Sunday, 3 September 2017



Rusty Gate

The azure blue paint had faded with the passage of time exposing the original colour of 

the wrought iron. I must have pushed this rusted gate umpteen times to enter into a 

different world of thread-bare emotions.

The penitentiary overflowed its normal capacity. The inmates accused and condemned to 

lead a life of prisoners were imparted different vocational training to keep themselves 

occupied and find gainful employment after paying their debts to the society.

Suman must have chosen an occupation for herself.

As I had defended her, my prayers were with her as I knew I was fighting a losing battle. I 

had faith in my client. But the scales of Justice did not tilt in her favour.

On the potter’s wheel, she was learning the ropes albeit slowly. Kneading and shaping 

the wet clay, she caught me looking at her. She had read my mind.

A woman should have the sole right to shape her destiny from wet clay, fire it with her 

inner strength, making the pot of life, strong and durable. The pot stored water, the 

elixir of life, cooling the pent-up emotions. I agreed.

The maiden pot shaped by Suman now reposes in my kitchen.

           Written : Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Thanks rogershipp.

word count  : 199

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