When life dreams to live..

She was a singer, a composer, a poet. But no one knew her name and she never got any fame. She tuned her thoughts and hummed them as songs. As her soul danced to her voice, she knew her talents. Echoes rippled in her home and garden and reached back to her own ear. Except for her pets, no body heard her sweet voice.

Life had designed for her, a small shop instead of a big stage. In her dreams she moved up the steps that lead to the stage, floating in the applause of her fans. Reality brought her to this little shop where she ironed cloths from morning till dusk. Her soft voice and swift hands took her through each day. In the evening after her prayers, she used to sit at the corner of her room to create a new melody with her new born thoughts.

She never knew that he is a journalist; the man who used to come so often to get his dress ironed. He was so curious to know about her unique tunes and styles. He asked a thousand questions and showered her with praises. She was as casual as her songs were, she answered him in short phrases or in a smile. One day, he came with a newspaper and showed her the article that he wrote about her. He was so happy that it got published on the Sunday's best column and was enthralled by the popularity that awaits him. In no time he would become a hero!

She was excited too. At last, she thought, 'I am going to step on to that huge stage.' He had no time to listen to her words. He didn't even wait to get his shirts which she was about to finish ironing. As he disappeared from sight, she was at a loss; a feeling of cheating? using? She wasn't clear, though.

For a few days she couldn't write a thing nor hum a tune. The stanzas of her songs published in neat lines in that white newspaper filled her thoughts and her eyes. She learnt one more lesson and felt, a loser. She gathered herself back and continued her life. Her words became more powerful and her tunes, melodious. Her pain and struggle refined the artist in her.

As she ironed the cloths she thought. 'May be one day I will become a writer or a singer and I will go on that great stage and my life will change its path and I will become a celebrity.' Years passed, she tried her best to be what she desired to be. Except her, no one thought that a girl with a little shop by the wayside has dreams to fulfill.

A dream is a dream is a dream! She sang under the pine tree in front of her house; with her violin to accompany her, with no one to clap. Every day she envisioned a large crowd of music lovers who would surround her with praises and compliments for her work. But she knew that the way to the big halls where artists perform is out of her reach. There would be thousands to scream as those artists walked and everyone applauded for anything that they sang. Not because they were better singers than her, but they had a name, fame, and money to be on any stage.

Nothing big happened ever in her life. None of her dreams became real. She understood that talent alone won't suffice to be where she wants to be. She remembered her school days where girls got chances to perform on stage only if they were rich, fair and pretty. There was something that she blocked her popularity; her poor lifestyle, her poor cloths, her poor looks? She sighed on reading the lines of the famous poet Thomas Gray, written in her notebook:

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air." 

'May be I will reach only this far.' She closed her book and pen. Tunes played all over her being, raising her to the platform of joy. The stage may not be for all, but no one could take away the source of creation. Her heart conceived powerful thoughts and they were delivered as words and they played in the tunes of her songs. She felt a smile lighting her face. She hummed the new tune and her violin repeated it to her delight. Her room became the stage and her soul formed her audience. She was more than happy.

The day broke bringing a new beginning. A new dream replaced the old one. She dreamed of her happy being, to fly free to the paradise of happiness, to feel the freedom of her soul, to bring life to the lifeless through words and sing to brighten the darkest depths of Earth; this was her new born dream she held.

She finished her prayers and household chores. She gave her father his tablets, her mother, a kiss. Like a brave warrior she took her steps to her little shop a few miles away. People started coming and she started ironing. As happy as she can be, she did her work in the melody of her songs. She felt fresh even at the end of the day. She went back home with the most beautiful thoughts. 

Days and months went by, seasons changed and years rolled; her dream became her life itself. She made her life the Big Stage that she used to dream of. 

'Are these your compositions?' asked the stranger on the block. He had heard about her from his neighbour, the journalist; everything, including how he became popular after the real life article that he wrote about her. She wasn't skeptic about the stranger. She smiled and made her answer short, 'yes', and she continued her work. To his request, she agreed to show him her poems and sing a few, playing her violin. In her home, to a one man audience, she performed her soulful performance. He had no words to thank her or to appreciate her. His eyes twinkled with joy and his smile spoke more than any word could. 'Beautiful!' he tried to put his emotions into words, but they got chocked before he spoke.

He remained a stranger in her life; a stranger who would be eager to see her new works and hear her new tunes, a stranger who would bring her flowers to compliment her, with his one and only word, 'Beautiful'. That's what she was; a beautiful soul who lived in a beautiful world beyond the little shop she had, the menial job she did, the humble house she stayed. 

She sat near her pets with her papers and pen. Her thoughts were ready to occupy the empty spaces on the white sheets. She wrote the title neatly on top of the page. It read, "Beautiful"