sheetal Soni

The Sea

 

The sea. Huge and immense. Calm and serene. Rocky and rough. It sustains a huge diverse ecosystem within it.

The sea. It lets people relax on the shores. It lets people swim in as much as they can. It lets people cross lands over it. It lets people dig in for their food.

Instead of being thankful, some people choose to throw rubbish at the sea and litter it, exploit it, pollute it. The sea bears all calmly. Despite all that is thrown at it, it never breaches its shoreline. And there lies its strength. Its might. It knows that it can punish those erring humans in a matter of a few minutes by running over the very land that they inhabit, destroying everything that comes in its way. But no, that is not its strength.

The sea's strength lies in reigning its temper, its fury and not breaching the coastline because it knows that doing so will cause complete destruction, desecration and death. The power to destroy and yet the control over its own power is its supreme strength.

Some people are like the sea.




~ Sheetal Soni

The Axe And The Rose -2

 

She went along life and her daily routine as before. School, homework, home chores. She stopped going out to play with her friends. Even at school, her teachers and classmates had noticed a change in her behaviour. The girl who used to play pranks, tell jokes and make others laugh was now a stranger to everyone. The sparkle had gone from her eyes. Her smile was a façade.

And then, one day at school, he walked towards her. Her eyes lit up. A butterfly of happiness fluttered in her heart. And he said "I thought I'll let you know I have had the bridge repaired two weeks back. You can now come and meet me again." He then walked away with a smug smile. Had he stayed around he would have seen how icy cold her eyes had gone.

She went home … his words still ringing in her ears. She went to the garden shed, took the axe out and hacked away her end of the bridge till it was no longer possible for anyone to cross over. Bless the axe!

Sheetal Soni

Windows And Switches

Depression. Like a dark room. You are crying. You are confused. You are scared because you are scarred. You look for windows to open and switches to turn on. You look for anything that will bring a light in the room but the darkness is overwhelming, always winning. You sit down and start accepting the darkness, almost even start loving it.

You hear knocks at the door … the sounds of those who want to reach out to you. You are sceptical. Someone left you in this dark room and as a result you assume everyone will.

Listen. Walk towards that door and open it. The person knocking the door on the other side wants to help you show your way out, wants to show you where the windows are, wants to show you where the switches are. This is because the person has been in this room before. And you need to know about the windows and switches. Why? So that, one day you too can help people find light in their dark rooms. People who are lost in darkness. People like you.



Sheetal Soni

Karma

 

18 years back in London I was travelling in a bus and as I was about to get off I saw a bag. I picked the bag and thought of handing it over to the driver, as the thing to be done. But the driver's shift was changing and he had come out of his cab. I was getting late so I took the bag with me. When I reached home I opened the bag and found all the essential documents of an old woman. Passport, driving licence, social security book, bills, cash included. There was no number mentioned, only the address. I thought of going to the address and returning the documents to the rightful owner. I went but no one was there. The neighbour informed me that she was in hospital and will be discharged within a day. I left a short note with my number on it and put it through the mailbox. The neighbour warned me that the old woman suffered from mental health issues. I thought of going to the police if she failed to communicate within three days. However, on the third day she called me. I asked her a few questions for verification and then decided upon a meeting point that evening.

When I met her I handed over the documents to her but she looked uneasy. She said "The forty five pounds here in the bag is all that I have. I have nothing to give you as a reward". I said it was nothing really. She said "No, kindness must always be repaid so that it is encouraged and the cycle continues. But I'm afraid I have nothing for you." I thought of her words and said "Actually you can repay me back. I saw a rosary in your bag which means you pray faithfully. Please pray for me that should I ever lose anything precious of mine, it should be returned to me". She smiled and said "Amen!"

Two years back I was in Rajkot, preparing for my trip to London. I had been living in India for 12 years and had to ensure I had all the necessary documents. I had left home early in the morning, picked up my tickets, my bank and other important documents and when returning home I realised the bag was missing. I looked for it everywhere, every vegetable and fruit vendor, every shop that was en route from the last place visited by me. After 2 hours of fruitless searching I came home broken. I had to go to the police station, register a missing documents report and would then get duplicates of the originals I lost.

And the phone rang. A person asked me a few questions and then said the bag was with them. This will sound silly but I burst crying. The man patiently waited for me to calm down and explained where I could pick the documents from. And then it struck me that my number wasn't mentioned anywhere on the documents. I asked him and he said he found the bag at a vegetable vendor's cart. He picked it and meant to hand it over to the police but had to go to the bank first. He mentioned the bag and its contents to the clerk. Coincidentally, it was the same branch as mine. The clerk recognised my name and gave my number to the man. When I picked up the bag I was in tears and asked him how could I ever repay him. Suddenly it was a déjà vu moment, except I was the recipient of the kindness. He smiled and said he did what was right. I smiled and said "I pray to God that you may never lose anything precious to you and if at all you do, may it be returned to you intact immediately".

The reason I shared this incident is that when we do good we expect good from that person. But that's not necessarily how karma works. You do good to person A and later on person B will repay that good to you. To expect to be repaid in kind for kindness from the same person often leads to disenchantment. Keep doing good. And it will all come back to you one day, at the right time.

God bless you all.

~ Sheetal Soni

A wooden log or an iron rod?

When the cold winds of boredom blow, people often seek warmth in the fire of entertainment. This fire can be stoked and fuelled in many ways … one of these is to wind up people. Fill people's heads with stories, myths and ideas and instigate them enough to rouse them for a fight. The ensuing fight is then entertainment for those cold bored people. 

Some people will believe in hearsay, they will let gossip affect them and they will initiate a fight or an argument, without realising that they are harming themselves in the process. They are wooden logs that others use to fuel the fire of their own entertainment. 

Some people will keep a calm, steady head and won't jump to conclusions or actions when gossip is brought to them. They use their own brains to assess a situation rather than accept it in the way it is presented to them. They are iron rods that refuse to be used as fuel for the fire of other's entertainment. 

So, what are you? A wooden log or an iron rod? 

~ Sheetal Soni