The Story of a Poem

The first few lines came out easily on paper
"The teardrop on my lashes still remains
As memories invade my mind again
I remember the lonely night of July when the rains blessed the city
When you and I came close under the blue umbrella
When you put your hand on my left shoulder
I fell warm and shivered in wonder; you thought I was catching a fever
I was for sure! The fever of love"

What would follow next, thought Anuradha. As she thought, she could hear her two mini tarzans rumbling down the stairs. Yes, it was time for school. She slid the paper behind the cooker and packed their tiffin boxes, stuffed them into their school bags, kissed them on the cheeks and waved them goodbye. She had to do a million other chores still. She had to put the clothes for washing, the new maid would be coming, she had to play host to her new neighbours who had moved in last week and put the messy house back into order. And she had to do all of it by the time her husband and children would be back.

The poem could wait.
~~~
Samarth waited at the bus stand as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. Global warming was indeed a reality; he shook his head in disappointment. He didn’t want to wait, firstly because he wasn’t used to travelling in public transportation and secondly because he had no idea of the frequency of the bus. Usually, he would have taken the kids to school on his bike but that morning, the bike refused to budge. He dropped the kids in an auto-rickshaw and here he was, waiting at the bus stand.

Two women, on the uglier side of beauty, were busy in their conversation. Samarth had no job in the world as he waited for the bus, so he didn’t mind letting their talks fall on his ears.
Woman 1: What’s that book you are reading? Oh, its The Burning Desire?! That author is so very repetitive.
Woman 2: I couldn’t agree more. But I know for a fact that what people go through in their lives reflects in their writing. This author is definitely very unhappy with her own husband and hence, is involved in an extra-marital affair.
Woman 1: (giggling) Bang on Suman! You just robbed my thoughts! The other day, I told my husband the same. Poor woman, don’t know whether to sympa...

As they continued analysing the story behind the text, Samarth smiled to himself feeling relieved that his wife was not a writer. Or else, the readers’ curiosity would have chased them into the bedroom as well. Amidst the smile, what was also visible was pride. He was proud of himself for having opted for an unambitious, simple, fairly educated, obedient and unemployed girl for marriage. He loved his better-half. She was all that he had ever asked for in a wife.
He thanked the stars for saving him from being the husband of a writer.

The bus finally arrived. It was time to do some work now.
~~~
Anuradha settled down in her favourite chair. The chair had some magic, it helped her clear her mind and think better. Now that she was done with her work, she thought hard for the rest of her poem. I am suffering from the writer’s block, she chuckled. She liked referring to herself as a writer.

She reached for the telephone and with trembling hands, dialled a familiar number. The phone rang on the other end. Suddenly, it stopped ringing. A male’s voice distinctly resounded, “Hello?” Anuradha’s face shrank as if her heart was just about to break. The voice sounded irritated, “Who is this? Why do you call up so often and not speak? How will I know who you are unless you spe..”, Anuradha sat trembling in her chair. Before he could complete the sentence, she had replaced the receiver.

Her pulse rates settled down after a while, her face regained its normal colour, she picked up the paper again, held her pen and added a few more lines to her incomplete thoughts.
"The rains still bring back those times spent with you
The blue umbrella is not to be seen but the blues still remain
Though I am no longer a part of your landscape
You still are a teardrop in my lashes"
~~~
The auto-rickshaw halted with a screeching noise. Samarth and the children had arrived. Anuradha jumped from her chair, folded the paper and neatly put it along with her other written pieces under the yellow dupatta in her drawer. On locking the drawer and hooking the keys in the folds of her sari, she rushed to open the door before the doorbell rang. After all, she was the ideal wife and mother...
~~~