The Diary – A Story Of Good Advice
The path to hell is paved with good intentions – learn this now and learn it well
He was five years old and so fond of his teacher
She was always right, you know? He loved her
One day, teacher said maintain a diary
Write down your thoughts or even the day’s activity
Back home, full of good purpose
Announced his teacher’s fine message
Overwhelmed, the father wasted no time
Scouring nearest shop for stationery fine
Don’t waste money, it’s a two-minute wonder
Little boy glared at his spoiler mummy
Father glared too, ‘My son wants to write
I shall get him a diary’
Perfect, slightly larger than his palm
Draw your margin, there’s space for writing
Leather bound, sturdy looking
Write, write it’s good for your mind
That evening, he wrote his thoughts
‘Today, I bot a diary’
Mummy, I wrote in my diary see
He spoke triumphantly
His granny was pleased, ‘Oh very nice’
In frank wonderment of his enterprise
Show, show me, appa cried,
You didn’t come and show me, why?
What is this you’ve written? Bot?
Is that all you been thinking?
What did you think all day, my son?
And the boy blinked, ‘Nothing!’
What do you mean, ‘Nothing?
How much you keep talking,
Late night when sleep is coming
But you are never sleeping
What work of art his appa expected
Remained a mystery to one and all
Granny said, you are expecting too much
Possibly he’s just too small
Auspicious beginnings had begun
But, the diary lay forgotten
One morning, with late remembrance
His mother, while dressing, shouted
Diary you said, diary you do
Pick up that diary and write
He couldn’t, you see, because
Teacher said, write at night
Afternoon came, he was drawing
Evening came he was busy playing
Night fell, he was bored, so,
He started mummy-troubling
She was trying to get something done
Remembered her morning reprimand
She made wide eyes, as if she had
Chanced upon a wonderful plan
Go, go write your diary
He did as she bid him
Quietly crafting his words
Mummy, I wrote, see
There on the first line, leaving one finger-space
‘Today, my mummy shouted at me’
With much chagrin, Mummy asked
Only that happened all day, I see…
Now I’m feeling that all I do is shout
So much happened, you ran the machine
She glared with feeling-filled pout
Why, you sat and helped me with the idli
He looked at her frankly,
‘When you shouted,
I felt sad, so I wrote like that’
Teacher said, like that he did
OK, tomorrow onwards,
Try to write a little more
Six words to a page
Is a gross waste of paper
Mummy, you want the diary?
I don’t like it, I don’t know
What to write
My teacher didn’t even see it
And now, she also forgot
She doesn’t say like that, any more
Good advice with fine intent
Led to mists of happy, unclear expectation
Pretty from afar, like clouds in the sky
Pink and orange before disappearing into the night.
Shobna’s story till now: Mother to a now-20 year old, wife to a huggable bear (who growls pretty often). A Bachelor of Commerce and Masters in Personnel (a choice she regrets to this day), left full-time Corporate HR work after 17 years, works full-time for a travel company (from home), aspiring writer whose manuscript has been rejected (more likely, ignored) too many times to care. She doesn’t get it though, she keeps trying.
Flashback: During her years in HR, she slowly realized she probably wasn’t cut out for it. It took her an incredibly long time to realized that at least a part of the problem lay within, as it is with so many things we don’t really like.
Also, at the time her son, the TV addict had just lost his trusted lieutenant co-TV watcher (who never squealed on how much he really watched) and most reliable Ludo-competitor, his grandmother. With her passing, he was looking forward to an early teenage with the house and beloved television to himself. Someone had to be the villain in that perfect love story. Type of person we are dealing with here: Tends to pontificate, thinks she knows everything but scratch the surface and…, actually, please don’t.
Believes that humour makes the world go round, doesn’t really understand ‘serious’ things and wishes them away. Given to occasional bouts of insight, that’s when she writes at Some Sense, Some Nonsense.