THE door was ajar. I tried to look into the room. It was a strange feeling. I wanted to sort out my internal conflicts, but as I stepped into the room, I confronted utter darkness. However, there was a ray of light coming out of a corner where a table was placed.
I suddenly noticed something quite wrong in the room. “What was wrong?” I asked myself. No one was around except me and a table and instantly the presence of that table made me itchy and a little scared. Out of fear I hid behind a curtain from where I could see the desk clearly.
It was a disorganized writing table on which a white papers were scattered, showing an overall messy state of affairs. A wide range of expensive pens in different colours could also be seen in a corner of the table and all this could clearly be overviewed by a well-lit side-lamp.
However, it was not the reason that made me shudder with fear, but the very mind-boggling fact that those tiny objects had a voice and that I could hear them talking.
Arguments had almost reached their pinnacle and a grumpy old whining pen was scuffling about the lack of space and the load of work it goes through every day with minimal support from its other fellow creatures.
A rebellious scrapbook made an over-blown statement about disrespect and ill-treatment it faced at the hand of those who had minds and hands to exploit them to their satisfaction. A ‘shush’ by black costly pen suddenly turned the otherwise heated argumentative table into tranquil unmoved pieces awaiting their fate by a man hurriedly approaching the table.
He sat by the chair, flipped through the already scribbled pages and after marking few uneven lines over them flung them into a nearby dustbin where already present torn papers greeted their new pals, but certainly recently discarded papers were unhappy to be deported.
Now the writer’s mind had started to think and some spaces in his mind filled with jumbled up words. The words were trying to find their way onto the paper to help the mental labour the writer was going through.
At that moment he thought about all the great things that he had written in the past. He thought about the words that would look more beautiful than some others words, and pages of the dictionary that existed in his mind opened one by one.
A game of hide and seek started. Some words even laughed at not being picked, not because they were not suited for the purpose, but because the writer couldn’t think of better words. Nevertheless the mind kept on producing the desired results as wanted by the writer.
And after a long hard work of two hours few freshly written papers brought a smile to the writer’s face and he read them again and again to take care of any mistakes that went unheeded. The writer then got up and with a smug grin on his face marched out of the room. However, he did not hear the laughter and sarcastic looks that were being exchanged behind his back.
The entire saga left me speechless and made a thoughtless person like me ponder over, and probably like, the writer’s mind. After a little bit of struggle I understood the whole scenario. I stood close to the table and watched those tiny unmoved objects that had no voice, no significance, shaped altogether a different perspective.
I realized that it was a game of superior intellect, something that was initially beyond my grasp. I could now grasp things in a better way.
Those tiny pieces had no qualms abut the write’s conceit and about his abilities by nodding quietly and appreciating his achievements.
I guess, smaller unnoticeable petty objects need to be recognized.
And at that very instant from my own spaces in mind a perfectly suitable word slipped out and I wrote down the words ‘the world’.
