“Write one word a day”, said the monk and gave her sachet
with pages woven inside. She took it ruefully, still mourning. She wrote one
word every day. On the first day she wrote “Forlorn” and vowed not to repeat
the same word. “Wounded” was on the second day. On the 7th day she
wrote “tears”. Then came the 30th day, the 60th and then
90th day. On the 100th day she stared at her diary. She stared
at the empty sheet for a long time. She closed it and went on to sleep in peace
in days. Sadness was finite.
“Rahila”, he yelled. A lot of by-standers were now looking.
He looked pretty desolate and yet determined. “Rahila”. There was that firm
voice again. A lad walked upto him and said “Two is better”. And “Rahila”, they
called at a 2 story apartment which seemed firm to absorb their voice. Two
became four and soon there was a crowd. “Rahila”, they called. “Give the poor
lad, a sighter” said one. “Its about time” said another. One old man walked
upto him and asked “By the way, who is Rahila?”. “Good sir, I have no idea” replied
he. - Inspired from a tale from Numbers in the dark by Italo Calvino
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