Dear Friends,
Here is a short story in English as per my promise in the last post. Read and react.Enjoy!
Yours in short stories,
Kishore Patel
Short story by
Kishore Patel
No, I can’t write this story!
My
concentration was disturbed as the train stopped running suddenly. I noticed
that a woman seated in front of me was watching me writing. She was not alone.
She murmured something in to her companion’s ear. They stopped talking as I
looked at her directly.
I was writing a
short story as usual. It was a routine for me. I use to feel proud of my self
in the beginning when people noticed me writing. A young collegian girl had
offered me a cup of coffee when she came to know that I was a writer. She wished
me good luck for my story to get published very soon. She also gave me her
contact number and requested me to inform her whenever my short story get
published. Remaining part of the story is very tragic. I misplaced her contact
number and could not get in touch with her ever. It’s a different story that
that particular short story never got published.
The train began
to move and the couple restarted gossiping about me. I pretended to be in deep
thought and began observing her. She was in her late twenties and her man was
in early thirties. She was in a Punjabi dress and her dupatta had a golden
border. Man was in stripped shirt and dark trouser. She was thin and he was
thinner. Both of them look like under-nourished. Man had not shaved since last
3-4 days. She had not put on any make-up. Her skin was light brown and had a
glow. She had a face one see in the crowd and forgets the next moment. But most
remarkable part of her body was her eyes. What a sparkling and beautiful eyes
she had!
I recollected
noticing such beautiful eyes few days back when I had visited a stranger’s
place. I am associated with Hindi film industry as a writer. I am known for my
ability to develop screen play based on other’s story. We were filming a scene
in a studio. A laborer fell down from the height of twenty meter when he was
arranging lights for the next scene. Poor man died on the spot. I was sent to
deliver the bad news to his family. It was very difficult for me to tell the
truth to his young and pregnant wife. She had such wonderful bright eyes.
This happened
some days back and I was writing a short story based on this tragedy. In the
story I had knocked the door. I was watched by a young and beautiful woman with
curiosity. In reality, I was being observed by an ordinary looking woman with
some strange interest.
‘Are you a
writer?’ The man asked me when I was buying a packet of cigarettes after
getting down from train.
‘Yes.’ I replied
without interest
‘My wife is also
a writer.’ He said, ‘meet my wife, Radha Rani.’
‘Hello!’
‘Hello sir!’ she
said, ‘I am just an amateur writer. Sir, you look like a professional writer.
What’s your good name, sir?’
I told her my
name. In fact there was no point in telling her my name. She is not going to
read any of my stories in my name. I sell my stories to big writers and earn
good money. I was a ghost-writer. My stories were getting published but in
others name.
‘Sir, can you do
me a favor?’ she said, ‘I have begin writing a story but don’t know how to end
it. Will you help me?’
‘I don’t know.
Actually I am preoccupied with some work.’ I said.
‘Please sir; I
won’t take much of your time. We are staying very near from here. Please don’t
say no!’
In fact I don’t
like to discuss other’s story particularly when I am involved in the creative
process of writing a story. I could have said “no” but some thing compelled me
to say “yes”. I went with the couple.
I forgot my own
story as I entered in to stranger’s home. May be I could fish out a new story
from this new place!
People staying
there watched me strange look. But it happens every where.
It was an
ordinary looking double room on first floor in a chawl near railway station. It
was furnished with an iron cot and an iron folding chair. I occupied the chair
and gave a look in the room. It had a small window which allowed some light and
air in the room. Calendar’s page was not turned since last two months.
The man told me
that he is in the business of readymade garments. I didn’t find a single thing in
the home which can prove his claim. His one way conversation referring to
upcoming presidential elections in US ended when the woman entered with a cup
of tea.
‘Please be
comfortable.’ She said as she placed an
exercise notebook along with cup of tea in front of me. ‘Please pardon me for
my bad hand writing.’ She said as I opened the notebook.
I went through
the story rapidly. It was a tell of a middle class housewife written in a simple
traditional form. She was facing financial problems while managing day to day
household expenses as her husband was drawing a poor salary. She was in deep
trouble as the overdue bills kept on mounting. She owed lot of money to her
neighbors. One of her friend had suggested her to take up a career of a call
girl. ‘I am in to it and earning good money easily. I have noticed that young
housewives are in great demand in this business nowadays.’ Her friend had
added. Now the heroine of the story was in dilemma. What to do? To be or not to
be? To sale the honor or not to sale?
I lighted a
cigarette and said, ‘very good story.’
‘But it’s
incomplete.’ She said. She was seated on cot near window. I noticed that there
was a remarkable change in her looks. Suddenly she had become more attractive.
She had washed her face and put on a light make up. Her lips had become bright
red with lipstick. Her forehead was shining with big red bindi. I saw that she
has decorated her self with some artificial ornaments. She had done her hair properly.
She adjusted her dupatta and my attention was drawn towards her breasts.
And then I
realized that her husband was missing from the room. May be he has left us
alone so that we can discuss the story freely.
Her dupatta fell
down in her lap and I could see part of her breast uncovered. She smiled at me
and adjusted her dupatta. May be that piece of cloth slipped because of breeze
from window!
‘Sir, please
come here and sit on this cot. You will get good fresh air.’ She said.
I became sure.
This was her own story. She is in need of money and I had walked in to her
trap. Her husband had disappeared from the scene so that his wife can do her “business”
conveniently!
What was the
need for all the drama? She could have said straight away like, ‘look
gentleman, I am available for fun. Are you ready to part with money?’
But than which
idiot will agree to spend money on this ordinary prostitute?
I thought of
telling her some bitter words and left her at that. But then I had a doubt. May
be I was misunderstanding her!
Whatever the
fact, it appears to me at that moment that she was beautiful. Though she was
matured, I felt she was looking fresh and young. Though she was thin she looked
quite attractive. I don’t know at what moment I left the chair and sat close to
her on the cot. May be I was compelled to do so by some magnetic force!
‘Sir, do you feel
like being trapped?’ She asked me with a smile. I became sure, she was a
prostitute.
‘Please don’t
misunderstand me; I don’t face any problem like the heroine in the story!’ I
think I felt a touch of her hand at this moment.
Again I was in
two minds. What was she trying to tell me? It was a great surprise that though
she was sitting very close to me I didn’t felt any excitement. I felt calm and
cool.
I saw tears in
the corner of her eyes. She grabbed my hand and said, ‘Please don’t go away
without having dinner with us. Just see how nice and tasty dishes I will
prepare for you!’
My heart was
filled with compassion for her. How tragic it is for a woman to please a man
for survival! I felt ashamed. I thought as a man I was also equally responsible
for her condition! I had visited brothels on many occasions but never had I
felt such shame and guilt.
Suddenly a
thought struck me like a lightening. What was the difference between me and
this prostitute? She was selling her body and I was selling my stories! I am
also a commodity, a salable commodity!
I got up. I
wanted to run away before I start crying. I placed all the money I had in my
pocket in front of her and left.
I saw that she
was shocked. I didn’t understood why should be shocked?
I met the man on
the staircase. ‘Are you going sir? You finished so early?’ He asked. I didn’t
give him any reply. I don’t talk to pimps. I said in my mind.
I couldn’t erase
her face from my memory. Why was she shocked? Was she a housewife or a
prostitute? Why I have a feeling that I have insulted a woman by walking out
like that?
That day I
couldn’t speak out the truth of death to that young woman since I couldn’t
foresee her future and that story remained incomplete. Now when I am not able
to understand the present of this woman how can I write a story about her? No,
I can’t write this story!
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| (Photograph with the story is for the representative purpose only. It is taken from net.) |
