The Purpose of Words

Kavish walked to the balcony of his house. While he was working, he noticed a few long drops of rain hanging to the glass of the window. He rushed to take in the clothes which he had placed on a drying stand outside.



The rain was a light touch, one which went away after a glance and soon the light of the Sun could be seen approaching from far.



Kavish stood watching the clouds pass by in speed. He left the clothes as they were and went inside.



Kavish was a freelance writer and initially most of his work came from the contacts of his elder sister Brinda who worked at a news agency. One fine evening thinking about a future better than the present, Kavish began to write and he ended up writing a book of poetry in a few months.



Brinda had helped in printing it, a single copy as Kavish was apprehensive to come out as being a poet of the book. In his mind he had the satisfaction of the work but at the same time it was never an intention to get any attention out of it.



Mrs Gitali Girkar did not accept this confining nature of her son.



“People promote their books, that is how they sell it,” said Mrs Girkar



“But I never wanted to sell it. I just wanted to write it,” said Kavish



“Why get it printed then? You could have left it in your laptop,” argued Mrs Girkar



“I feel better to have it printed as a book in hand,” said Kavish as he tried to smile but stopped once he thought his mother still had the confused expression



One day while working, while the evening was beginning, Kavish heard the sound of the gate closing and no one came or went anywhere at this time. So, Kavish as a habit looked out and saw his mother walking out slowly with the grocery bag on her shoulder.



It was normal and fine until a neighbour Mrs Sehgal met Mrs Girkar and she took out something from the bag and handed it to her. Well yes it was the book and the voice in Kavish’s throat choked, the voice was intended to go loud and stop his mother from what she was doing.



‘You got more copies printed and gave it to her,’ Kavish typed the message to his sister



‘She asked for it,’ came the reply



‘You could have told me,’ Kavish typed further



‘She said she wanted to keep them for herself’



Kavish once walked out to the balcony and looked around, no there was no sign of his mother. She had proceeded further on what she had set out to do.



Kavish did not discuss it with his family any further, his father was happy either way. He was a person of peace.



“Peace should be maintained,” yes, Kavish’s father was this person



Being a freelancer, Kavish had no need to go out as often as regular office goers did. But going out was still a need, how long can you keep yourself confined to a place, the balcony can only provide a splash of respite with a view which is seen every day.



When Kavish went out, a few neighbours appreciated his book, one even said that his daughter would like to meet Kavish and learn how to write poems. Even the security guard at the society gate smiled, Kavish smiled back.



“My son,” said the security guard, “he goes to English medium school, he read your book and explained it to us. We loved it, it was great.”



“Thank you,” Kavish smiled back, but inside he did not feel like smiling at all. The poems were not about the world, they were about Kavish and his feelings, one can say they were diary entries of his feelings and they were not meant to be exposed like this.



Kavish still stayed silent, and did not tell anyone anything in reaction. That way no one would actually know what the poems were about.



‘or will they figure out the part I wrote about the girl who lives in the house at the other side of the park,’ thought Kavish, ‘probably not’



But things took a deeper turn. At a festive event organised by the people of the society in the park, Kavish was asked to recite one of his poem’s. Kavish, who had earlier debated in his mind whether he should stay there or leave the event knew what he should have done.



Kavish walked to the central spot and stood surrounded by people eager to hear what he had to say, including the girl. Some were even ready with their phones in hand to make videos. Kavish felt his throat drying up as he looked around and found nothing good about those eyes and lips combining to form an expression.



And then it came, the rain, this time more than touch and people rushed for shelter, some even to their homes, but Kavish stood. He decided to thoroughly enjoy this rain afterall it had given him the time for people to forget about the book. But he did write another and this one was definitely with people in mind, and he wrote no other book after that. I might still have a copy of it somewhere. 

Written by Anuran Chatterji

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