The kids had gone off to their school and my husband to his work. As for my work, I had it organized enough to take care of itself even in my brief absence.
I looked around myself and found nothing to comfort my racing nerves. Was it a good idea? The doctors say anything. Do they know me better than myself?
I remembered the doctor’s words, “you have to slow down, take some time off,” and that’s what I was doing. I was suddenly tempted to rush into my den, the place I retreat to in the midst of every night, when I get jerked off my sleep, just to see my laptop and may be just sit there a while, check a couple of mails, finish a couple of errands (though they could have waited till morning). And that was what got my family alarmed. I’m a workaholic. I knew that. But it isn’t a disease. Is it?
Why has it suddenly become so difficult to think of something else other than home and work? It was not so when I was a little girl, was it? What did I ever do when I was small? I remember running. Yes! I ran a lot! I ran at home, I ran outside, I ran in the school. I remember I had a little doll, and all my energy went into looking after it. I smiled. And suddenly, a thought struck. I know what I could do now!
It was as if I was transported back to my childhood. I ran across the hall- not like how I do every morning, before rushing off to my office, but I ran like how I used to do when I was little. I ran straight into the dusty store room. I rummaged through layers and layers of stuff that hadn’t been used for years. I never had any idea before now how much filth I owned. What was I storing all this stuff for anyway?
After an incredibly long time, I finally found what I was looking for. The large box was old; the surface of it was peeling off. On the top was my name, barely visible, scribbled in blue- I remembered my mother’s handwriting, the characteristic scrawl, when she wrote in hurry, all the while issuing warnings and concerns, for I was going to live all alone, for the first time in my life.
I lifted the awfully heavy box and carried it into my bedroom, set it on the floor and carefully started removing the things from it, one-by-one, the things I had cherished as a little girl, the things, though looked trivial now, but were so treasured once- a stack of papers splashed with colors, tiny dolls, old ribbons, a little book in which, I wrote meaningless poetry, countless number of shells, photographs of friends and family and so on…
It was when I was going through an old book that it flew down, straight into my lap. I picked it up gingerly. A peacock quill. It still felt soft. At first, I couldn’t remember owning it and then slowly, it all started coming back, in bits and pieces.
Where I had got it from or when I didn’t know, but it somehow ended up in my fairy tale book. It was the most colorful and beautiful thing I had ever possessed and I loved it. I was possessive of it. It was my secret possession and prized. I never showed it to my parents for the fear of parting with it. And one day, when I took it to school and showed it to my friends, they were full of awe. Some asked me to give it to them, some begged and some cried. But, I wouldn’t. Would I? I had it with me, day and night, where ever I went.
But I didn’t know what it ate! My best friend had suggested feeding it with grains. “Feed it well and the feather would grow. My grandmother told me. She had this magic feather when she was small. She had fed it well and the feather grew so big,” she said, stretching her arms wide. She said it had powers. It was a magical feather. I was overjoyed and surprised. Of course, it had powers!
I was so excited. I fed it with different grains. Ever day, my friend and I would peep into the fairy tale book and every time, we got overjoyed imagining 'the magic quill' had indeed grown a little.
For a few days, my life revolved around it. After a few days, I suddenly got bored of the peacock quill and I gradually forgot all about it and managed to push off its existence into oblivion and its memory into a deep, dark corner of my mind.
Wow! What a life it was! This is what is missing in my life. That passion! That innocence! That obtaining joy in the little things of life! This is all there is to life and happiness.
In pursuit of the biggies in life- studies, career, marriage, kids, money, status and power, we often forget living life, enjoying the things that bring us a lot of happiness. I had realized it now and had decided that becoming a little girl and living my life once in a while, wouldn’t hurt. Would it?
