FINDING HOPE

I walked through the heavy downpour, trying to figure out which one was tear and which one was the rain drop. The Railway Station seemed so calm to me that I knew my mind was off the hook. Clutching the red diary that had all the articles and stories I wrote and the rejection letters I got for each one, I walked on the railway tracks, waiting for the light to shine up on me and take the light off my eyes.

I felt numb for a moment, thinking about the exquisite life I had. I had everything I wanted, except for the choice to choose my future. Writers were considered ‘non-artistic’ persons whereas an engineer or doctor was considered as Gods. Indian society has got screwed up because of the poison and the thoughts inside their brain. Then again, all people see are soap operas that show family fights and cuss words. I felt the rain drops falling on me, touching me as it went to the ground, her eternal love.

Suddenly, I felt something on my shoulder. I glanced at it and I saw a wrinkly pale arm, probably of an old lady. I turned back and saw a woman, darkness under her eyes due to lack of sleep and hands that once yielded for love and care. From her looks, I understood that she was homeless and had gone through a lot of pain in her life. She noticed the soggy diary in my hand.

“Tell me my dear child,” her calm soothing voice spoke out. “What makes your life so saddening that you have come to end your life in this extreme way?”

I opened my mouth to speak out, but only air went out. I was wonderstruck and I didn’t know why. I let my eyes speak out the words and held out my book to her.

“Why don’t we go to the platform and read this there?” she said with a smile. I followed her to the platform and made myself comfortable on a rusty chair. She gently took the book from me and tried to read the words that were inscribed in it. From her looks, I knew she was having a hard time and I didn’t want her to have a hard time reading my works. I watched her eyes dance around the sentences, trying to make sense and finding out the points.

She gently closed the book and placed it back in my arms. “Dear,” she said. “I know what you are going through because I am a writer myself. Well, at least I used to be. I wrote truth and nothing else and people hated it. I was criticised by the society and held guilty for my works. I was pressurised to write lies and I didn’t wish to do so. So I quit my job, packed my stuffs and decided to become homeless for I knew, homeless people had some purity and truth in their mind rather than the ones who criticise the homeless. One day, you will become a writer, and by then, the world will be a better place. Your time is yet to come my child. And when it does, if you face what I faced, quit it, write independently and be whoever you want to be. We raised ourselves, not the society. So don’t let others judge and dominate you. Good day dear.” Saying these, she gave me a tight hug and for that moment, hope struck me like a lightning. I believed what she said for she was wiser than me.

I let hope clung on to my mind and made myself home. The rain stopped and the drops that fell met their love and embraced them. Time, like wind, never stopped ticking. I opened the door to my room and found some letters on the table. I opened them with my wet hands and let my eyes wander through the words, picking up the good ones. Hope. It wasn’t a rejection letter like others, it was exact opposite. If that woman had not come to the station to save herself from the downpour, she wouldn’t have met me and saved my life and I would’ve been nothing else but a soul that would wander the world like others, who never got a chance to fight.