Being a writer is not an occupation I said, the guy in front of me is a friend of mine reclining on the sofa, eyes half closed, using a tooth pick after the heavy dinner we had, he is not seemingly interested in my reply giving an impression of questioning alone his duty not caring about the reply, being a writer is rendering what we had from this world to the rest, its answering to the question asked to us from our dear and near, its a commitment to the world, its a quest to reach the world through any means otherwise through written, its an obvious discourse, which is eloquent, its an open communication between the render and the reader.
I turned back to my dozed off friend, moved to the balcony staring the dark moonless midnight sky, I let out a sigh, I know a writer's life is sleepless, missing the drive to write, or trying to emancipate the drive to words, unlike other duties its doesn't start with breakfast ending up with dusk or it doesn't specialized with a particular skill to endeavor, it depends on what we have inside, what we have had grown inside, its a continuous process of being a man, a human, but I don't rule out the fact it can be a profession.
Morning dawned with a bright sunlight heat piercing the outer skin, I don't feel like I had slept lately as it become my usual practice, I had a cold shower emerging for the new day, had a late breakfast at 11, the friend who accompanied me last night had left for the day having the breakfast earlier, the maid said, I don't have plans for the weekend, I am bored of the places I usually wander, I closed on the laptop not knowing how to continue with the story line I have developed these days, I have an appointment with a woman a descent of tamilnadu who settled in Europe thirty years before along with her white parents who adopted her, I used to chat with her to know about her story, I have assured her I am getting impressed on her story, eventually I would start that project and would reward her when I succeed.
I don't like to take up my bike, I want a long walk, like to wait for bus, catch it up like a commoner
It was half past noon and she was waiting for me from eleven, I am not a guy of being late, I used to be punctual always, I advise all my known people to be precise the time quoted, I respect others timings, I do like to be respected, I apologized for being late, she worn with sky blue chiffon welcomed me in, sky blue chiffon, her bold mascara with the eyes down inside with the high brows shadowing dark, she was like a evil fairy, the reason for the term evil I use here is she seems to be somewhat a believer of black magic, a weird practitioner... some times my intuition plays prominent role, I don't know how why I possess such or I don't know all would be so intuitive, few years before I saw an youngster, with a sharp nose a broad forehead, some what intuitively I asked what his profession, he replied back he is a commission agent, its true my intuition I forecast in my mind he may be a person, his sharp nose and broad forehead.
The British Indian female brought me two glasses of fresh juice, extended one to me seating herself with poise, she started to unfold her story, she was adopted by a British couple, a well known family in the Europe, got married with a British man, it was a love marriage, day by day lack of understanding, impatience, lead to problems, fights, she decided to get divorced, her husband was insecure, he held her legs not to leave him, sobbed like a child, she had to heed to him, years rolled over, married life did not bring happiness, the prolonged stay within the marriage did not do good to both, she decided to kill herself bought sleeping pills through online vendor, she kept the pills, went to attend the phone call, which said her husband was dead in a car accident shortly, she was happy, the death of her husband made her cry and made her happy too.
She started experiencing infernal state, witnessing strange signs, her dog behaves erratically, peculiar sounds, birds which are unfamiliar to the area visits often, she realizes some one other than her is present with her, but the secretive force does no harm to her, she started to believe it is her dead husband, he walks in the main hall, so her dog behaves erratically, the unfamiliar birds are her dead parents she believed, she started to reach her roots back in India, she meets her soul mate, with his support she search for her roots, will she achieve her desire..?
will be continued....
