Anand's Musings

Unlike all other stories that starts neutral and then take a twisty turn to get good or bad, I begin badly and turned worse with every new leaf. Initially my author didn’t think about it as he was more concerned about the bird’s nest on top of the window where the wooden writing table stands, rather incongruently with a metallic-gray music system and a few speakers whose arrangement logic defies my logic. But then I’ve very little of it. Most of the time he uses his fountain pen or the typewriter but the pencil being used as the writing instrument is seldom used and therefore does not feel very comfortable. Every ten minutes or so, he looks at the paper as if something is wrong or missing, as if the words he are writing are not his but are flowing automatically from the pencil or his hands. He continues to scribble. The microwave starts beeping suddenly which reminds him that its time for lunch. As always he walks to the microwave, pushes some button and it stops beeping. He comes back and stares somewhere deep into the forest that comes into the room through the window. He is not focussing on something specific, say a bird or a tree. He is staring at the forest as a  whole. After staring for about fifteen minutes he jolts back into reality. Words start coming out and he is rapidly writing me. Badly. He realizes that he has to go somewhere to meet someone. He finishes me in haste, reads me a few times and shakes his head. He crumples me into a ball and whirls me towards the forest.

As I lay there in the backyard I see him jogging out of the house. There is a spark in his eyes. A purpose. I like it. I’ve changed at least one life. Wasn’t that the purpose of my existence? Of course it was.