Carousel of life

Smell of fresh pages!

That notebook was made with finest handmade paper.

It was delicately put together by experienced hands of adroit women. Every single page of the notebook was a result of; killing of a few fine Argali shrubs of Himalayas, hours and hours of preparation in a small handicraft workshop of an ancient monastery, and last & desperate effort of survival by a few old ladies of Borong village in Sikkim.

The Man came into the shop with so much promise ! The whole shop looked at him at once; three working and gracefully aged ladies, rusted tools, wooden Buddha Idol and thirty seven unsold notebooks. He obviously was ushered inside. After a small walk through, he made the choice. Bought the best notebook of all, and left with swift feet after paying the craftswomen* fairly. The latter became happy as there was a fraction less poverty now in the workshop. On the contrary, books had a dilemma; were sad as they lost a companion, but were happy too, as the money paid promised a few more to come.

The Man kept the notebook in the best shelf for everyone to see. All two hundred pages ofit stood there with utmost pride, as it was amongst the other machine-cut, factory-made and jealous pages. The man promised the notebook to ink it when the time is ripe. Notebook didn't mind, as it knew that unlike the man, it would only get better with age.

One fine day, he wrote on the crisp white paper, which had started turning gold dust in colour already. He wrote, and kept going on for days about his love. Notebook was overwhelmed. Almost feeling obliged and precious, it thanked the Man. Although the old women created it with utmost care and delicacy, but it was Him - the Man - who gave a meaning to his existence. Its loyalty changed.

The Man gave this notebook to the Woman he loved dearly. The Notebook, feeling self worth, happily became ready for a new mistress.

After reading what was written in the notebook, the Woman lost her cool. She burnt the book in wood fire.

The notebook knew that it was full with Love, but could not read what was really inside it. Itcursed the Woman for her black heart. It blamed the pen for being a bad transmitter of the Man's thoughts. It thanked the Man for making its self worth, till its last flake of ashes.

The Woman cleaned up the grey remains, and wished for the Other Man.

The Man, with heavy and rejected heart, made way towards the handicraft workshop. Everyone in there was happy to see a familiar face of the Man; three working and gracefully aged ladies, rusted tools, wooden Buddha Idol and forty three unsold notebooks.

He felt something familiar again, too. Oh yea! Smell of fresh pages!

- Asthir

(Publish date - 3-Mar-15)

*in the mainstream androcentric world, making a bold and sinful act of treating women as equal here.