The Voice In The Well

It had happened to me before to me before but this time I knew I had got it bad. Usually, my creative block lasts up to the next whisky bottle but this time it was different .I was blunted. Blunted by the commercialism of the materialistic life that I had got so accustomed into living. The answer to this could not be found in any intoxicant. I would have to destroy what I had built. Take it to the beginning. And I knew that was not possible. Not a chance. I had a book that was already three week s beyond its publishing date. The publishers had been calling frantically knew it but I had stopped answering phone calls since ages. Weeks past and I had given up hope. Soon it would be out. "Oh! He has lost it". "It was just a passing fad" ""Oh! He was never talented. Just a small creative spurt". After what felt like an eternity the doorbell rang.

It was Faisal .Now, Faisal has known me for almost twenty-years. He is the cliché "kind of guy you want in a hole during a war"

"Hey man! What the hell is wrong with you? It's been two weeks dude .We thought you were dead!"

"Well, I am by no means very far away from it" I said with a wry smile.

"What nonsense. What happened? You look like crap personified"

"Ok. I am three weeks behind schedule with that new book of mine .I have the worst case of creative block. I am at least three poems short. So to round it off it's basically over"

"Tell you what man, I could never understand why you walked into this shit but here's how I can help. Just 4 km to the south of Lonavala there is a small village called Santavli.It's got some beautiful farms. I have a small farm-house over there. Leave this Friday and I guarantee you Monday morning you will be ready with not three but ten goddamn poems."

I reached Santavli late. It was nearly 10:30 p.m. Faizal's farm-house was really nice and cozy and what I liked about it was that it had no T.V, no fridge, nothing. To make things better I was carrying no alcohol or ciggarates. I wanted to keep it as clean as possible. Shyam the old guard was waiting at the gate just as Faisal had told me.

"Namaskar Saheb ! Aapka saaman idhar dee jiye"

"No it's ok. I'll take it. Thanks. Just show me the room"

As we were crossing the lawn I spotted a very old well to the left of the house. It was covered with moss and looked very ugly.

"So no one uses that thing anymore I guess"

Shyam did not answer and walked ahead quietly. Strange as I found it I decided to let it go. My room like the rest of the house was very simple. A cot, a fan and just one window. The curtains were close as I entered .I drew them open to be greeted with the sight of that ugly well. It stood in the dull streetlight. I read the papers for ten minutes or so and before I knew it I was first asleep.

That night I dreamt. I value my dreams. My dreams are my cash-crops. I saw a small child and she stood by the side of the well. The shadows were cast upon her in such a way that her face was covered in darkness but I could easily see her red and green "ghagra". Her face was turned towards me.