A Writer's Tale

'A phantom urges an elderly man in an old-age home to kill a woman. Later the man realizes it was his hallucinations that compelled him to commit the fatal act'. This plot would be creative and unique enough to win a short story competition. I was sitting on the toilet seat, watching absently at the junction of roof and wall. 'The old woman must be irritating, infuriating to the old man in some ways. The old man would be weak minded or lunatic'. I washed my hands in hurry. I got the idea I was looking for from past three days. Certain to win a position in contest, I sat on my study chair.

'Two characters….or should I add a third one?' I mumbled. But last time my story had five characters. The judges might have got perplexed. That must be the reason I could not win. I have written for many story writing contests, every time ending with disappointment. I have been vexed of persistent failure. But this time, I would leave no stone unturned. I have one month to upload my story. The time is ample to write a story with no mistakes. I felt confident. Failures have helped to improve my writing skills. 

The story must not be without outcome. I have committed this mistake many times. 'The old man would lament his doing and…' I thought hard. I stood from the chair and walked in my room, to-and-fro. 'The hatred for old woman develops because she resembles her daughter-in-law…who sent her to the old-age home'. I grinned. It is the best plot I have ever thought about. 

"Anu...get down for the dinner…..did you do your homework?" My mother yelled.

"Yeah..coming" I replied in a barely audible voice.

I didn't complete my math homework. But that won't be a problem. I would copy it in school. 

***

I was sitting on the second last bench of my classroom. My eyes were fixed on the blackboard, where my science teacher had drawn a diagram of heart. 

"Blood flows from right ventricles to body…." Teacher was elucidating with efforts.

But my thoughts eloped me. 'There must not be a phantom thing. No hallucinations. It might make the story unreal. The old man would feel loneliness. His bad mental condition and vexation on the old woman would make him do this. I would explain man's mental imbalance in detail…' .

"…Yes..Anuradha, which chamber is right ventricle ?"

I stood spontaneously. I looked at the diagram tongue-tied. 

Teacher waited for a moment then blared "Keep standing for rest of my class."

I stood with my head bowed. Besides me, two other girls were standing. I wasn't upset about the punishment. 

*** 

'…The old man made an obnoxious face, when Kamla Amma offered him laddoos…'

It was the final read of my manuscript. I was glad I could complete the story by the last day. I have tried to make the plot less complicated. There are three characters and five scenes. The ending is filled with self-doubt. The man realizes how he hates someone for no reason. This story asks mankind questions about hatred. Why we get irritated with no reason? Are we mentally stable if we hurt others? I love this story. I would certainly win felicitation for this story.

***

Waiting for results was agitating. I pictured myself winning the constest. It would be thrilling to get some recognition. 

"Maa see, I can write. I won first position and a cash prize of 1000 rupees."

Her eyes would be filled with tears. She would call my dad, then aunt Meera, then my grandmother and then our neighbors, till everyone comes to know that I am a writer. 

My mom doesn't know that I am writing from past few years. She won't restrict me to write but every time I would participate in an online contest, she would start counting on my abilities. Even I don't believe my expectations, how could I let her have faith in my writing. 

Anxious to get appreciations on my story, I thought of letting my friend read this story. He has read my stories earlier. He would be astonished by my writing. 

***

His eyes motioned with words. I looked at his face earnestly. I wanted appreciation for my plot. '….The old man loathed her eyes. They infuriated him. Their movements teased him….'

He might soon jump with excitement. My story is a psychological thriller that sends chills down the spine. 

"It's great... Amazing…better than any story I have ever read." My friend said returning my story notebook.

I smiled and said "Thank you."

***

It is 12:00 AM by the clock. I opened the website for results. My heart was pounding. I could hear the ticking of clock in dead silence of midnight. I opened the result web page.

'Result not declared yet' flashed in green. It would be declared today.

"Stupid" who would upload the result at the stroke of midnight. They would declare it by evening, I suppose.

That night I slept with thoughts of succeeding in writing. My story would be published. It might break the records. People would fall in love with my idea. I shall become a celebrated writer. With these thoughts I fell asleep.

Next day, I felt lazy. It was a holiday. I again checked the result, but it wasn't declared. I did my chores that mom advised. Lazily I had lunch and then went to my room. 

There was a mail from the contest organisation. My heart pounded like never before. My feet turned ice cold. 

'You can check your results on……' the mail read in bold words.

I opened the website link. My fingers trembled. I wanted to see my name. 

There were names of three winners.

'Sunil…

Manu shar…

Gaurav…'

I scrolled down. I might be in the next top ten.

'Viren, Gawaksh, Shruti, Aryan, Kriti..'

My eyes filled with tears. I failed again. Everytime it happens the same. I felt terrible disgust, like hitting the bottom. I again checked the list and mail, with a little hope. I am not a writer. I have never won this title. I cannot even call writing my hobby. 

My heart which earlier pounded like a juvenile boy, now remained like an inanimate hole. It has lost hope, I suppose.

***

"You have a perfect taste of literature" my English-subject teacher had told me yesterday. Her expression were honest when she read my first ever written story. She even wrote 'excellent' in red ink. I felt ecstatic. I could never stop smiling remembering the incident.

Read my diary. 

I was in the seventh standard, when I started writing. Since then, for the past three years, I have read, written and researched lots of stories. Was everything purposeless? 

The clock ticked like it would never stop. I focused on its sound. "Tick tock..tick tock..".

Am I a writer?

What is the purpose of writing? 

Haven't I enjoyed it. Lucidly, I know I won't give up writing. I do lose in contests, but writing does not contest. I write everything I feel. Words and phrases are my pals. They express me. 

Everytime a competition link flashes on my screen, my mind buries in solace of building a story. I won't give up, or can't give up. No one can hinder my hobby. Story writing has always brought me blissful warmth. I elope from this empty world, and travel to a place filled with creativity.

I am a writer because I can weave words into stories, be persistent despite failures and believe in self.