It was late evening and the crimson sun on its departing mood. On the westen side of the single -story ,two room buiding the wooden window as open wide lettting in the cooing breeze mingled with dusty gow from out side.
The room was yet empty with a small writing table with some loose papers lying olose and some manuscript sheets pinned up. Now and then the chirping of a few birds somewhere, were conuing the hours, and the table -light was on and the only sign that the writer might be in any time. The chair was anxiously waiting , the window was inviting breeze ; even mango tree beside te window was eagery counting the seconds and and the pen ying idle was waiting,
This was, now, the time when each day the writer would come , write down his short story and read it loud for his his own pleasure dreaming of the effect on would be readers in time. Even the window side breeze , the outside branches with leaves and the inside space would seem eager and happy istening to the writers's voice telling those stories ! ...
But to day the writer seemed to have forgotten his time and was so late when darkness were spreading out fast.
Then without any past exprience , the window heard he first sound - " Hari bole - Hari bole' , in repeatation and looked askance to the flowing air and then beyond. But none coud tell them the meaning of the word which could not be the part of the story they were hearing daily and so long ! ..
And the writer did not come ...!
No comments:
Post a Comment