Writing About Her

His voice was proud at times.

Especially when he started describing his period of youth. He rushed to his beloved shelf with a joy of a newly walking toddler. More and more photos came out from this shelf. I could remotely see volumes of his manuscripts. Wondered about them. Some were bestsellers. Some were not published yet. I knew that some of his writings would never be published. He kept a secret story out there in his shelf. I felt a sudden rush to open his shelf again and run away with his manuscripts. I would run and never look back.

He was old. There was no probability of him catching up on me. Though another thought killed my ambitious plan. There was no probability of me catching up on him, in terms of writing. He did this all his life. He gave his best years to this craft. I gave my best years to other people and their tasks that got me sick. I wrote as well. But not for the very reasons he did.

His voice was sad at times. Especially when he looked at my young face and fresh body. I could feel his jealousy. Time was merciless to him. Although he managed to create pieces of timeless beauty.

His voice was enthusiastic at times. He sounded like he found his apprentice. He looked at me with a teacher’s look. I was not like other followers who came to rob his time and his energy off. He saw the same fire in my eyes. The fire that burnt for 45 years straight. He saw my way of looking at the manuscripts. I was scared of this intensity. I thought he knew every single sentence that would come out of my mouth.

“Sit down young man! We have a lot to do!”

I objected. I need to go home. My family is waiting.

He smiled and said one sentence that changed the course of my life:

“If you go now, you will never write the way you dream about!”

Well, there was no need to convince me any further. This old man knew exactly what to say. So, I sat down to hear some hints, some words of wisdom and secrets that he would pass on to me.

He put a white piece of paper in front of me and put a pen into my hand. Next sentence that would come out of him was even harder to swallow.

“Write about her!”

Her? Who do you mean? Who is this “her”?

Old man smiled with a warmth that no family member could radiate during my entire childhood and whispered:

“Every writer has one woman that changes the whole game. She comes and takes us to the places that we have never investigated before. She does not only become a sexual fantasy or romantic desire. She put an enormous hole into our hearts which requires writing to be filled. We are thirsty after her. We are beasts with an injury after her. She comes and abandons us. It is her sacred duty. Your duty is to write what is left in your heart after her. Your duty is scream at her with all your envy and agony. Your duty is to love her the way no one ever will. Your duty is to give her life after this life. You know her. What is the first page that you can write when you think about this woman?

Ayan. It is her name. I could not believe the very fact I uttered this name after 7 years. Ayan left me for no reasons. May be the reasons that I would never call legitimate. She did this with no sense of guilt. I thought about her every night. Ayan was the very reason I stopped writing. She filled my lungs with air of emotions that I never felt before.

Empty page was looking at me just like the empty room the night I found about her decision to leave. She left a little note. There was only one sentence in this note:

“Keep writing!”