Scratching my head I sat in my class, what so ever the teacher was doing seemed beyond my mind and my heart. When the tolerance level of my boredom vanished, I took out my writing pad and my pen just to start writing, I didn’t care that I was breaking my dad’s promise. He thought it was a waste, it took my time and distracted my mind but little did he know that it is what makes me feel alive.
I wanted to do literature, I wanted to write and I used to just view myself filling books with millions of words of my choice, but then my dreams were snatched and shattered. The burden of prejudices and expectations was loaded upon my petty shoulders. The weight was way too heavy to be thrown away but later it seemed even more heavy to carry on with.
I kept on writing and writing, the words kept flowing and it somehow kept me moving. I was proudly failing in all of my subjects but surprisingly it didn’t matter to me, not even a bit, I genuinely didn’t care. The paradox here was that I was far more happy and content than I used to be when I scored great insignificant numbers known as marks.
Sometimes I used to sit and laugh on my own self. The thing that I was doing was probably more innocuous than anything else but still, I was being so clandestine in it. I had the habit of looking at the people around and the feeling of sympathy for them used to automatically arouse, especially while looking at my dad. His life looked so limited, probably he never did what he loved or maybe, he didn’t even know what he loves. The passion was missing; the fix of doing something was not there, I guess, these were the reasons that never allowed him to understand his own flesh and blood.
I still remember the day when my dad was called in my college. I was standing in front of my principal and my dad. Holding my mark sheet, they both were busy reprimanding me while I was busy thinking the plot of my next story. Accidentally my folder fell from my hand, all my scripts and stories were scattered right there. My dad swiftly picked one of them up, reading them, his eyes became red. He was fuming, the anger radiating was enough to kill me. I was still and scared. Suddenly my phone rang, both of their eyes darted towards it. Cancelling it was the obvious choice but seeing the number, it was impossible to do it. It was from the publishing house. I picked it up with my shivering hands and,
The melodious voice from the phone said, “We liked the book you wrote “why can’t we do something just for the sheer joy for doing so?” We would love to publish it, Come to our office by 6.”
Then and there, my life was made.
Work of fiction 🙂