In the evening of my life, I was struck by the memory of my mother. I remembered the old mansion in our village, the dew on rose petals like strings of pearls at dawn. The fragrance of jasmine crawling along the walls, the temple bell’s solemn echo. The river laughing as it flowed, running after the oxen, dust swirling in the golden light of the setting sun. In that dreamlike time, words grew wings. To draw those winged words, my mother had brought me a golden notebook. I remembered it all.
All my life, I had been trapped in the clinging embrace of worldly love, running frantic errands for my belly. Every day I recorded a false ledger of words on paper. My creativity was virtual. At poetry gatherings, I performed empty wordplay and took lavish honoraria. I began to think of myself as a creator of worlds, flaunting my learned airs in condescending verses. Yet only I knew that my words were hollow, scentless, and devoid of feeling. My golden notebook of dreamlike words was lost. My very being, my dreams, had vanished.
Could I ever hear my mother’s sweet lullaby again? Could I nestle once more in her arms? Would she help me find my lost golden notebook of dreams? My heart was knotted with questions I could not ignore. I called out to my mother. Suddenly her divine voice echoed in my ear: “Child, that golden notebook is locked within the chest of your own heart. It lies hidden beneath the soft dust of desire and faded affection."
Just then my phone rang. “Honoured Poet, we’ve scheduled a comedy-poetry gathering next Sunday with a generous honorarium,” the voice announced. My heart wavered. And at last, I found my answer. “I will not attend,” I said, and switched off the phone. “And in that quiet moment, I reclaimed the golden notebook buried in my heart.”
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