Sitting on a chair, holding the pen and staggering it forth and back. And the scuddy paper was underneath the dimming table lamp, the typewriter was looks sitting tetchy on left end of the table. He considered himself to write something but like always it happens he couldn't find anything to write.

Once he think to write about the dancing branches of tree in breeze seen through the window and sometimes he think of write about the shadow of the pen relinquishing on the rough wooden floor.

The whole room was smelling musty with old collection of his writing that never got published. He never been called writer or author. But still felicity can easily been seen in his eyes.

He remembered the old woman he meet last week sitting on a bench beside the street, it was the sun on the peak of the day. But they have seat on the shadow of the Banyan tree. She was blowing air to herself with her achal.

He sat on the another side of the bench. She looked at him with tired eyes. She looks lost something and ferreting out for that.

Have you lost something? Are you looking for something? He asked
She said ' I'm not looking for anything my son. I m just thinking about my writings. My whole life I just wrote a lot without thinking of publishing any. I never went to the any publishers. What would happen to my writings when I die.' She finished.

His pen fell from the table and he got weak up from his thought, feel a hard stroke on his eyes and fell to his chair.

And without wasting any time he made a call. ' Hello! This is Ashish. Editor in Chief KUSUM publisher. How can help you?' said from other side of the call.

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