THE PITIFUL DESTINY

This story is the one that was mentioned in "Before the Summer". Hope you all will enjoy :) . 

I would have woken up early in the morning if I hadn’t taken my goddamn medicine. And again, I missed my bus today. I slowly scanned the room and saw the clock glaring at me. It read 10:45 am. ‘Wow’, I told myself. I have never been this late ever before. Kicking my bed sheet off lazily and rubbing my eyes vigorously, I got up from my bed and headed straight toward the shower.

After washing and rinsing myself for about 30 minutes, I headed downstairs to greet my mother.

“Do this again and I will take you to the doctor again”, she said, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in other.

“Sorry Ma”, I said, not wanting to argue early in the morning.

“So when did you sleep last night?” My dad asked, as he came out of his office room, holding an envelope. He is a teacher, who taught Physics.

“12:45 am”, I said, pouring a cup of coffee for me.

“Wow, what were you doing?” Mom asked in an alert tone. I guessed that the interrogation has just started.

“I was reading a novel”, I said as I sat down on a chair with my breakfast, 2 idlis and some sambhar.

“This got in for you this morning”, my dad said, pushing the envelope towards me. It had my name written in bold letters. I knew where it came from; The Hindu office, one of the biggest news corporation in India. I set it aside for later and finished my idlis. I knew what was in that envelope though, another rejection letter for the article I wrote recently about the overloading in buses. The Times of India sent their letter yesterday and I pretty much knew that this would be another article that would end up in my old file that held all my scripts. Another one that will never see the light, I told myself.

I washed up the plates and headed to my room, where my laptop was eagerly waiting for me. I sat down on a chair that belonged to my grandpa. I opened the letter and read it, and as I predicted, it was yet another rejection letter. I made a small paper plane out of it and made itself fly its way towards the dust bin. I reached out for the blue-black box I kept for my medicine and popped in some. After few seconds, I found myself relaxing, enjoying each and every moment around me. I got up from my bed and surfed on the browser for some time. I logged into my G Mail account and saw more rejection letters, and deleted them all.

I should introduce myself now. I’m Krithika Ram, a 10^th grade student who hates going to school not because of the lectures, but because of the drama going on there. I love writing and have written some stories along with articles that have never seen the light and might never will. But I am not giving up yet. One day, I will become a writer and will change the world through my words.

So there is this deal in my school: you can go there even if you are late if you have a legitimate excuse and I sure had one, mind you. I overslept. Since all I can do today is sit around doing nothing but surfing more on the internet and get bored, I got into my school uniform and took my backpack along with my article. When I went downstairs, I saw mom holding the keys. She grinned and said, “I knew you would come around.”

“This place is too over rated Ma”, I said, shifting from one leg to another. She laughed and headed towards the car.

“Wow, this article is good, like really good”, my friend Keerthana, holding the paper that had my article. Keerthana, Aditya, Anagha and I were really good friends and these were the only folks who read my inscriptions.

“The Hindu authorities are stupid enough to send a rejection letter”, Anagha said, snatching the paper from Keerthana. They both glared at each other for few seconds and burst out into laughter.

“They really are stupid”, Aditya said, snatching paper from Anagha. We were all standing on a corner of the corridor and soon enough, the bell rand, making us move toward our classes for another lecture. But I didn’t really listen to them. All I would do was grab my note and write something, which will become an article.

After class, I went home like a happy kid holding an article in one hand. I went straight to my dad’s office room and gave him the article. This was the first one he was ever going to read, which was written by me.

“You call this an article?!” he yelled, tearing the paper to bits. “Oh, and also found this file of your in your room today”, he said, pointing towards a pile of ashes. “If you don’t know how to write, then don’t. If you dare write another story or whatever, I will break your knuckles”, he said, holding the door open for me to get out of his office. “You are destined to become an architect. I talked to some of my friends in Singapore and you got admission there. We will be leaving in 2 months.”

His words hit me like a bullet, but I didn’t shed a tear. I collected that tears and rage and converted them to yet another article, which I sent to TOI through G Mail. Then I headed for the bed, and laid down there. I wondered why my life turned out like this. All I want to do is become a writer and rewrite the world for better. I wanted to follow my dreams like any other kid, and now I’m being hurt for that. Life is not fair, and it will never be. I tried to remember the hundreds of pages that was in that file, stories, articles, poems, everything. It contained a part of my life, and now he has burnt it.

I slowly reached out for my medicine box and popped in 8 pills, 8 times my usual dose. Soon enough, everything felt warm and calm around me. Silence, except the sound of my heart beating violently. I felt the hands of God wrapping around me to take my life away, and I was ready. The last thing I heard before I left this angry world was my father’s words. It might be an illusion, but it felt real. “Krithika, TOI just sent me a mail. They took in your article and want you to be a part time writer there.” A smile rushed down my face, and then I saw it. A bright light, which almost blinded me, then took me in. I reached my hand towards it and I felt the force pulling me in and I never bothered to look back to take a glance again.