We, the team Potliwale Baba, are writing a fictional story as a part of #CelebrateBlogging – Game of Blogs.
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Mumbai never sleeps, for the nocturnal life in the most glamorous city of India habitually consists of half-baked brats, criminals, sick patients, night duty watchmen, and of course writers.
Sitting in his study, surrounded by a stack of classics and transitory fiction paperbacks, Shekhar Dutta was having a staring contest with a blank paper. And he was indeed losing it. He wasn’t against technology; a kindle, an anniversary gift from Tara, was there on the table as a proof. He also used his Dell laptop for research purposes, at least that’s what he claims. Most of his time is spent in trying to find nitpicks that he can publish in local newspaper, in his words, ‘Just to pay the bills’. But when it comes to real writing, nothing can replace the feel of paper on your wrist. He was the old-school type and he was old too. From his eccentric childhood and troublesome teenage he learnt more than a few ways by which he can hide himself behind a smile and habituated to blissful nature, to blend in with others. But at the time of writing, as Gallico said, “You have to bleed”. This was the moment when he was more open and vulnerable. That’s the reason he was awake at 2:45 AM, to be alone. But tonight was different.
The click on the lock and sound of door opening announced the arrival of his wife, Tara. As soon as Tara enters the house she calls to her maid, who was clearly woken up by the bang sound of Tara’s arrival, saying, “I will not have dinner, and get a medicine for headache.”
“Ah, finally. The provider of this home has arrived. Now I can sleep in peace knowing there will be food tomorrow.”
Shekhar said across the hall.
“Not tonight. It was a long day.” Tara said.
“And half of the night.”
“I’m really exhausted. I don’t have any energy left to waste on you,” Tara said undressing the formals and heading toward the powder room.
“You never do, my love.” Shekhar said, slumping back on his chair and thinking how there was a time when his marriage life was picture-perfect, may be too perfect to believe that it was true. But only pictures never change.
It’s not that there is no love anymore, but it’s just not a priority anymore.
“Roohi in bed?” Tara asked coming out of the powder room in a bathrobe.
All the coherent thoughts that formed in Shekhar’s mind went in the dark again. He loved his daughter, she was the reason he decided to be a stay-at-home dad. In his words again, she was the ‘light of his life’. But now, maybe the inferiority complex was getting unbearable or maybe the past he endured so long was at last creeping out or maybe just the priorities have changed.
“So kind of you to remember our daughter, she is in next room watching Showtime,” he said.
“Can’t you give a straight answer to anything? Save the mockery for your writing,” she said glancing at the blank paper.
“Sorry. I am not at right place. I read her Stardust, she fell asleep in the 2nd “I know it is getting hard for you, and I am not around much too, but it is a big project and everything I am doing is for us. If all goes as per the plan, we could enjoy a vacation at month’s end. Where do you wanna go?” She asked climbing the bed.
“Somewhere alone,” he grunted.
“I am no writer, but don’t they say ‘write what you know’? People are writing about their college flings and they are the bestsellers.”
“The first thing to go in a doomed society is art. All these so-called bestsellers, novels, movies and music are crap.”
“Then write some crap. I’m tired of this glooming Shekhar. You must have some interesting experiences too, why don’t you write about your teenage?”
“Sure, honey. Goodnight”
“I was just trying to make a conversation here,” she said dragging the sheets over her head.
“Why I don’t want to write about my teenage? Well, because I don’t want to go in prison,” Shekhar thought.
~to be continued here…
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