My Confidant

I took to writing diary from age 16 when I was in college and away from home. I was lonesome in a new place amongst new people and one fine day took up a note book and writing my thoughts. And soon it became a habit because every day after college I wrote down the date and shared with my new found confidant every little detail. It was like I was sharing everything with my folks the way I used to after coming home from school. And I finished notebook after note book. All these books were neatly piled in a corner of the shelf. And when I returned home for good a box full of notebooks were amongst my luggage. In fact the box was my most precious luggage. And my habit of writing diary continued and I never missed a single detail..not even when I was bad. I wrote down that as well. And when I fell in love and out of love it was my confidante that got to know every little detail in detail. I described every feeling, every emotion to my confidant which I would not do with any human being. My anger, my depression, my fear and sorrows, my dreams and nightmares..I left out nothing. Soon as my age advanced the number of diaries kept increasing year after year and there were two boxes full of diaries. And I kept them away in the attic. One in a blue moon I took out any of the note book and read a random page and it was like living that day of that year all over again because of the minute details I had captured in it. I was addicted to writing diary. A note book accompanied me everywhere I traveled. It was an extension of me. And I could not do without it. IF for a day I was not able to write I felt restless. One fine day it just occurred to me that I am way too much addicted to writing a diary. Anyone who read it would know me inside out. But then I thought after I am no more someone who read it would know me better after I was no more. But did I want people to know me in such details..some were just too bold. I thought I should de addict myself. Stop writing these diaries. Say farewell to my confidant of over 25 years. One night when it was quiet all around and I was alone at home I removed all my diaries doused kerosene oil and set fire to them. I watched in stoic silence as the flames engulfed the books…and as the fire raged…something inside me began to crumble. I thought I would break down and cry but I kept watching the fire. I could not turn my eyes away from the sight of the burning books. I kept watching although I was deeply hurt within. Finally when the heap of ash lay at my feet I sat down in a heap myself. And it dawned on me that I had lost my confidant of my adolescence and my youth. And now I was alone. Because I would no longer write a diary now. My relationship with my diary was over.

Another item added in my league of lost things. I finally let go of the tears that were struggling to come out. I don’t know why I did it. I only knew that it was time for this habit to go. But now I still think if I did the right thing. When I told my friend about it after a few months she told me that would have made a good data for your to write stories and maybe even a novel. What a foolish thing to have done! Well..well.. ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’