The train halted with a jerk.
She looks up from the manuscript. He was still sitting there looking out of the window. There was no platform, but, an expanse of a green meadow could be seen. The evening sky was gray orange. The trees there, outside, dancing putting their head down; it seems a storm was raging there, outside.
“The storm has hit…it will rain before you reach the Town…” he says not putting away his eyes from the window.
“It seems you are at unrest…” she asked getting up on her elbow and lying in half pose.
“It reminds me of the story…told by Galpo Dadu…regarding the train accident…” he says; this time looking at her.
“You had me recollect me a lot of things…a lot of memories…” she says in between sipping water from her bottle.
“I have no choice…what could I have written…these days everyone looking for raunchiness…looking for macabre…looking for whip and gag…” he says.
“We have this conversation before…you could have written something like that…the world needs…the time needs…” she says putting down the manuscript at her side.
He scoffs and said, “okay…let’s talk over it again…”
She rubbed her forehead and taking down her glasses, “no…stop here…I don’t want to talk on this again…pass me a cigarette…and be silent…”
“See…you don’t want to talk on this…last time you had though listened…now what has happened…”
“Only thing I can say if you have written this before you could have been a best seller…” she lights a cigarette and leaves the smoke.
“Best seller…these days everyone wants to be one…I write because I love to write not because I want to be a best seller…” he again looked outside the window.
She also looks outside the window. It was unwritten rule between them to maintain silence when they wants to be quiet to ignore the argument—heated and screaming one. The train jolts and started moving slowly. The storm has slowed down its speed. She looked at him and then to the manuscript. The page that was open titled “Birth of a Town”. She looked at him again. He was calm and composed. Her eyes moved to the outside moving away world. The storm was still raging and the train was moving at half of its speed it seems. An evening not long ago, an year ago, the outside disturbed moving away world made her recollect to.
That evening it had started raining when she had returned from her office. He was sitting by the window in his arm chair looking out of the window—calm and composed. The only light in the room was tall side lamp that was positioned to let him read or write while he sat on that chair. In that light she saw a book was upturned in his lap while his typewriter was on the table with a paper feed into it. The right side of it was same as she had saw in the morning—the stack of paper was slim, a single page had not went there she could say—while the left had almost the same with few crumpled paper ball there and under the table.
“So, the editor speaketh the final words…cut him loose…he’s finished…” he said without looking at her.
“How did you know…” she asked while looking for their butler.
“The newspaper is a curious thing…you had hidden it…but I had got it…don’t look for Ahmed…I had sent him to the cinema with her girlfriend…” he says holding his position.
She drops her bag near the sofa, and walks to him, and sat down at his knees. His face was, in the white power-saving bulb, looking pale. When he was angry or disturbed at her, he used this behavior of him not looking at her directly but through the corner of his eyes.
“You know…I had said him to give us a year more…you’ll write what other wants to read…from you…” her voice shows assurance.
“I am finished Nayan…don’t you see it…what shall I write…after you gone I tried to read this book…the new sensation in the city…the author and the book itself…you know how it started…the first paragraph which he had written like Marquez in Hundred Years of Solitude…” He turned off the light.
In the penetrated wet halogen-yellow his face was half lighted with his eyes were dark and the steep nose seems to the division of this half-lightened face. She knew how the book had started, but, still she lied by denying, and she knew he had caught her telling lie. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead he moved his eyes to her, and then closing it he started telling—
“I lie down on my sister-in-law’s cleavage between her naked breasts and she took me as if I’m a child and she’s my mother. My wife offered her aroused nipple to me, and I bite on it—she shimmered and hissed ordering me to be soft and gentle. Her vacant arousal lips were grabbed by my sister-in-law’s lip. My maid at that moment had taken my dick inside her mouth and sucking it hard as if it was straw in the cold drinks. I asked my sister-in-law—”
His sentence remains incomplete as she pick up the book and threw it away. He opened his eyes and smiled. He lighted a cigarette making his face lighted completely. It was full of remorse and pain she could say with confidence.
“You had proofread it…am I right…I had saw the manuscript once when you left it one your table and I went there to borrow some pages from you…the name of the book was different… but I had read the first line out of curiosity…” he said.
“Job demands…after reading the first line, I want to throw it away…I wage my job for this…but…” she put her cheek on his knees.
“But…being mistress of an author brings lots of taunt and all…like only he can write and no one can write—you think that but it’s not and blah blah blah, all those editorial bull crap…” his voice was soft and jovial with undertone of being getting defeated.
“How you know or came to know all of this, surprised me…”
He scoffed and passed on her asking, rather he says, “that day I read a book…it was a good one…a authoress who had published her second book after two decades of her first book…that one was fine at points…but she had talked of her views and wisdoms so much that at times it will be hard for any reader who have read that book or some soft novel…I want to write like that…but, I couldn’t…I tried to-morning…” he pointed to crumpled paper ball.
“Last night I saw you were writing on Town…why did you abandon it…” she asked.
“What could I have write…a book without any political or regional or racial discrimination…joined it with no raunchy sex scenes and ghastly war-type scenarios…no one wants peace, they want piece…the pieces that they don’t want to talk on…but the pieces that they imagine and want to feel it…what shall I write…I’m not a writer…I’m a storyteller…I tell story…I do not create them so that you can masturbate under your sheet…I do not create them so that they you can rethink on your socio-political stand…I do not create them so that you can be on a chase to catch the terrorist or murderer…” he stops.
The cigarette in between his fingers was towards the conclusion. The drizzling rhythmic sound of the soft August rain could be heard minced with their breathings. She took away the cigarette and thrashed into the ashtray on the table beside the chair.
“You are not defeated…I have signed on the paper that you will be back after one year with a best seller…no, I have to…I know you can still write keeping aside all those that this time literature are filled up with…I know you have still a lot of story to tell…”, she stood up on her knees and looking into his eyes she said, “I have bought a ticket and had also booked your carriage…you are going to Town by tomorrow’s noon train…there you will write…”
“No Nayan…don’t push me…I can’t write or tell stories…I am finished…I will live through my three books out of the seven…only death now can make me famous…can make this time revaluate—”
She grabbed his mouth with her lips to silent him. But he did not respond to it. After a minute when she left him, he looked at her and then embraced her. She could hear him crying on her shoulder.
She cafune through his hair and whispers, “forget everything…and go back to Town…stories await for you there…remember even if that book didn’t work then also I will love you even if anyone not love you…”
The train jolted with a screech.
Nayan had fallen asleep. She opened her eyes and found the curtain of the window had been drawn. She looked in front. There the curtain was also drawn. But there were no knockings or thumbing or calling.
“Turn on the light…it’s dark outside…” he said.
She turned on the light and found her sitting in the same position as he was before. She felt to have tea. She decided to order one for her but before that she needed to visit the toilet.
She founds a steaming cup waiting for her on the table.
“It’s Royal Ale…the one you love…” he says, “no need to say anything…go back to your reading after having it…I need to think of something…and no smoking after the tea…later may be…”
She obeyed to all he had said. As she settles down in her seat, half lying on her pillow, he came forward and threw a blanket tucking it under her legs. Then he kissed on her forehead and says, “after the rain, it’s going to be a bit of colder as we ascend for the Town…”
He goes back to his seat and she opened the manuscript at the chapter named “Birth of a Town”.
The sun was setting on the February sky throwing its tired orange hue over the mountains…
With this episode, I complete 10,000 words out of 50,000 words. According to the site, it is just 20% of the whole writing procedure. Thanks for the Like and hope to see more Comments in the Comment Box.