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She walked through the bazaars that morning, imagining that life had begun anew. It’s a new world she told herself. A brand new life. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deep. Then conjured up an image of a brand new notebook.

She turned the corner of the street and went into the smaller by-lanes. And still the deep down joy…the same joy she used to feel years ago when she started a new book.

Clean. White as snow, she’d tell herself. Smelling fresh and new as only a brand new notebook can. She’d breathe deep, holding her breath. Then letting go….slowly. Breathe deep again. Relishing the clean new smell. Ignoring daddy as he laughed at her excitement.

First page. First line. How she’d write painstakingly and neatly for the first few days. Taking extra special care to keep THIS book neat. Without a blot, without a single blot. But then, in spite of all that care, something would happen. Her pen would leak or she’d smudge her letters. And then, then the whole book would be sullied.

Her heart would sink. Not this too, she’d think. And then, it’d be replaced by a hard feeling. “I don’t care, I don’t care anymore about anything.”

The clean, pure feeling, the care with which she’d written, she’d throw it all away. She’d start scrawling savagely. Cos it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. The book was spoilt. Just like all the others.