Once in a while, I try to put my thoughts on paper, in ink, which resulted in my aspiration to be a writer . Not older than 15 years of age. Just completing my tenth, but I love to write. Hence, I started this blog, with a small hope of sharing my stories with the entire world. Here is the first.
I am a forgetful person by nature. I forget many details may it be important or not. I have not improved much in the past few years though I have made a constant effort to remember a few things.
A couple of months back my mother sent me to the market to buy a few things out of which due to my forgetful nature I forgot a thing or two. On my mother’s bidding I headed back to the market. It was early that Sunday morning and I decided to make the best of it. I took a shortcut through a garden also called the Joggers park. As i walked the only sounds that could be heard were the chiprping and cheeping of birds and the crunching of dry leaves and twigs under my feet. Somewhere in the distance a maulvi was offering namaz. The luring aroma of the samosas and jelebis being freshly prepared made my mouth water. A scent of mogra flowers filled the air with a strong fragrance. Out of all these the sound of the sweeper sweeping stuck out like a sore thumb. I had almost reached the market. I started to think of the things that my mother had asked me to get : a kilo of vegetables and 4-5 different varieties of fruits. I peered into my purse. It contained 500 rupees. Enough for the things that I needed to get. For some reason the market used to leave me spellbound. I decided to wander about for a while an so after buying the necessary items I started to window shop. As I moved from store to store the shops became smaller and then started the carts along with their vendors. As I planned to move ahead a strong muskiness filled the air. It gave me a slight touch of glee, joy and delight in that overcrowded market. The smell of freshly brewed coffee made me hungry. I glanced at my watch. It was almost breakfast time. I ordered for a coffee and some snacks. I still had about 300 rupees left. As I waited for my order to come o felt a cold hand tap me. I was startled and I turned around. It was my batch-mate Priya. She was not seen in school for the past 7 months. She looked pale and ill. She smiled at me. I asked her where she was and she said that she was now living in on top of a hill surrounded by the mesmerizing and captivating beauty of nature in a small stone hut. I smiled. She handed me a small white envelope with my name written on it in big bold letters. She then hurried away. This behavior puzzled me. As I sat drinking my coffee and having my snacks I started to think about Priya – the most funny girl in the class. She was a good friend of mine and I missed her a lot when she left school. Itried contacting her family and even going to their house. The house was locked … Anyways , I paid for the order and left a 10 rupee tip. I walked back home. Once again I came across women haggling for the price … flowergirls weaving garlands and the children crying for toys. In short there was hustle-bustle all around. I finally reached home at around 11 am. I opened the packet that Priya had given me. It contained a 500 rupee note. At first it made no sense to me . But I read a letter that was kept along with the money. Priya had written that this was the money that she borrowed from me a long time ago to pay her canteen expenses and bus tickets. I was shocked that she still remembered it. I kept the money carefully in my piggy bank and I started to study. I had almost forgotten about the incident when I met Priya’s sister Shruti. I asked her about Priya’s health. She had tears in her eyes as she told me that Priya had died about 6 months ago. I could not believe it. I narrated the incident and even Shruti was shocked. She took me to the hill where she was buried.
Then Priya’s words made sense to me… “… the hill with it’s mesmerizing and captivating beauty of nature …. In a stone hut. She was buried there. I was speechless. It was an encounter with a ghost. The most extra-ordinary can happen at the most ordinary times.
Hope you enjoyed reading the story. Any changes or suggestions, even criticism, will be welcomed.
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