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 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
| A Short Story from the Masterpieces of Russian Literature by Anton Chekhov An old peasant carried his sick wife in the back seat of the cart, drawn by a frail horse, taking her to a distant city for treatment. On the long journey, the man began to speak, confiding as if talking to himself, yet at the same time comforting his ailing wife. She had lived with him for forty years, enduring hardship, misery, and suffering—working tirelessly in the fields and single-handedly managing all the household burdens. Now, he felt he had been harsh with her all these years. He realized that he must treat her with kindness and tenderness, letting her hear sweet and gentle words. He told her that he had wronged her and that life had also been unjust to her, for he never found time in his daily routine to offer her a kind, affectionate word, a warm smile as pure as water, or a moment of tenderness! Throughout the journey, he spoke with sorrow and regret, his words carving deep grooves into the human soul—like water steadily falling onto stone. He sought to compensate her—through words—for the love, warmth, and tenderness she had been deprived of for forty years. He made promises, assuring her that he would fulfill all her wishes in the years to come… Upon reaching the city, he stepped down from the front seat to carry her in his arms—for the first time in his life—to the doctor. But he found her lifeless. She was cold, a mere corpse. She had died on the way—before hearing his sweet and sorrowful words! Here, the tale of pain ends—written by Chekhov—leaving us like the old peasant, speaking to ourselves but only after it is too late. Words are no longer useful now… They have lost their meaning! We only realize the value of those around us at the end! Giving a flower at the right time is better than offering everything you own when it's too late. Saying a kind word at the right moment is better than writing a poem after emotions have faded away. There is no use for things that come too late—like a kiss of apology on the forehead of the dead. "Do not delay beautiful things… for they may never come again." |
Introduction In the heart of India’s vast and varied landscape, ancient trees stand as silent witnesses to the passage of time, holding within their roots the memories and dreams of countless generations. Among these majestic sentinels, the banyan tree reigns supreme—its sprawling canopy offering shade, its tangled roots symbolizing enduring strength, and its timeless presence weaving together stories of community, resilience, and hope. This is the story of one such banyan tree, rooted deep in the soil of a humble village named Amrahi. Beneath its protective branches grew a girl named Lata, whose dreams reached far beyond the horizons of her world. Her journey from quiet village life to the bustling courts of justice is a testament to the strength of roots—both literal and metaphorical—and the power of hope to transform lives. “The Banyan’s Promise” invites you into a tale where tradition meets change, where every leaf whispers of courage, and where the steadfast spirit of one young woman lights the path for many. Part One: Roots Beneath the Banyan In the tender light of dawn, the village of Amrahi stirred awake. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming hibiscus, carried by the soft sigh of the early monsoon breeze. Nestled between two rivers that wound lazily through the landscape, the village was a mosaic of mud-brick homes, bright saris drying on lines, and fields where farmers bent low among waving stalks of millet and mustard.At the heart of the village loomed the great banyan tree, ancient and sprawling, its knotted roots burrowing deep as stories whispered by generations. The tree was a living monument, a keeper of memory that had witnessed weddings and weepings, harvests and holdups beneath its canopy.Lata, a spirited girl of sixteen summers, was born under this tree’s shadow and had grown entwined as if by fate. Her black eyes, sharp and curious, gleamed with dreams spun from the tales her grandmother told each evening under the banyan’s watchful branches. Those tales spoke of heroes and gods, of sacrifice and bravery, and the enduring power of roots that anchor even the wildest branches.“The banyan is no mere tree,” her grandmother would say, her voice soft but firm, “It is a symbol of strength and resilience, a sanctuary for birds and souls alike. Your life, Lata, must be like its roots—deep, unwavering, and full of secret power.”Unlike her friends who relished the simplicity of village life, preparing to follow paths laid by custom and expectation, Lata’s heart kindled with ambitions that stretched far beyond Amrahi’s boundaries. She dreamed of books heavy with knowledge, of bustling courthouses where she would stand as a lawyer, arguing for those silenced by poverty and prejudice.Her mother, Geeta, was a beacon of quiet strength. Her days passed in the kitchen grinding spices and weaving dreams of her own. “The city is a vast river, beta,” she cautioned one night as she braided Lata’s hair under the flickering glow of a brass lamp. “You must be both gentle and strong to navigate its currents. Keep your heart pure and your feet steady.” Sadanand, her father, was the village schoolmaster who had devoted his life to teaching children to dream beyond their circumstances. His dreams had been placed on hold in his youth, but in Lata, he saw hope renewed. “Education is the banyan’s root—deep and unseen, yet holding firm against every tempest. Plant your roots deep, and you will grow tall.”Each afternoon, Lata buried herself beneath the banyan’s vast canopy, her nose buried in faded textbooks, her mind weaving patterns of justice and change from the pages. The tree’s leaves whispered words of encouragement in the rustling breeze, as if the spirits of the villagers bestowed their blessings.One morning, the village was stilled with the arrival of the board exam results. Lata’s pulse quickened as she waited with bated breath. The gathering of villagers near the school buzzed with a mixture of hope and dread. Children darted through the crowd, carrying the news on their small tongues. Husbands held their wives’ hands, elders nodded softly to themselves. When Lata unfolded her marksheet, her eyes widened first in disbelief, then sparkled with joy. A scholarship to the prestigious Delhi University had been granted to her—an acknowledgment of her hard work and promise. The news rippled through the village like a sudden pulse. Women threw their saris over their shoulders and danced, men exchanged solemn nods, and children clapped their hands in wonder.Yet, beneath the celebration, voices spoke in hushed tones about “ambition too high,” “girls forgetting their roots,” and “the city’s corrupting influence.” Lata’s heart tightened, but her resolve remained unshaken. The banyan’s shadows seemed to enfold her with strength and quiet reassurance.That night, the village held a sacred ceremony beneath the banyan’s great belly. Oil lamps flickered, casting a golden glow over faces etched with pride and worry. The village priest tied saffron threads, slippery with sacred ash, gently around Lata’s wrists while reciting blessings in Sanskrit.“Carry these threads, child, and carry your village within you. Though the world may call you away, your roots shall hold you fast.” Her grandmother wrapped her with a shawl, richly embroidered with peacocks and lotuses—symbols of nobility and spiritual awakening. “Wear this not just for warmth,” she said, voice breaking. “But for the strength to carry us within you.” The night hummed with prayers and whispered wishes as the banyan watched silently over its beloved child preparing to leave. Part Two: The City’s First Storm Delhi greeted Lata like a roaring tempest. The city pulsed with relentless energy, its streets alive with shrieking horns, flashing neon, and a flood of unfamiliar faces rushing past. Towering buildings stretched like monarchs into the clouds, casting long shadows over crowded markets and narrow alleys.Lata clutched her small suitcase tightly, her eyes wide with awe and fear. The cacophony was overwhelming. Noises clawed at her ears; languages she barely understood tangled around her like wild vines. The dust of the city clogged her throat, and the coldness of the concrete walls outside her university dorm was stark compared to the warm earth of Amrahi.Her first days in the bustling campus were lonely. The polished students, fluent in English and city ways, viewed her village accent and modest saris with thinly veiled disdain. Whispered words labeled her rustic, naive, out of place. The books felt heavier, the lectures harder to grasp. She missed the gentle rustle of banyan leaves, the familiar scent of wet earth after monsoon rains.But deeper than loneliness grew determination. One rainy evening, as monsoon clouds cracked open the sky, Lata found solace in a shared struggle. Her roommate, Aditi, wept over a letter detailing her mother’s grave illness and the mounting hospital bills. Her family’s farmland was being sold to cover debts. Their pain amid city’s indifferent roar was profound yet poignant.Lata reached across and took Aditi’s trembling hand, whispering, “We must stand together. We are not alone.”Bound by their shared roots and struggles, Lata and a circle of rural students from different states formed what they called the “Roots Circle.” Meetings were held in borrowed dorm rooms where they exchanged study notes, survival tips, stories of home, and whispered dreams of justice.Lata’s voice grew stronger in classrooms and halls, before scholarship committees and student councils. “We are seeds planted in forgotten soil,” she declared, “nourish us with opportunity, and we will grow into mighty trees shading many.”Her speeches carried the rhythm of the banyan’s enduring strength and the hopes of countless villages like Amrahi. Part Three: The City's Trials and Triumphs The University campus was a sea of diverse faces, bustling with energy and youthful ambition. Lata navigated its corridors cautiously, each step weighted by unfamiliarity. Though the towering classrooms and expansive libraries overwhelmed her at first, the warmth of new friendships sparked courage within.Lata found comfort within the Roots Circle she helped nurture—a gathering of rural students bound by similar hopes and struggles. They shared laughter, study notes, and stories from their villages, creating a microcosm of home amidst the urban sprawl.Days in Delhi were a balancing act—juggling rigorous studies, unfamiliar customs, and the relentless pressure to prove oneself. The sharp edges of city life cut through Lata’s resolve at times, but memories of the ancient banyan and her family’s hopes provided steady refuge.She devoted herself to learning with vigor, absorbing lessons on justice, law, and society. Her voice grew steadier in classroom debates, where she championed rural rights and gender equality. She found allies among professors and peers who admired her spirit.Despite hardships, Lata flourished—her dreams no longer distant stars but goals within reach. Yet, the ache of separation from home lingered, a reminder of the banyan tree’s silent watch. Part Four: The Call of Home The letter arrived on a humid afternoon just as monsoon clouds brewed over Delhi. Lata’s hands trembled as she unfolded the worn envelope. Her father’s health had deteriorated sharply under the unrelenting sun of their village. The news washed over her like a cold monsoon downpour.Without hesitation, Lata booked passage back to Amrahi, her heart heavy with worry and determination. The familiar winding roads, the scent of wet earth and ripening mangoes, and the towering banyan welcomed her return.At home, she found Sadanand frail but proud, his eyes bright with warmth. His whispered question stayed with her: “Did you keep your roots?”“I did, Baba. They brought me home.”Reunited under the banyan’s protective shade, Lata found new strength. Her mission extended beyond books—she would fight for her village, defending their rights and dignity against injustice. Part Five: Fighting for Justice Beneath the Banyan Back in Amrahi, the banyan tree stood as a steadfast symbol of resilience and hope. Beneath its broad branches, Lata began organizing legal aid camps, educating villagers about their rights and the laws that could protect them. The once-silent gatherings transformed into forums of empowerment and courage.Tangri Amma, a spirited widow whose land was being illegally seized, became Lata’s first courageous ally. Together, they confronted Dhurjan Singh, the powerful moneylender whose greed cast a long shadow over the village. Lata’s voice rang clear and unstoppable in village meetings and courtrooms alike.Evenings filled with laughter, learning, and determination replaced the silence that had once hung heavy. The banyan’s shade echoed with the promises of a new era—an era where justice could flourish like the mighty tree itself. Part Six: Festivals of Light and Change The vibrant colors of Holi painted Amrahi’s streets as never before. Children laughed and danced, their faces streaked in hues of joy and hope, while elders sang songs composed by Lata—songs celebrating bravery, unity, and justice. The banyan tree stood adorned with marigold garlands and glowing lanterns, a living symbol of the village’s awakening spirit.During Diwali, the festival of lights, the banyan was draped with handcrafted lamps that flickered like stars, illuminating stories of ancient heroes alongside tales of recent triumphs. Elders and children gathered under its branches, sharing tales of resilience, inspiring a future where every voice mattered.Through these celebrations, the village found renewed strength and identity—a tapestry woven from culture, courage, and the promise of a brighter dawn. Part Seven: Triumphs in the Halls of Justice Lata’s name began echoing beyond the dusty village lanes to the marble halls of distant courts. With every case she took, from land disputes to women's rights, her voice grew louder and stronger, a beacon for the marginalized and forgotten.Her victories kindled hope in Amrahi, where fireside stories of courage and justice spread like wildfire among villagers. Lata became a living legend, her battles inspiring girls to dream beyond boundaries set by tradition.Her work transformed not just laws but lives, turning Amrahi into a village where roots ran deeper and branches reached higher, nourished by the courage of one determined woman. Part Eight: The Promise Fulfilled Years passed, and the banyan tree continued to watch over Amrahi with steady eyes, its roots entwined with the village’s heartbeat. Children gathered beneath its expansive shade, their eyes wide with wonder as they listened to stories of a fearless girl who once dreamed big beneath the very same branches.Lata, now a respected leader and advocate, spoke softly to them one evening as lanterns flickered around the tree. “This tree has faced many storms, but it stands strong because its roots are deep. Like the banyan, your strength lies in where you come from and how deeply you hold onto those values.”Her journey from a small village to halls of justice was a testament—not just to one woman’s will—but to the enduring power of roots, heritage, and hope. As the banyan’s leaves rustled gently in the night wind, it seemed to whisper a timeless promise—that no matter where dreams take us, we are always held, always home. 2000 words |
| Where gaze alights....no scripture opens, no mantra stirs... only the hush where gaze lands. It does not teach. It does not ask. It does not bless. It undoes. The mind, once braided....with doctrines and dreams, unravels like smoke...in the gaze. No need remains.... not for meaning, not for mercy, not even for you. You are not healed. You are not broken. You are rendered not. Only the gaze, vast and unblinking, like the sky before creation. |
| For their 25th Birthday, your character is gifted with a trip to a parallel universe to celebrate their special day. What is different about their life, friends, and the celebration itself there? Do they meet themselves? Write the story or poem. This year, turning 25 felt both thrilling and unsettling. My apartment clock ticked quietly, shadows dancing on worn curtains as Leo, my dog, cartwheeled by my feet. I was lost in spreadsheets and receipts, comforted by routine. Tonight was simple—a quiet dinner with Mariam and Marty at our favorite Italian restaurant. Mariam always picked quirky cards full of meaning. Marty, shy as ever, was nervously rehearsing a toast. Simple constancy felt the safest place to be. Aunt Lena’s card arrived, special and strange this time. A riddle was written in her careful handwriting: "For a quarter-century of you, a different perspective awaits." Inside was a polished silver compass, elegant but without a needle, etched with the word “Elsewhere.” Excited but doubtful, I traced my finger along it, wondering what new perspective it might mean. The moment I touched “Elsewhere,” the world shimmered and twisted. My cluttered apartment dissolved into a vibrant garden bathed in a warm golden glow, despite the night falling. Fairy lights hung from glowing trees, and a band played a haunting melody that stirred something deep inside me. Mariam appeared alongside me, her hair streaked in electric blue and fiery red, wearing a shimmering jumpsuit full of boldness—I barely recognized my once-timid friend. Marty stood laughing nearby, a radiant figure of brimming confidence, guitar in hand, the life of the party. The sight unsettled me. I remembered Mariam’s fears years ago—how she hesitated to show her art. Marty, always scared of performing live, once skipped an entire concert. And yet here they were—living so boldly, so free. I looked for something familiar, something mine, and found an ice sculpture of a hummingbird—my favorite since childhood, watching them flit near Aunt Lena’s garden. This wasn’t my birthday party. Mine was quiet, simple—a table of three and comfort food. Suddenly, a voice called out: “Alex! You’re here!” I turned to see another me—taller, confident, wearing style like second skin, their smile wide and unburdened. “You’re me, right? From somewhere else?” they asked, eyes bright with warmth. In this world, they were a fashion designer, creator of the glittering jumpsuits everyone wore. Mariam was a beloved tattoo artist; Marty a charismatic musician commanding the stage. “A single choice changed my path from accounting to passion,” the other Alex shared. “Choosing courage over comfort rippled through everything.” Talking to this alternate me felt like looking into a possibility mirror. I recalled the painting I never showed, the chances I abandoned for safety. The vibrant garden, so alive, slowly faded as I revisited the compass in my hand. I thought of my quiet birthday waiting and the laughter I knew would always be there. But now, I felt a new fire—a flame fueled by the vision of courage and change. As the night stretched, I learned more about this other life—how taking one leap brought creation, color, and boldness replacing numbers and routine. “I’m glad you came,” the alternate Alex said with a mischievous grin, “you’re a lot more fun than I expected.” The party was not just a celebration of age but a celebration of all the “what-ifs” turned into “why nots.” Friends who had grown into larger-than-life versions of themselves were living a world richer in possibility and joy. When I finally returned, Leo wagging at my side and the quiet night wrapping around me, I clutched the compass. I understood—the gift was not just an adventure to another universe, but a message: Even at 25, I had time. Time to reshape, to dream, to find my own “Elsewhere.” The quiet celebration was mine, but so was the fire sparked by what I’d glimpsed. 675 words |
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