She walked few steps up to the silent river which flowed on the outskirts of the village.On a chilled afternoon she took out a coin from her carefully tucked yet crumpled saree ,that she had probably hidden away from everyone while they were busy in the morning chores. In the kitchen ,she breathed heavily through the dense pungent smoke of the small handmade stove that burnt with coal,the "chulha" which had been there since ages,burning and burning quietly like her. Although it got few splashes of water to cool down after the cooking was over,unlike her who never got to breathe even her own air. For decades she had been the same, wrapped in the flames of agony and despair,yet she had remained ablaze within. Her hope for the final quenching had been vigorous since years and she sincerely followed this routine every afternoon,when every member of her family was away.
She flinged the shining coin,the only treasure of her hope and life into the nearby river and watched it till it got submerged.
It reminded her of the old fables and myths which said," Always fling and offer a coin to the flowing river,it gives us new hope and saves us from every wrath in life". She awaited for the miracle to happen.
Her song echoed through the nearby trees and the wind carried it to faraway distances.
" Which way I choose ,O! My Lord!, I hath lost myself in the storm, companion of my path sits oblivious of my pains and aches that make me frost. Beneath the icy cold skin, my heart burns in endless flame bruised I stand and walk again, as the world watches me from their doorstep... Will there be ever a hand to hold, which shall lend me a support, I limp and smile, every minute, even if my wounds are open and sore. O!Gracious one,I await, the moment magical to happen, when the world would know of such anguish and speak for me with great fervor."