This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 32; the thirty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'An Untold Story'
When i travel i fall back into this abyss that takes me to this weird place between dream and reality,a place i find myself dangling in, endlessly. Wondering what would be a greater relief,to hold onto or to give up. But then i write. Whether i write to fill up my heart and the vacuum within or whether i write to empty my heart of the clutter inside,that i know not of. I know that I just write.
I write what i see. And many times of what we never see. I write of tales never been heard that i see all around me,and no sir i do not see the faces then. I see 'An Untold Story'.
Masterpieces. They had all always been tragic. Much like Othello,Macbeth,Wuthering Heights or our very own Devdas. Such a tale was written on one nondescript face. Dressed in the fadest colour of blue,sitting by the train tracks. Eyes very much innocent. Skin very much pale. Frown very much justified. Condition very much pregnant.
She had her untold story written all over her face. Probably married when she was too young to think of herself. Probably to a man who at that very moment is drunk and in one of the numerous gutters of the city. Probably too tired to even pacify the child who is hungry,crying and tugging at her pallu. Probably feeling guilty of bringing an another one into this world.
Can i even imagine what her untold story is ! I dare not. Neither i dare to touch numerous ones that has died down without even their voices been heard. The pathos,the dilemma,the guilt is as virgin and untouched as her story. I find myself reading every single line in her deep frowns. Listening intently to every word in her drops of sweat. And then she stands up,and something scares me. That look on her face,it was resolute. But for the first time in my life i couldnt make out whether it was desperation or whether it was courage. One emerging from other,i guess.
She walks towards the rail-tracks. I panic. I could hear the train sounding its whistle,and it was growing louder each second. She takes hold of her child's hand and he allows himself to be dragged..crying and hungry. Meanwhile i was suffering from an attack of paralysis on my car seat as i saw her walking towards the tracks,refusing to even think of what was going in her mind. Every single molecule of my body was shouting "No,dont do it" except for my tongue that had tied itself into a gordian's knot.
Second crawled by painstakingly and i had seen the women walking away form me...towards her end...for ages. Or so it seemed. My hands tightened their grip on the steering wheel and my knuckles paled like raw peaches. Everything in me prepared me for the scene that i was about to register and i braced myself for the mutilation being inflicted on my coward soul. I held my breath when she took her first step on the train-track. My eyes widened,and my throat parched and stuck to my innards for additional support. One step followed another and then one little bit more,and before i knew she had crossed the tracks. I could see her receding figure through the gaps in the coaches of the train passing. Shaken for a moment and beyond,i saw she was going, leaving behind not just a thundering train but an equally strong train of thoughts in my mind.
A second later the railway crossing bridge opens and i drove past with an untold story in me.
|photo courtesy Google|