Why this blog?

The nascent and fresh minds of students are so creatively inclined that they have the ability to bring into being a universe of their own. They are little tyros who would, with time, unfold into verves, momentum or sensations of various creative dimensions. A chalk sculptor, a clay artist, an amateur painter of Madhubani, Warli, a dabbler of still life, a budding poet, a tenderfoot writer or a fledgling lyricist – one gets all varieties of creatively-aligned students covered in a seemingly dilettantish peel. We at Shishukunj aspire to provide a humble platform to all such potentials to smatter around and mature into the perfection that they are seeking to epitomize or become! This blog is thus an endeavor that would allow all Shishyans to just play around with their latent artistic caliber and enjoy the bliss of a “BRAVO” from known and unknown quarters.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Omen


Ronit Banerjee, Class IX B

29th February, a day that I can never forget, but as per the laws of nature it haunts its recurring memories back in my heart.
It was the day when my grandparents were involved in a horrific car accident, which managed to take the innocent soul of my grandfather, and shattered it to bloody and maroon pieces. The train of thoughts about this day, is one I wish I had the power to delay, but as the helplessness kicks in, the lush and silent forest of experiences, turns into a raging forest fire of memories.
The loss for my grandmother is one that I cannot compare my loss to. I could redeem memories, but all she could do, was to raise her cheekbones to smile, but actually with the intention to not allow the tears in her eyes to slide and blister her mourning face. She told me that she had stitched a handkerchief for him, which he showcased in his flawless tuxedo, even if childish it may seem. After the crash, in order to stop the pouring crimson stream out of his chest, she used the same handkerchief. But after an hour of no response, alone in a dark forest road, the fearful woman stopped trying and accepted crying instead, near the breathless lungs of her husband.
After the sun rose above, the authorities showed up. And respectfully did the needful for that cripple, who was my fountain of youth and joy. The police cleared up the scene, which included the handkerchief too.
We were informed that the police needed the piece of cloth for examination. But after two months, they showed up on the porch. The inspector told in a stern voice, “We are here to return the belongings to Mrs. Swati”, although I could clearly hear a mumble, an aching evidence to the numerous times I irritated them at the police station in hopes of retrieving that piece of cloth. I still remember it was a pleasant Sunday morning, with a cheerful and adorable memory in the form of a cloth. I was excited, I could hardly wait to break the news to my grandmother, to show it again to her, I left the house to take the handkerchief from the policeman. But there awaited a shock.
It still possessed the stains of the blood of the man whose warmth I felt even in the veil of scars of my grandmother. So I cleaned it, washed the blood off, certainly the way I wish I could wash my pains. And she was so happy, when she caressed the cloth, which once was a possession of her mate.
It may be a bouquet of memories with an addicting scent for my grandmother, but it will remain a haunting omen of the devil for me.

1 comment:

Praneat Data said...

Piece of art better than a whole.....