The Shape

The writer, as usual, was sitting at a corner on the last bench of the road side motel observing everyone from the cook to the customers. That was important for observation excited stories within him. But today was a rebel. He was there since morning and by evening he still was clueless about his next story.

Irritated, he panned his neck for the umpteenth time. And he saw a white ghost! A moment later he realized, to his relief, it was the same helper (now totally covered with flour) who had been giving shape to the flour dough since morning. He observed him closely. The man smiled faintly whenever he flattened the dough. Also, to the writer’s astonishment, each shape was an exact copy of its predecessor. Working without rest how can he be so perfect at it? The writer first asked himself and later to the man.

“I am the only bread earner for my wife and two kids.” He replied. “And when I joined this place last week my employer told me if I don’t falter at my job he would never wash his hands off me.”

“So?”

“So I try giving shape to the flour dough assuming it to be my destiny. Till the shape of the dough is intact, my destiny is intact.”

The writer, a little taken aback by the allusion, asked, “And what about this constant smile on your face? Don’t you get bogged down by the pressure of producing a perfect shape each time?”

“That is always there – the pressure – but honestly how many of us get a chance to shape our own destiny?”

“True.” The writer replied and a second later asked himself, “Don’t we all do?”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY