Like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday there should be a day called Oneday. Because Oneday is the day when everything seems to happen in the stories and it seems to change lives. So, here it is. I have discovered it!
Now the story…It was neither a wallet, nor a pouch, neither a sack, nor a carryall, neither a satchel, nor a purse. It was a bag - a red, leather bag - handcrafted by some craftsman in some forgotten village. It was a gift from Grandmother. Sarika never forgot her last words.
It was not happy being red. The bag that is. It was definitely not happy being red. There was not much it could do about it. It simply was. The little floral motifs however were pretty. Everyone seemed to adore them, especially Sarika.
Then Oneday…
The bag was angry when Sarika stuffed it recklessly on her 16th birthday. Her parents couldn’t approve of her and she had to leave. Her thoughts were too revolutionary. It was too early for change.
She left home for good with the bag as her only possession. She dropped it angrily on the rusty old bed in the women’s hostel where she had found refuge and began to cry.
The bag was sad. The floral motifs seemed to be wilting. Nothing made sense anymore. It was all confusing. Right now it hated its colour even more. Why red? I hate red. It thought.
Sarika must have wept all night.
“Perhaps tomorrow she will decide to get me a new colour!” The bag thought.
Sarika finally fell asleep in the comfort of hope.
She got up in the morning and got ready to face the people in her college. It was going to be tough, after the article she had written in yesterday’s papers. Even so, she was ready to face anything now. Although she always wanted to be a writer, she had no idea that her career would take off with a crash!
There were people from the press right outside the apartment. “What made you write something like this?” One of the journalists asked.
The red bag gathered strength. It hoped for the best. It prayed for a new colour. Sarika ignored everyone and went to the college. She would feel better when she saw her professor, who shared the same views as her. Society needed to change. It was time.
Days went by. Months. Years. Sarika never married nor had any children.
She wanted to be normal all her life. Couldn’t. The bag was stuck with red all its life. They stayed together. Her grandmother’s words stayed with her all her life.
Then Oneday…
It was Sarika’s 80th birthday today. She was used to being alone by now. She had managed to change the world a little. She was happy that women like her were finally free from social obligations.
Once again she remembered her grandmother’s words. “You are different Sarika. Don’t be afraid to be so. Be who you are and fight for it if you have to.” She fought. What had been a revolution once, was now commonly accepted.
The bag had lost its colour. It was hardly a red anymore. The years of wear and tear had taken its toll. It had been pieced together many times and the scars showed.
The journey with Sarika had been a roller coaster ride. It was a perfect time to die.
