story based on social issues with moral and opinion
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The taxi moved through the busy market of Nager Bazaar and Sharmila was memorizing the guitar notes from the chord book when she lost in her dreams and the first time she had held a guitar when she was twelve came back to her mind… how she had struggled in the first few sessions… how the fingers hurt… how her teacher preserved her patience every time she made a mistake.
Sharmila was late. It showed fifteen minutes past 5 o’clock on the watch and her show was about to begin in forty-five minutes. It was an important day for her and she was just forty five minutes away from her debut show at Kalamandir. The sky looked blue and promising. The road was being continuously painted by many combinations of cheerful hues by the rays of the sun. It veiled her softly with the tender touch of its golden rays of hope, pointing to glorious fame in the world of music.
‘Bhaiya,’ she said, ‘need to make it quick.’
The taxi driver was possibly in his forties and had few streaks of grey hair towards the temples on the forehead and near the ears. The skin under his eyes had few small wrinkles that were fanning out prominently in the sun. He took out a dirty red piece of cloth from under his seat to rub the fare reading meter in the front. His grey shirt was partly tucked out of his trousers.
The taxi began to move past the shops, big and small. Sharmila looked back to see the greenery of trees along the sides of the street. The blue sky was a perfect combination to the lively green. The shops on the sides of the road ran away, behind the cab. The pleasant wind struck her face and she closed her eyes. When she opened them she noticed a white ambassador approaching closer. Eventually, it overtook the taxi leaving them behind a red signal.
It’s truly impossible to travel on the roads of Kolkata these days, she thought. A large group of men and women were shouting from a distance,YOU ARE READING STORY AT: YOURSTORYCLUB » MOST
The taxi moved through the busy market of Nager Bazaar and Sharmila was memorizing the guitar notes from the chord book when she lost in her dreams and the first time she had held a guitar when she was twelve came back to her mind… how she had struggled in the first few sessions… how the fingers hurt… how her teacher preserved her patience every time she made a mistake.
Sharmila was late. It showed fifteen minutes past 5 o’clock on the watch and her show was about to begin in forty-five minutes. It was an important day for her and she was just forty five minutes away from her debut show at Kalamandir. The sky looked blue and promising. The road was being continuously painted by many combinations of cheerful hues by the rays of the sun. It veiled her softly with the tender touch of its golden rays of hope, pointing to glorious fame in the world of music.
‘Bhaiya,’ she said, ‘need to make it quick.’
The taxi driver was possibly in his forties and had few streaks of grey hair towards the temples on the forehead and near the ears. The skin under his eyes had few small wrinkles that were fanning out prominently in the sun. He took out a dirty red piece of cloth from under his seat to rub the fare reading meter in the front. His grey shirt was partly tucked out of his trousers.
The taxi began to move past the shops, big and small. Sharmila looked back to see the greenery of trees along the sides of the street. The blue sky was a perfect combination to the lively green. The shops on the sides of the road ran away, behind the cab. The pleasant wind struck her face and she closed her eyes. When she opened them she noticed a white ambassador approaching closer. Eventually, it overtook the taxi leaving them behind a red signal.
It’s truly impossible to travel on the roads of Kolkata these days, she thought. A large group of men and women were shouting from a distance,
‘Stop it! Change it! Bondho Korun!’
They could be heard more clearly as they approached. They walked in a straight line – shouting, screaming and protesting. The narrow street was almost overflowing with people and the busy market looked busier.
‘Bhaiya.’ she asked the taxi driver, ‘how long will they take to clear the road?’
‘Five, at the most ten minutes, Didi’
She began to worry a little. The minute hand on her watch was moving faster than ever that day. Her heart was beating fast.
‘Don’t worry, Didi. We’ll take the shortest possible route. We’ll reach in, say about, twenty five minutes.’
Sharmila leaned back. She tried to relax and looked at the chord book. C – Am – Em – Am.
The golden rays of the sun were beginning to fade away. The driver stopped the engine. Her palpitations got stronger. She thought about informing the show organizers that she could be a little late since it was already five minutes that the taxi was stuck in that terrible
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