HEIRLOOM

It had been a long time since Jaidev had left writing. Back in the day, Jaidev was a magician with words. He would gather emotions from within and without, stir them in the vessel of his heart, making sure that even his mind followed. That was his intense love for words. Sometimes, he loved them like a lover, at other times like a friend, and on certain instances, even like a parent. He loved them, completely.

Jaidev would take situations, instances, conversations or anything for that matter and with the dexterity of a weaver, arrange them into a coherent narrative. He would then narrate everything to Parke', his fountain pen. The slenderness of the body and the shine and sharpness of the nib titillated the deep-rooted writer in him. He would never need a reason to write, his only impetus, words, and of course, his trusted Parke’. He and Parke’ had developed genuine camaraderie, a bond, eternal. Parke’ would stay with him in his pocket, the next best thing to being in his heart, and travelled with him everywhere he went. Once, when Jaidev was going to meet his lady-love for the first time, his heart skipped a beat and Parke’ promptly remarked, like a seasoned doctor, “dude, you need to take it easy”.

Such was Jaidev’s admiration for Parke’, that he wouldn’t let him write on just any old paper. Even the sheets Parke’ would write on, were perfect. What he and Parke’ wrote on, was a blank white paper that was crisp, whose edges were neat and sharp and not a single crease could be found. Parke’ reciprocated his friend’s efforts and every time Jaidev swirled, his nib swirled in alliance and etched the most beautiful handwriting.

He had a developed an uncanny habit of brushing his hands gently through each word and line, however big they were. He would smile and cry whenever he went past a particular word or line, that portrayed a particular emotion and what he narrated next to his listeners formed a masterpiece, a beautiful story indeed. His stories were grasping and his tone in unison made his stories sound as if things were happening in front of a person’s eyes. He had even become the star of every gathering or event, no matter the occasion, big or small.

The ‘writing’ thing for him was so personal that he couldn’t care less for peoples’ opinions. However, even before he would present his writing in front of others, he made sure that he was being listened to, attentively, such was his presence. He would sometimes share a little build up before a performance, teasing them with the most delicate starter, creating a furor amongst the audience.

As he got older and as he fell in love, his work gained depth. And it was something that reached his beloved. He pampered his beloved with the caressingly silken touch of his ballads.

Alas, as he aged and raised a family, the words found it hard to emerge from his mind and through his revered pen, that now shivered in his arthritic hands. The situation came to such a pass that he was forced to put down his pen!

This would have been his return to the ring of words. For a moment, they challenged him and he thought that he would have to have a dual with them…..

Now, in the present, today, the white paper that he aimed to pour his words onto was just as white, as blank as his mind.  It had become intensely tough, situations were stinging as if each poked a zillion of venomous needles in his body. Hell, there was a lot that he wanted to pour out, just so that he could cleanse himself of the filth that he had carried within for almost a decade and a half.

Parke’ lay aloof and dejected next to him on his table. The pain was excruciating but he did not give up. He turned slowly but steadily, every bone crackling. The harder he tried, the bigger the jolt of pain.  How he wished he had the swiftness of his heydays, the exuberance of his lost youth. Days when he’d jump and pick Parke’ and roll park through every finger back and forth. Just as he wished he’d get it back, a 20 something-year-old lad appeared out of nowhere. He took his pen, gave it a nice look and rolled it effortlessly in his fingers back and forth. Not just that, he even twirled it from side to side.

Jaidev knew he had a successor. In a bleak voice, he said “don’t let it fall Jayant”

“Don’t you worry grandpa; it’s in my safe hands”

“There were few lines that I had written”

“Go ahead son, I’m all ears”

“here you go…” Jayant took a neat blank page out from a folder.

Until the words rise and shine

Where they come from, you shall not know

Writhing with restlessness in silence

They just wish to have a go

I indeed penned ‘em down with all my might,

Carefully putting what they felt

They travelled from a page to you

And hell did they make your heart melt.

Jaidev narrowed his eyes and emitted a smile,  gestured to Jayant to hand him the paper. The poem was handwritten beautifully. Moreover, the page was crisp, white and did not have a single crease. He reiterated that long lost process of brushing his fingers through the page, through every line.

Jaidev was taken to the time when he was Jayant's age and had written similar words. Still looking at the page like a scroll, he asked “whose heart did you melt?”

 “Granny’s I guess” Jayant candidly replied as if trying to dodge the question

“Did you?”               

“She said nice try! But your grandpa did that long back”

“Oh yeah! Of course” said grandpa raising his head in pride

“But she said, she loved me more” Jayant giggled.

“Naughty boy, I don’t mind”

Jayant hugged his grandpa and said “she’ll be here this evening”

PS: Thanks Kartik Sir for helping my story get a better form and helping me sharpen my story writing. I indeed got to learn a lot from you at TOSS.