happy birthdays

_{DAY 50 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “At a certain point in her life…”}

At a certain point of time in her teenage, Raha decided to stop celebrating her birthdays.

She was just a fifteen-year-old girl. Her birthdays used to be grand celebrations.

This year was special for them as their only child was going to be sixteen-year-old. Therefore, this year’s event was going to be larger than ever before.

She had heard her father talking about booking an island somewhere in Indian ocean. They had hired a special agency for this very event.

Yet, Raha didn’t inform them about her decision until a few days before her birthday, when she heard about the booking of tickets and hotel rooms.

But as she shared her decision with them, all hell broke loose. It was a shock for them, as they were unable to comprehend the reason behind such a harsh decision.

Her parents pleaded her for hours to let them know the reason. She just said over and over again: – ‘Mumma, there is no particular reason, I just don’t like birthdays anymore, especially mine.’

But it was not enough for her parents.

After asking her for hours, her mother said – “okay, you don’t want to tell, don’t tell us anything. But if we can’t celebrate your arrival in our lives then we won’t be celebrating ours as well.”

Was it just an empty threat? Raha thought for a moment.

She knew that her mother was a woman of her words. So, it worried her and brought her into tears.

She said, “Mumma, I find it overwhelming when so many people are around me, cheering for me, wishing me ‘happy birthday’ and bringing me presents from distant parts of the world. I just can’t handle all this. I want a simple life. I can’t handle the change in treatment towards me on my birthday and then next day.”

Listening to her daughter, Raha’s mother also began to cry, tears rolled on her cheeks.

She hugged her daughter and said, “okay, my baby! We won’t celebrate your birthday in the grand manner that we do. Whatever you wish, we will do. But can we wish you the way, we treat you every day.”

“Yes, Mumma,” said Raha, and hugged her mother.

PS – This is the 50th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

a problem

_{DAY 49 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “After a really hard day at school…”}

After a really hard day at school, Meh decided to pick up her notebook to reflect upon her situation.

She had left her day job after nearly 13 years.

She was considered a pro at this job, but she wished to learn more to do some challenging stuff.

The issue of narrowing future opportunities also pushed her to take this call. But school wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be.

She wrote in her notebook, “It’s really hard to start learning again. I mean it. Some say that we don’t ever stop learning, but I believe that we do. I say so because I feel that when you are studying regularly in school, you kind of learn for a longer duration, at least a year’s time, if you are one of those students who study to move ahead in their school. But when you start learning after a couple of years of work experience, you don’t easily get in the flow zone.”

This was a problem that she will have to solve to realize her true potential.

PS – This is the 49th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

the origin of hate

_{DAY 48 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “Once upon a time…”}

“What does make people hate each other?” Rachel asked her philosophy professor, standing up from her seat.

Coming from a background, riddled with hate crimes, persecution, and oppression, Rachel was the first person from her family to study in a university.

Yet her parents didn’t let her feel the burden of expectations. They had trained her to ask question and seek answers for them.

The professor looked at Rachel and asked, “In context of racial hatred?”

“No, I mean, how humans are able to hate each other, on a fundamental level, when they are more fragile than most other species,” Rachel tried to make him understand her question by giving more context.

“Well, fear usually originates from the feelings of fear,” her professor responded.

“People hate each other when they find their individual or group’s survival at risk. This fear can be real or imaginary. Your mind would not be fact checking for you whether it’s real or imaginary, if you keep defining something as a symbol of danger. This trick has enabled our minds to help us survive on many occasions. The people of ancient times may have hated the sight of a lion as their dislike must have saved them from imminent danger. But now, we normally don’t hate the sight of a lion but that of other things which we find risky for our survival.”

PS – This is the 48th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

a dead child

_{DAY 47 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “Once upon a time…”}

Once upon a time, a flyover collapsed in San Francisco, crushing 13 people beneath it. It happened during morning hours, around 9 or 10 in morning.

One of them was a child, aged three, had left his home for the first time, to join a pre-school. It was his tiny step on a path to become a part of this civilized world.

If not this, then why would a parent let their children disappear from their sight.

But all that forms the definition of civilization failed him that day, be it integrity, honesty, or truth.

The enquiry went on for years. His parents waited as long as they could to learn the cause of the collapse.

During the court proceedings, it was established that the construction of the bridge had been rushed.

Over the years, it created a tear in the structure resulting in the collapse of the bridge.

Did the court hold anyone accountable for the deaths of 13 people and the destruction of their families?

The defense lawyer presented people whose lives was saved by the bridge as it reduced the distance between the city hospital and major residential colonies by 30 minutes.

The court admitted the point, and to the surprise of the victim families, ordered the formation of a committee to oversee the creation of guidelines to prevent such accidents in future as the court didn’t find any ill intent behind this malpractice.

But the question remained… does the end justify the means?

PS – This is the 47th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

the dying daughter

_{DAY 46 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “sometimes, I wonder…”}

“Sometimes, I wonder, what is more painful: to lose your loved ones once or keep losing them bit by bit every day?” She asked her therapist.

She wasn’t waiting for any response as she knew that there is no answer to her question. Yet, it was something that she genuinely wanted to know.

She didn’t even wish to visit any psychologist. She knew what she had been going through. Yet, she was behaving like someone who passively wait for one’s death by standing on the railway track.

Her father, who was going through the palliative phase of his treatment for a terminal illness, sensed her daughter drowning in the darkness of depression.

He had requested her to go and see a psychologist many times before yet she never heeded his advice.

He was living out his last days, yet his face was lit with a wide smile.

Asking the caretakers, nurses and doctors about their families, pets and latest score of baseball games was just small talk for him.

One day, he made her see a psychologist by saying something he didn’t want to say.

She had been taking care of her father for the last 7 years but she had never seen him this desperate.

That day, she asked the therapist about the pain of losing someone, either on one fateful day or day by day for years.

Her therapist suggested she go and do something that can make her forget everything else, at least for a few hours.

She decided to visit her library where she had spent the majority of her teenage life. She must have been there for about seven – eight hours as it was pitch dark when she came out.

To her shock, there were a number of missed calls on her cell from her friends and the hospital where her father was admitted.

She rushed to the hospital to check on her father. There he saw his doctor, looking at her with somber expressions.

“Your father left this earth peacefully, while seeing her favorite team winning the match,” the doctor informed.

PS – This is the 46th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

the newspaper girl

_{DAY 45 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “once upon a time…”}

Once upon a time, a curious young woman became a journalist.

It wasn’t an intentional career move but a crazy ride to learn more about the world she lived and breathed.

She did learn a lot while working as a journalist.

She even loved her job.

But after few years, she experienced a kind of misalignment with her value system and that of most of her colleagues.

One day, while flipping through her newspaper, she said, “how can people be gullible, especially when it comes to politics?”

She was reacting on a news piece about defection of one politician from one party to another.

She did so as some months back the same guy was termed as the trump card of opposition by her colleagues who openly supported opposition party.

She never saw this guy in this light. For her, this guy was another opportunist who was creating a portfolio for himself by working for opposition parties.

As a journalist, she believed in keeping eyes and ears open to see what’s ahead of you so that you can report about it.

But lately, she had been witnessing the industry becoming increasingly divided along party lines.

She didn’t find it okay but accepted the argument that if a journalist believes in a particular set of ideas, they should be honest enough to publicly declare their stance.

It was okay till here. She agreed that everyone holds the right to argue one’s opinions.

As she witnessed journalists concocting stories, resorting to nonsensical arguments and whataboutery merely to support their own agendas, it became unmistakably clear to her: she had only two choices—to compromise her beliefs or to steadfastly own them.”

She chose the latter.

PS – This is the 45th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

half a foot short

_{DAY 44 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “I still remember…”}

MARIA . SVARBOVA

I still remember the day when my parents took me to a swimming pool for the first time. It was the most beautiful thing I saw.

It was not very far, from our place. It must be about 20 minutes away from my place. I know this for sure because I couldn’t finish my ice-cream before reaching there. I used to enjoy my ice-cream at a slow pace.

Ohh! I forgot to tell you that I was only 2.5 years old. So, I was allowed to enjoy my ice-cream the way I want.

It was sort of treat by my mum as well because I wasn’t eager to go out in the middle of the day. I was feeling sleepy so my mum offered me to buy an ice-cream if I agreed to go with her.

I readily accepted the offer and got the ice-cream the moment, we got in the car.

My dopamine levels were high due to ice-cream. But they broke all records as I saw the space.

There were beautiful long trees, flowers and open spaces.

I was supposed to start swimming from that day. I so wanted it after seeing the pool for the first time. But I wasn’t allowed to. They said that I was half a foot short.

My father requested them multiple times to at least allow me to touch the water. But they didn’t listen.

Today, I have won multiple gold medals in swimming events in the Olympics and been named as the most valuable player six times in a row.

Yet, I still feel bad for the day I wasn’t allowed to swim because I was half a foot short.

PS – This is the 44th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

colors

DAY 30 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “why does the color of my…”

“Why does the color of my skin matter less than yours?” asked Roe to her friend Edger.

There was not any emotion on her face. She did not look sad, angry or frustrated.

Her eyes looked like the surface of a calm lake which fails us in sensing its depth.

She uttered this line as if she was talking about a pizza slice.

“It is sad but true. And it is not just color, the texture of your voice, your entire existence matters less than a white person’s. The word of a white man values more than a person of color. And it would remain so for coming decades.” Replied Edgar.

“I know,” responded Roe.

“But we can’t let it remain the fact,” added Edgar.

PS – This is the 30th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

sorry, truth is often not sexy

DAY 29 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS “Sometimes I feel…”

“Sometimes, I feel why do we keep our conversations truthful, when it has largely gone extinct from our public lives. I mean what do we get day in, day out from our government, public officials, or for that matter any person holding a microphone, if not a pack of lies…,” Shea asked frustratingly from her friend, reading a news article about the upcoming presidential election.

“For god’s sake, there are professionals who makes millions of dollars each year for crafting better lies for public at large. They are called public relations champions. Leave alone public officials, this virus of untruthfulness in conversations is increasingly seeping in personal conversations from friends, colleagues and sometimes even from our partners then what moral obligation do we have to keep ourselves truthful and honest in our conversations?” she added.

Her friend listened to her patiently and let her finish her thought.

“Well, I feel that you speak truth not for others but for yourself as with each lie you deliver; you distance yourself away from your true self, your own soul. For some, their soul isn’t something to cherish, nurture our strengthen. For some, nothing is precious than their true self.”

PS – This is the 29th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.

abandoned children

DAY 28 OF MY CREATIVE WRITING JOURNEY. THE PROMPT WAS TO CONTINUE WRITING AFTER THE SENTENCE ENDS ‘THERE IS A SAYING…’

Jeanne Moreau in paris of 1940.

“There is a saying that it takes a village to grow a child but what happens when the village decides to abandon the child…what happens then? who takes care of the child?” she asked the young waitress, sipping her coffee, looking across the street through the glass window of the café.

“Sorry, I didn’t understand, Ma’am!” waitress replied, feeling confused.

“No, it’s nothing, thanks!” she replied.

“Alright, ma’am, give me a call if you need anything.” replied the waitress and left her with coffee.

The waitress had heard the question but still decided not to answer.

She had learned with her experience that often such questions are not asked to seek answers but for the sake of asking them. As sometimes our ability to ask questions gives us the feeling of self-control even when we know that we aren’t.

The woman was still looking across the street. Her eyes were still blank.

When she saw the waitress again, she looked at her as if she had the answer to her question but decided not to share.

“It’s the street…, ma’am!” said the waitress.

“Sorry? what?” asked the woman.

“The street takes care of the children who are abandoned by the village,” replied the waitress.

PS – This is the 28th day of my journey to write everyday for next one year.