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End of the rainbow.
#WritcoStoryChallenge
The old, treasure chest lay exposed when the storm retreated. It's treasures were not ordinary, nor would it seem, or deem, like treasure to the ordinary. The storm has uprooted the tree, and in it's cavity lay the old chest, with it's letters, faded, lost to time, ravaged by nature. A gentle breeze ruffled the old paper, that was used to wrap the contents of the chest. Decades of soil, mist and water had seeped through, and the chest was rusty, marred by the junk, much like dried blood. She peered in to it, with wonder in her eyes, touching the chest, with reverence. Knowing the contents, meaningless to many, were like manna from the heaven to her. With trembling hands, she bent over the chest, and with a thudding heart, parted the browning paper. The ancient paper, in its folds, held the holy Grail, so to speak. A book, so reverant. She gingerly took the book out, careful not to damage it, holding her breath the whole time. Placing the book on the red velvet cloth, she had laid out, earlier. She made a note of the time, and the date, making an entry in her journal, 24-January-2045, 11.23 am. Tuesday, India. Donning a fresh set of cotton gloves, as excitement had soaked the previous ones, through, she opened the first page of the old tattered book. Written, in the blood of the many martrys, were the words, 'Constitution Of India'. The document was lost, it's words eroded and overwritten by other doctrines. Finding it today, gave her the glimmer of hope, that she so desperately seeked, that the India, she grew up in, and with, the India she remembered, her India, had a chance to reunite. The struggles may be real, and opposed by many, but with this 'brahmastra',she had a shot. And, she intended to fight, like the 'krantikaris', before her time. This, too, was a fight for freedom, a fight for democracy,a fight for equality.
© Natasha Sharma
The old, treasure chest lay exposed when the storm retreated. It's treasures were not ordinary, nor would it seem, or deem, like treasure to the ordinary. The storm has uprooted the tree, and in it's cavity lay the old chest, with it's letters, faded, lost to time, ravaged by nature. A gentle breeze ruffled the old paper, that was used to wrap the contents of the chest. Decades of soil, mist and water had seeped through, and the chest was rusty, marred by the junk, much like dried blood. She peered in to it, with wonder in her eyes, touching the chest, with reverence. Knowing the contents, meaningless to many, were like manna from the heaven to her. With trembling hands, she bent over the chest, and with a thudding heart, parted the browning paper. The ancient paper, in its folds, held the holy Grail, so to speak. A book, so reverant. She gingerly took the book out, careful not to damage it, holding her breath the whole time. Placing the book on the red velvet cloth, she had laid out, earlier. She made a note of the time, and the date, making an entry in her journal, 24-January-2045, 11.23 am. Tuesday, India. Donning a fresh set of cotton gloves, as excitement had soaked the previous ones, through, she opened the first page of the old tattered book. Written, in the blood of the many martrys, were the words, 'Constitution Of India'. The document was lost, it's words eroded and overwritten by other doctrines. Finding it today, gave her the glimmer of hope, that she so desperately seeked, that the India, she grew up in, and with, the India she remembered, her India, had a chance to reunite. The struggles may be real, and opposed by many, but with this 'brahmastra',she had a shot. And, she intended to fight, like the 'krantikaris', before her time. This, too, was a fight for freedom, a fight for democracy,a fight for equality.
© Natasha Sharma
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