"And the wick of the oil lamp doused!" Grandpa said.
I heard as I descended from the staircase and rushed into the Verandah. That day the sky seemed to be lost somewhere among the hues of the aura of the sun which was lying leisurely over my pastel attic. I saw Grandpa sitting on his archaic armchair and narrating the tales of the scholars from his days. I had been heeding his accounts with miracle since I was five years old. While recounting these lines, he turned the pages of the book labelled " BHAMATI. " As I know he despises interruptions and is short tempered, I had not asked him anything related to the book. I stood next to the window pane and peeped through the verses in it. I whispered softly,"Who wrote that?"
He frowned at me, I smiled and then sat down on the couch next to Grandma who had been patiently listening to his words. Though disturbed, he began detailing everything once again.
"As I was telling, BHAMATI was written by the legendary sophist — Vachaspati Mishra. He was born in our hometown Madhubani of the Mithila province. At a very young age, he was determined to write a Commentary on the Saint Adi Shankara's Brahmasutra and later devote his life in the work. He was really meritorious pupil and a profound preacher. In his early eighteens, his mother decided to marry him to a girl from another neighborhood hamlet. Vachaspati was not ready to go for any metaphors in his resolution. He felt that he would be unable to fulfill her desires and to be a reliable soulmate which would rupture her life. He even tried to convince her mother but all his efforts went in vain. Therefore, he wrote a letter to his fiancée's father in which he mentioned everything about his life and goals. Though no one listened to him, he was married within a few weeks to that girl. As Vachaspati sat on the floor of his courtyard, the twilight of his wedding, he began carving out his muse in spirituality through words and portraying the strokes with his pen just under an lighted wick. After their marriage the relationship between them was similar to the partridge and the moon where the partridge stares silently at the moon and rhythms in harmony of its alluring mystique. And then the wick of the oil lamp doused. " I interrupted, "Indeed, I heard these lines." Grandpa coughed and continued "So, when the lamp snuffed out, he saw an aged lady with wrinkles on her hand rubbing the matches to light up the lamp. He asked her who she was. She smiled but tears brimmed over her eyes and whispered, ' Beloved, I am Bhamati, your wife. ' He gazed aghast after hearkening and replied that he was married just a few days ago. She rubbed her eyes with her Pallu and just placed a mirror in front of him. He saw himself as an old spirit with withered scars and folds on his face. An absolute silence surged back. Without any response, he just dropped his ink and held it tight as he started writing the title of his work — Bhamati. He then lifted his face towards his wife and admired her attributes — those tender hands turned shriveled with serving me all these years and those sacrifices she hoarded beneath her glimmering eyes. She gently prepared the meal humming some folk songs when Vachaspati called her with remorse and said , 'My beloved, without you, I could never complete this commentary so effortlessly. Time elapsed swiftly into my demolished nerves.' ~Kritty || Wailing mage 14 May, 2021 22.18 PM A non fictious folktale My first attempt @aditii_ my guru @lovesmessenger ✨ Your remarks make my posts memorable @writersnetwork@mirakee #temp I don't possess a bg
Upon the sinister chaos, Bathed in the faded twilight Hearken' to her bloodless doom–
"Buried thy spirit Ov'r her euphoria Surfs her portrait Dwelt in thy tomb. Yearning her zephyr Suffocating in bliss Seething thy memoirs Uprooting' thy belief."
Flutters her acute tint; She mark'd thy heav'n pool Thousands of fireflies Whistles around her crest. Her aura diminishes Those allies once adrift— " The portrait strokes amidst blinded book of her fate." @moon_bunny ~This one is for u // While weaving this one, the first and last person , I imagined was u// **tum offline thi tab isliye tag nahi kra**
Gazin' aghast upon the eccentric sight, Yearnin' thro the innocent arch, Whereon wallowing abstract of cirque — O Grave! Why thou the deeds of Sophia blight?
Whizzin' thro' the thund'rous smother, Arouse o'er the mourning stream Behind the veil, resembling the serene— O Aesthete! Why the primrose frown'd 'nother?
Freakin' the melancholic bridle-reins shake, Moan of the woods in the tinker beside, Swiftly flaps the furrow of death,sins collide— O Solitude! Why thou the apparent queen awake? ___________ *"*______