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Maanasa Murugesh



Maanasa Murugesh




8 mins 915 8 mins 915

Meera's eyes welled up yet again. The deadline was now a blur amid her streaming tears. Not again.

Once hailed as the star writer of Osmosis, Meera was at the peak of her career. Words were the ocean she swam in and playing with words was a prized art. Words fascinated and confused her sometimes, but she liked playing the student often. Her smiles and tears often were carved into words of magic that only Meera's touch could give.

Her thoughts never needed a language to express. Hers spoke the cosmic language of the Universe, a kind that could strike a chord in every soul. Her way of playing with words could put the angels to shame. She had the hands of the Creator himself, such flair flowed in her writing. She could put the most unexplained wonders into beautiful words that could mesmerize every reader. Every drop of her blood in her veins throbbed with artistic talent.

The ink that flowed from her pen would dance, happily taking form under Meera, knowing it will make history. To her, the swift strokes of the ink were her way of slaying the demons with a titan's sword, only that her pen was mightier. It was her way of breaking through those metal chains and let her voice echo through the hills and beyond.

Where she got it from, you wonder? Her father.

As a child, Meera had grown up listening to wonderful tales from her father. The warm, gentle words of her father, soothed her like a lullaby. She knew, those arms would always be waiting for her, even when she didn't love herself. To her, that was the only place where the duskiness of her skin, often bullied for, or her popularity at school, wouldn't matter. She could be anything she wanted to be, from a soaring wave to a grain of sand. It was her playground, where she played for herself and sculpted her own stories, just for herself. It was the place where no pair of eyes could tie her up in judgment or drown her with unwanted opinions and clanging voices. Slowly, her father helped little Meera find her own voice and believe in what she had to say. 

Though the stories her father told her stretched across several oceans and continents, the story that her heart always loved to listen to over and over again, was the story of her own - the story of the Meera we all know, the Meera who splashed colors of Krishna's sweet escapades with her words. Over time, the pen became her Krishna and her father's voice slowly faded, only to mingle with the ink in Meera's pen.


She felt tears engulf her again. She hadn't written a word for four weeks. She signed into her Osmosis account. The top section, that always echoed her name, now had some other names. The companion that had always traveled in her soul now seemed distant, shrouded in a blanket of mist. She consoled her heart and tried to assure herself, but the silent fear still clung on. Had she lost her weapon, she feared secretly.

"So, when are you going to make it back up to the top, Meera?", asked Andrea. Andrea was her reporting manager and the only thing she was afraid of other than snakes.

Meera had no answer. The compass that had been showing her the directions for the past twenty-four years had now suddenly left her all alone in the woods.

"You were on the top of the board always. You haven't written an article in a month."

"Mm..yes ma' next article is on the way..." 

"I want a thousand words by tomorrow. Now."

That hit her like a ton of bricks. Neither did she know where those words were going to come from.                                                      


It was time to wrap up. Chrissy, Meera's colleague, was already done, packing up. Her family was hosting a dinner on the eve of Christmas. Everyone in the office were invited, including Meera. But Meera wasn't in the mood to go. What had she achieved to go and party all night?

It was around 5:30 in the evening. The Sun had already sunk below the horizon and the sky became sleepy. Within minutes, the setting left glowing streaks of orange and crimson in the sky. Meera sat on the footboard, watching the scene. The chill evening breeze stroked her hair gently, touching the dried marks of tears on her cheeks. The gloaming rays cuddled her with tender love, which was what her broken heart yearned for.

Meera unlocked her apartment and threw her bag on the sofa. Today had been tiring. She slumped in her desk and opened her page. Not a word flowed. Her eyes were glued to the screen, just hoping for the first word to appear on the screen. It was just blank white, with infinite potential beyond imagination. The space remained empty, waiting to be transformed into a masterpiece, as always. For the first time in her life, the ink in her pen refused to flow. It seemed like all the ideas had just frozen somewhere deep, snatching her happiness along. It felt like there was just absolutely nothing that could penetrate through to thaw the joy in her.

It was dawn. Meera was still deep in slumber, lost in her slurring retreat. Her eyelids were still heavy and swollen, after hours of wistful insomnia. She rubbed her eyes, only to look at the damp marriage of her ink and tears on the paper. The sunshine slowly penetrated through the glass and felt her face.

She slowly staggered back, her neck and muscles stiff after falling asleep on the desk. Meera looked around and slowly walked towards the balcony. She badly needed fresh air. Meera washed up, dressed in a grey T-shirt and pyjamas.

The moment she stepped out, she felt a new surge of emotions. Meera let the crisp morning air rush into her nostrils and fill her lungs with positivity. How ironic, she thought, when she got to see a brand-new day while many spirited souls leading meaningful lives didn't, in the gloom of silent twilight.


It was a chilly morning at the park. The park was dotted with several aged people, plodding in flashy sweatsuits and plugged earphones. She giggled, she couldn't imagine her own grandmother sitting among this crowd, could she? 

Away from the chaos and chatter, Meera found a deserted spot at the corner of the park. Her shoes eventually fled from her feet and touched the moist soil. The clay, heavy with water, and the dewy grass embraced her toes as she watched the stream slowly trickle between the pebbles. The silence brought her immense peace and tranquility. Meera always felt alone, embraced by the vast blue skies, the moist clumps of earth and the soft sunshine filled with passion. She looked up as the sunshine locked its eyes with hers, while she broke into a wide grin.

Meera trodded up the dirt path slowly, weighing each step carefully. Heaving and panting, she gasped for breath in the misty morning air. A music note awakened her senses.

As a mystic and strange as the lost cooing of a nightingale, carrying the delicate petrichor of twilight and the beauty of dawn. A touch of melancholy, like the sweetness of rice lingering on your tongue. It carried the earthy scent of summer showers and the fragrance of the ocean's poetry. It was as soft and plush as the blushing petals of a wild lily. It carried the quiver of a flute, one that let a ripple in your heart. It felt like cool breeze on a sweltering afternoon. It carried the sweetness of childish laughter and the salt of tears and sorrow. It felt like the waves of colors in the sky, that washed Meera away into a distant world of euphoria. It left a delightful twinge in her heart as it seeped into the very matter of her soul. One without pain, guilt and worry over time. One sans agony, sorrow, and tears.

Meera felt tears well up as her lips broke into a wide grin. She felt laughter and tears clash in her heart and felt poetry rush out in words. Words! The answer to her pain and agony.


The tune gently faltered and waited for a moment. Meera looked around yet again, to trace the footsteps of the lost magic. Amid several trees and mist, a little boy in tattered shorts, perched upon a rock. His hands fondled a beautiful flute. He was that divine creator, thought Meera. His eyes, a soft brown, met with the cool waters running beneath. His hair, almost surreal, fell below his shoulders and glowed in the sunshine of dawn. Meera stepped closer, to peer at this magical creation. A sweep of mist engulfed her and it was gone.

Yet, the music now ran in her blood and sang in her veins. It was the music that was now going to lead her to her eternal path, the music of her soul. It was like that divine call, that call of meaning and truth. One can never doubt the Universe and its timing.

She knew what she was going to write about. Meera's eyes gleamed and flickered with a newborn passion and fire, to continue writing her legacy. Her pen, or rather herself, has found its soul again. The ink of inspiration is now ready to quench the thirst of paper, yet again.

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