The autobiography of a pen

I was a bit astonished. He was restless, wrote with a thud on the paper. I rested panting for breath and my eyes fell on what he wrote:

Is baar ghawon ko dekhna hai
Gaur se thoda lambe wakt tak
Kuch faisley
Aur uskey baad hausley
kahin toh shuruat karni hee hogi
Is baar yahi tay kiya hai

Translated, it reads: “This time one will see the wounds

Vehemently for a longer time

Then decide

And gather the encourage

To start from somewhere

This is what is to be decided this time.”

The TV set showed horrifying pictures. Places being attacked, bombs being exploded and gun fires being shot. Blood splashed all over, people terrified, wounded and dead.

I saw a man in uniform, his eyes glittering with bravery, heading to rescue the victims. Little did I know that I will see him again on the front pages of the next day’s newspaper that paid homage to this martyred hero.

As I watched the moving pictures, I was amazed to find some people interrupting the man with cameras and microphones.

Hours later when the dim light was on I recalled the stories which I had heard from my other community members. It was one such incident in which my father had stained the white sheet with agony, fear and lots of question ....besides the imprint laid the picture of many dead people, a shattered train, and mourning family members. I remember that day when my father lamented, my mother sobbed. They prayed that I should not be so ill-fated to stain the white sheet and accompany such horrifying pictures.

The fluid I carried melted in me. I am dependent and helpless. Yet I have a desire tucked in my heart. I don’t want fame. I would just like to travel the world by simply looking out of my writer’s pocket. Before I start this pilgrimage, I would love such rapturous words to ooze out from me like my fellow mates who talk of humanness, unity, brotherhood, and peace.

My heart breaks to see that such words smear the pages along with tears of hope. But now I am seized with despair. For, the work of my brothers has been spurned.

Did readers shed real tears at the tragedy or was it a mere pretence?

But this time I am ready to weigh the impact of the words written. It’s important to introspect rather than give vent to my emotions. I will let the ink within me ooze out and express my real feelings. I hope the readers understand the tragedy, the consequences of mindless violence and learn from the folly of human beings.

Only when people understand the message that violence doesn’t pay and love and peace conquers all, will I be able to rest my body. My ink, which is like blood to me, would then not have gone to waste.

When this happens, I would consider this a second birth. I will be gurgling with ink to mark the pages with good and happy news that readers will love to read. The whole world would then be a better, happier place.