With her eyes narrowed and fingers murdering the keyboard,
Ashita was engrossed in writing the last chapter of her novel. Ravi, her
husband of ten years, aware that she had switched on her writer-mode, closed
the bedroom door to give her the ‘space’ she had demanded.
When she emerged three hours later, after a grueling writing
session, she had a smile on her face. Her face was devoid of the earlier
I-am-about-to- puke expression.
“So is it out? It is funny, how you go all potty-faced when you
get the idea for a chapter,” said Ravi, biting his cheeks in an effort not to
laugh.
“Yes…at last. ‘There is no
greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.’ You number
crunchers would never understand that,” said Ashita, countering her husband’s
cheeky remark with a quote from Maya Angelou.
Branding her son with an eagerly received hug and kiss, Ashita
enquired what they wanted for dinner.
“Anything, as long as it is palatable.”
“What do you mean? I cook un-appetizing food?”
“Who said that? I just meant anything,”
said Ravi, flashing his best smile to pacify his wife who might take on her war-
goddess avatar if he crossed the ‘lines’.
Humming a tune, she headed to the
kitchen to prepare dinner. Ashita had her life in place, at the pace and order
that she wanted it. She was a successful author and lately financially
independent owing to her best sellers.
Gone were those days, which were dark
and brooding. Postpartum depression had sent her reeling with sadness,
hopelessness, low self-esteem and guilt. She had feared that her lack of
expertise in raising a child would irreparably harm her child. Being continents
away from her family, with no one to help her cope up being a new mother, she
was exhausted, scared and at the end of her wits. She had begged Ravi to save their
child from her. Ravi had laughed it off saying all new mothers went through
this phase and there was nothing to worry. Though he chipped in with housework
and childcare responsibilities, it was never enough.
Hope had danced into her life in the
form of Elizabeth, a benevolent social worker, who had found her at the clinic,
after a failed suicide attempt. Elizabeth, with her kind words and her group of
volunteers including Ravi, had instilled new courage and hope in her.
“Never bottle up your emotions,
Ashita. They will eat into your very being. Pour them out as words. Write them
down. Write about your fears and write about your hopes. Watch how words
magically heal you.” Elizabeth had told her, handing her a notebook and pen.
The writer in her was born that day.
The initial hiccups and fears had drowned in the support given by Ravi and the
many volunteers who trickled into their one bedroom flat as baby- sitters, giving
her the necessary space and time to heal. A house cleaner to help, was the next
step.
The baby blues had vanished and she had
transformed into a content mom. Her new friends nourished the writer, with
appreciation for the few stories she had penned down during her darkest hours.
A collection of short stories well received, led way to a full-length novel
which went on to become a national best seller.
“I smell something, yummy,” cried her
five-year-old Aryan.
The aroma of her cooking had lured her
son into the kitchen, closely followed by Ravi.
“Mmmmm… Biriyani,” said Ravi, his eyes
bright with excitement.
“Yes it is Biriyani. It is celebration
time. The first draft is done,” said Ashita, picking up Aryan, allowing him to
perch on her hips after she finished transferring the Biriyani into the plates.
“Bravo...That is great news,” said
Ravi, hugging her.
The novel was her story, a gift for all
those who might be out there dealing with the often undiagnosed and damaging
condition of postpartum depression. The profits from the book would go to the
support group she had formed together with Elizabeth, for helping new moms and
single moms suffering postpartum depression.
As Maya Angelou said, she wanted to try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud.
P.S: This story was selected as a winner of the muse of the month July, a story writing contest conducted by women's web
I think this is the first story of yours that I read on women's web. Yet I read it again now. It is that beautiful, Preethi.
ReplyDeleteP.S. The picture is just as beautiful, if not more. You are truly gifted. Touchwood.
Thank you Athira...:)
DeleteLovely sketch Preethi... The tear filled eye and the teardrop look very realistic, just like a 3-D art! Great work dear! Hmm, yes, even I have read the story on women's web, I would second the previous commentator, it made me to read it line by line again! A theme well-presented before us... (Y)
ReplyDeleteTC! Keep smiling :)
Thank you Sindhu for reading again and for the encouragement..:)
DeleteWhat a storyline! Both the idea and the writing style is good. :)
ReplyDeleteThank You Indrani..Coming from an avid reader like you, it is very valuable.
DeleteWow Preethi ! Superb Picture. Loved the story line and your presentation.... :)
ReplyDeleteThank you Priyashi.. Welcome to my blog :)
DeleteNow that was so nicely presented .. even a dumbo like me could follow the story :) a beautiful sketch toooo
ReplyDeleteBikram's
Thank you Bikram... I don't think you are a dumbo though..:)
DeleteCool..story & way you narrated ..super cool :)
ReplyDelete