Wednesday, March 3, 2010

A Writer- A Wife

"On the whole the novel is worth your time.
It mesmerizes you... Haunts you (especially the tragic end)and keeps coming back to you.
This young man has delivered a real masterpiece."

There was more but he could not fathom all of it due to the mist in his eyes,

A review of his first book. The publishers had a party thrown for him tonight,

He had started the shower to let him bathe and cleanse of all that had occurred,

Life would be anew now.

But there was no one more he wanted to show it to

Than a certain Mr. Bank Manager,

“And you think you can keep my daughter on that no job of yours, an English honors PHD is trash.

There are Engineers and doctors queuing up for her. Fool"

He could not manage even a furtive glance at her then,

But from the silent sobs he understood that she was crying.

"How can I go against Baba?"

That was June twelve years ago. Then he looked into her eyes and said nothing.

They never met after that day and he burned his whole collection of Shakespeare, pages of Ulysses

And a few pages he had written, too.

The party was in flow; most of the people had not read him yet and would not,

Wittingly he smiled, smiled at every face he could but somewhere inside

He was seething. Only if I could let them see it all.


She was waiting for him, it was her birthday today

And for all the last eleven birthdays she spent with him

This was the most special; she knew she had a secret to share with him.

Some happiness, as they say good news

She remembered the night he had made love to her twenty days ago

After which he went to Bangalore for a business trip, from where he came back last Thursday.

She had missed him as she never had; she felt a strange longing love for him,

Which she never felt to such extent before. Even more than what she felt for him,

When in Singapore he cooked him Poshto, as she was dying to eat something Bengali

Or when he stayed up all the night, when she had jaundice and could not sleep.

Even when he gave fire to baba's funeral pyre, a man devoid of a son

This love though came out of guilt she knew,

She knew when he held her, caressing and making love to her,

She was thinking of someone else, someone she had not thought about in a while

A man who did not belong to the future, a man who was a shadow of the past,

A man who loved Shakespeare, James Joyce, the beetles and smoking.

No, she loved her husband more than anyone else in the world, she reminded herself

But...Since twenty days, she is thinking of his whereabouts if he is okay,

If he had done something with his life….


The traffic was killing him he wanted to reach his wife quickly,

As he still longed for that night when he made love to her.

How intimately they had cuddled together.

How she loved him and smiled at him when he said to her,

"Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?"

He had bought a new novel to her as a gift,

A novel of a new writer who wrote amazingly, beautiful, poignant

And sad endings.


abhinandan said...

the thought u hd in ur mind was excellent but...i think u prolonged it...also the repetition of that feeling makes it less effective on the readers rather making it vulgar.

the comment is harsh a bit...i'm sorry for that...but i expect flawless creations from u.

Arnav said...

The idea is interesting, very similar to real life... :)