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    Pens Write what Hearts Feel
    Pens Write what Hearts Feel
    Pens Write what Hearts Feel
    Ebook145 pages1 hour

    Pens Write what Hearts Feel

    By Rani Jhala

    ()

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    About this ebook

    This collection of short stories and poems have been published in various newspapers, magazines and newsletters.

    They are works of fiction, and some do have a multicultural theme.

    The book does have adult concepts and may not be suitable for those under 15 year.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDarcee Tana
    Release dateMar 12, 2011
    ISBN9781458152978
    Pens Write what Hearts Feel

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      Book preview

      Pens Write what Hearts Feel - Rani Jhala

      PENS WRITE WHAT HEARTS FEEL.

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      PUBLISHED BY:

      Rani Jhala. on Smashwords

      Cover by Joleene Naylor

      Cover image courtesy of 350jb at Dreamstime.com

      PENS WRITE WHAT HEARTS FEEL

      Copyright © 2011 by Rani Jhala.

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

      Special thanks to Indian Link for their permission to reprint the short stories published by them. This is a work of fiction

      Table of Contents – Short Stories

      The Farewell

      Existential to expendable

      The fight for right

      The price of freedom

      Valentine strikes in India

      Abuse remains a two way street

      The Gift

      The chapter has been reopened

      Trust in Teaching

      The struggle for independence

      Masters, Followers and Truths

      The bond of protection

      The Theft of Trust

      Whale of a time

      The Shrine of Humanity

      A sense of survival

      Political hero

      Spare parts

      White is for purity

      Who says, you make your destiny?

      THE FAREWELL

      Every day was one big rush – to work, to school, to games, to family, to friends and then to the shops. So busy was our life that even our communication was automated. I would ask my child, ‘How was child care? And before my daughter could reply, I had turned to put the dinner in the oven I would ask my husband’ How was your day? But even while asking, I would be mentally solving, a work problem. The busier we got, the more successful I felt. Activities even filled my daughter’s day -ballet, music, art and singing. What they taught her and what she learnt, I don’t know, but it was important for me tell people of these. The world was moving at a fast pace and to keep up, our little girl had to be better than the rest. No praise could aptly describe ‘the world’s only little genius’.

      We had it all – the four F’s – Fame, Fortune, Family and Friends We had already enrolled her in the top primary school. The best high school had been lined up. The elite university kept in mind. To prepare for this wonderful future I worked full time, though it meant putting our daughter in childcare from the age of one. But she went happily and returned the same way. It was just perfect. Too perfect!

      Then one day just after I had picked her up from child care Milly stumbled as we reached our car. I put it down to ‘tiredness’, gave her a cool drink and we drove home. A week later she stumbled again, this time it was soon after getting out of bed. Not even a week after that, she had a first seizure. I remember screaming, feeling helpless then struggling to dial the phone. I called the ambulance but before they arrived the attack was over. She looked tired but otherwise normal, but as a precaution they took her to the hospital. We spent a week, while all the tests were done. I kept telling myself that it was not serious. I kept trying to be positive but that twisted knot in my stomach grew tighter with each passing day. Every time they gave a needle I hurt, every time, they did a test, I cried. All I wanted was to take her home and cocoon her in the safety of our walls.

      On the morning of the seventh day, they let us bring her home. But the seizures continued. They tested several drugs and these worked for a while but soon it became apparent they were not effective. Five months later we were back in the hospital for more tests. This time they let us return home quicker, but they also give us an unwanted gift. Milly had been given a death sentence in the form of the deadly Battens disease – Late infantile NCL. In most children it begins between 2 and 5 years. Looking back Milly had displayed all the usual symptoms - Loss of muscle coordination and the seizures that could not be controlled by the drugs. The prognosis was cold and clinical -death by the age of 12!

      How could I accept that? No God was going to take my child! No man was going to decide her fate! We tried everything, from medication, to natural therapy, to faith healing. At the end of it, my arrogance was given a rude awakening. Neither was I ‘all powerful’, neither was my God, ‘omnipresent’.

      Each day we watched our baby drift away. The smile slowly fading, the glow in her eyes, losing their shine and her gentle little grasp gradually weakening. The fame and fortune that I had strived for, did nothing to stop its progress. Our families could not end our hurt and our friends could not divide our pain. These were ours, only ours. Ours to feel, ours to experience! But their presence was the strength we needed to keep us staying afloat. Someone cooked for us, someone did our shopping. The only job no one got was to babysit our Milly.

      There was so much anger in those first few months. Anger at our fate! Anger at God! Of all the children in the world, I could not understand why HE had picked mine. One night as I held her, tears streaming down my cheeks I felt her little palm brush them away, and her, even softer voice say ‘Mum if you keep crying, I won’t be able to enjoy my time with you both. And I will be so worried about you that I won’ be able to say goodbye’. She knew! Even at just five years, she was aware of her future. But she had never screamed as I had. She had never cried as I did and she had never expressed the fear, I had lived with. And I was not the one dying. She was!

      That was the moment my husband and I decided, whatever time we now had with her, was to be filled with laughter, with hugs and with love. When she was gone I would have my time to wallow in sorrow or drown in tears.

      Four years she stayed with us. The four most precious years of our lives Even at the end, when she could not even open her eyes, she held each of our palms in hers, reassuring us of her presence. She had asked only two things of us Don’t let them give me pain, because even if I am asleep, I will know and the second was ‘When I am going, I want you both near me. Promise’. We are now grateful we were allowed to fulfill both those wishes.

      With both of us by her side, with all her toys surrounding her bed and with her favourite books on the shelf, she suffered one last seizure and gently slipped away.

      Our home now remains empty. It will never ring with our child’s laughter. It will never sparkle with her sunshine. On the wall are displayed her paintings, Her keyboard still remains on the stand, untouched. Her clothes still hang in her wardrobe. I still can’t, bring myself to give any of them away. They had been touch by her. They were my only link to her.

      In the first of the four remaining years that we had her with us, she went on a planting spree. She chose every flower and every colour, saying ‘If this one blooms, that means that I am thinking of dad If that one does, I am thinking of you"

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