Why do they gossip?

Sometimes a belief created in a lifetime, just tumbles down in a moment and that moment of realization is really like a hard slap in the face. I once believed that "Men don't gossip" the belief that got stronger and stronger because of the men I met in my life.. because of the people I got along with, until one day the devil showed its face.. and God! its not pleasant..

When I say gossips I don’t mean the real information that goes around, that is news.. what I mean is about this stuff someone invents in their head and sets on fire by running it into another person’s ears.. Shall I ask..  if they are so good in spinning the yard and creating stories who not publish a book? Or let me give an easier solution.. start a blog.. and become fictitious.. and stop poking their nose and all other unwanted stuffs into others life.

Right from the olden days we associate gossips to women. So is it unmanly to gossip? Or is there something missing in them that makes them behave so? Of late I am seeing some men who are shameless and gutless that they walk around inventing stories about women who has nothing to do with them.. Women who talk their mind, have always been the target for these gossips. My rational mind does not give me a reason as of why they do this.. nor do I get reply from my emotional half..

A silly casual talk in a group of men like, “she is fast” or “I saw her with that guy yesterday” or more than anything pointing to a girl standing harmlessly at the far end and raising the eye brows and shrinking the nose and nodding head left and right, that little gesture is enough to kill her reputation. I am not saying that every women should care about these filthy talks and sit in a corner and cry.. I am just annoyed at how such men enjoy doing it.. slaying someone’s credibility in a second and spreading it like wildfire.. If any one comes and tells me that 

"Say it to a women and it will never remain a secret" or "It is the girls that spread the rumour" then I wouldn’t think twice before swearing. 

As long as a human (be it a man or women) has eyes, ears, mouth and a shameless character they can spin a story about anybody anytime.

What concerns me more is, why? why to invent stories? why to spread it actively? Why to call a women whose husband stays oversees with names? Why to think that a widowed or divorced woman an easy catch? why to call a twenty eight + unmarried women as slut? Even if she is one.. why to care about it? Don’t we have handful of responsibilities and dreams and ambitions and life of our own?  Why to spoil it by spoiling others life? Is it really that hard to just mind one’s own business??

Bored..

{Fiction}
 
It was a pleasant evening, the climate, the breeze, the moon everything was serene except her because, she was bored! At first it was just her manners that showed it..  rolling her eyes upwards and twitching her lips she let out a sigh! once in a while. But when his annoyed face turned towards her, she would be silent.. not for long.. soon she started to tap her legs in the floor, creating a rhythmic annoying sound.

“I am bored.. “ came her words at last, when he didn’t react. “Bored of you! Bored of this unexciting life.. bored of your predictability”  She said, as she knew what he would say next.. he would slide on to her side, look her in eyes and plead her to leave him for some time.

As expected he said..“Honey, why don’t you go to the hall and watch some TV or read something.. Just give me half an hour.. I will finish off this presentation and be with you.. will you?” Dragging herself dispassionately she walked towards the hall..

 “There is nothing interesting in the TV..” came her exasperated voice after sometime, which he didn’t head..

“Nothing in the books too! Your collection is bad..”

“Will you just do something and leave me alone..” barked his voice, she knew that she had crossed her line, and did not want it any more.. so stayed silent..

After sometime, “Hey can I read this?” no reply from him.. “Its an old diary.. can I read it” she shouted in the high pitch..

“Ya do as you wish..” replied the irritated voice of her husband. As long as she didn’t bother him, nothing seemed a bad idea..

Back in the hallway, she sat down in the sofa with the diary and flipped the pages, “Oh! Its his diary.. from school time.. that should be interesting.. what if he had a crush? Or something more.. what if that makes me envious!” She sat silent thinking, but her interest got on top of her.. and she started reading.. That again was boring.. the childhood ramblings of “feeling lonely” of “mother scolding” of “teacher punishing” had taken up more than half of the book. She didn’t know that guys would complain of such things..
Just when she was about to put it back, a line interested her. She smiled a ‘ah there it is’ smile.. and read

……….
I saw her again today, she looked like Cinderella in uniform, the new girl in my class, everyone were behind her.. but she smiled to me.. it was a little smile  in Chemistry lab.. but  still guys are jealous now..
……….

 “Cinderella in uniform” the term was so charming, that she started adoring him more. She did not know this side of him yet.. There were a lot about the girls beauty that was written from the child’s point of view that brimmed with innocence. She even forgot to be jealous of this another girl in his life.

……….
She does not speak much, always silent and dreaming.. Its nice to look at her face.. I also want to talk to her, but I am scared..
……….
Today she spoke to me, she asked if she can copy that math problem from my note.. my heart was racing and I smiled and gave my note to her..
……….
……….
……….

She said she will come with me to my house, I waited long in the garden but she did not come.. mom had made special samosa for her.. but now I didn’t feel like eating too.. why didn’t she come? Doesn’t she like me? I will ask her tomorrow in the last period. It is PT and she will be in the playground..
……….

By this time a pang of jealousy and pain crossed the wife’s heart, the pain which one feels when someone is fed, when we are hungry. The pain which took her back to her school days and longed for him, the pain which made her to think, “What if I was this Cinderella!” A sigh escaped her naturally. She flipped the page.. but nothing.. Next page also nothing, and so was the next one.. the intensity with which she flipped increased, and then there was ink. She felt relieved, but this page, had the distorted hand writing and smudged words and imprints of water drops.. like tears, like he wrote it with so much of pain..

……….
She is in hospital now.. they did not allow me to see her, there is police, and all.. Teacher said she is very sick.. and asked me and others to pray to God for her.. Let God make her well, and take all my marks.. God please save her. I will never ever run away leaving her like that please God!
……….
……….
I overheard mom and dad talk about her today, she said that her little body was so wounded and hurt that she cant take any more and she will die.. I want to tell mom, I want to tell that I know who hurt her, I saw them in the playground, but I was scared.. I was a coward and I ran away..  Will mom scold me if I told her that I saw him in that gang? My brother.. that bully.. that brat.. Will they ignore my plea as always? They always side with him.. what if he beats me up as always, he is stronger and bigger than me..and it hurts a lot..
……….

So engrossed was she in the diary that she did not notice him standing near the door with an amused look.. she flipped the pages, the diary was empty after that page.

He coughed with a low sound, she jumped from the sofa with a start and closed the diary like in a reflex and tried to hide it. “What happened dear?” asked his concerned voice..

“I am so sorry I I read your diary.. I am so sorry” she was in the verge of breaking down.

He came forward, took the diary from her hand and flipped the pages casually and said, “this is not mine.. this might be my dads.. oh no wait.. this is my brothers..”

“brother? “ asked her shaking voice.

“Yes.. he.. he died when we were small..”

"During school days?"

"yes!"

“How?”

“It was an accident. He.. fell down from the stairs”

The dusty cupboards

{Fiction}

They say some people leave a mark in our life when they depart from theirs. I have been feeling that lately. Should I blame the inability of not feeling it, to my childhood innocence or my innate incapability to feel things that felt superficial at least to me?  I am yet to find the answer.

But the first sign of realization occurred when I was smaller. I remember the big wooden cupboards in my grand father’s room filled with old books, there were books for every one irrespective of the age and genre. It was my grandfathers style to let people read it only after lot of begging, I guess that made him feel powerful, to let kids beg. And I never felt bad that I am begging either, self respect and ego were alien terms then. Any way when the books are returned with even a single fold his face would turn red with anger. One of the character I inherited from him. Another one is that I never visit a library the mere thought of returning the book haunts me..  Standing before the big cupboards watching wide eyed at those big beautiful books, and inhaling the scent of these was divine. People say new books smell good.. but nothing can beat the old smell of my grand pa’s book shelf..

And then suddenly he passed away, I was unable to cry, I stood beside his calm sleeping figure starting at him. I understood the term “to die with dignity” when I saw his face. It still held his native pride.  Looking around I saw my parents, my uncle and every of the elder weeping. But what bothered me more was that my cousin was weeping too, she was attracting a small crowd around her to pacify her. What did I have, some glances from some inquisitive faces.

Can I assure you that I really did try to cry, I thought of him, the goodness he had shed in my life, my most painful school days, the worst beating I had received from dad, anything that could bring a little moisture in my eyes. But nothing came, there I stood as hard as a rock, staring at him and at times even smiling at my cousin’s silly wailing. Some one took me by hand and took me away from the gathering, they said I was not supposed to smile in such an occasion, while walking away I heard my father say, “She is too young to understand”.

But after a year when I saw the mold and silverfish filled book cabinet of my grandfather, I cried for him, for his passion and my legacy.. Each book had opened itself willingly to me, letting me watch every character emerge from it, I lived with them, I despised the bad, adored the good, I chuckled with them, and somehow somewhere let myself sink deep into it. It was a beautiful dream a dream of endless plots.. endless places.. and endless emotions..  But they are all gone now.. those things that were dear to him, were ignored and forgotten like him and his memories. And they say I am selfish.

After this many years, I can still hear someone or the other say, “You are selfish..”.I try to wake up to reality  but still I reach no where. Life changed, so did people, But I remained the same.. nothing changed me.. no change impacted me.. yet they said I am deluded..

To me, life and books seemed to be similar. I wish to run away and cuddle inside my grandfather’s dusty cupboard and shut myself from the ever changing world.. I wish I would stay still in there unaffected by the filthy life and its twists and turns. If only I could flip back some pages.

Every time I flip the pages in a book, back and forth, a rustic jealousy enthralls me.. How simple it is to go back a few pages, how simple it is to flip them around.. A book always thrills me, a place heaped with books creates an impact that lets me doubt the humanity in me.. Lock me in a room with only books, and who knows I may survive happily..  am I selfish!