Shreya was livid with anger. This was the nth time her mom had chided her.
“What do you keep texting” every few seconds. Her mom chided
“..and you don’t seem to have any control on your social media and internet usage”
“Last evening, our neighbor saw you browsing in a dingy internet cafe with a boy”
“Who is that Boy. May I know “ asked her mom.
“Amma he is just a friend from college.
And amma every one has a facebook account these days. Parents are creating one even for new borns
Why do you have an issue in whatever I do amma “ replied back Shreya, sharply.
Amma thew her hands up in the air. “You will pay heavily one day Shreya . Mark my words”, amma replied
Shreya was a spirited 16 year old, in a posh urban college in upscale Koramangala in Bengaluru. At 16, the teenager , had opened an Facebook account and added a 100 odd friends on her online account, 99 + 1 to be exact . After all Rakesh was extra special for her.
Her fingers so badly wanted to press the “Committed – in a relationship” button against her facebook account, after all she saw many of her older cousins do it.
But she knew her mom and dad would be livid with anger .
Rakesh was young and handsome. Everything that a teenager would love in a boyfriend – he was tall , handsome and even played the guitar.
Oh how the girls at college gushed when she showed his picture on her new cell phone which he had gifted her.
Rakesh was 25. He worked in a software company . Shreya and Rakesh met on facebook. She had uploaded a striking selfie of hers on a Facebook page of a popular cafe . Her photo got a 100 likes and a message waiting in her inbox.
And on valentines he wooed her with a box of red strawberries , followed by a date at a coffee shop and a cinema at a posh movie theatre in MG road.
******************************
Shreya knew semester exams were fast approaching and she was particularly weak in economics. Her marks in the PU exams would pave a way for her future.
But the sweet fragrance of love , the first dew drops of being a teenager was intoxicating.
Rakesh was all that she had dreamt of and seen in TV soaps and serials . He was well placed in a software firm, he was handsome and he had a way with words that left her blushing and weak in her knees.
**********************************
I , Veena Raman worked as a journalist at Bengaluru Ayina , an English daily and covered the crime scene of the city.
We boasted of bringing daily titbits from across the city.
“Veena , Veena “ ! wake up. “ shouted my camera man , waking me from my afternoon siesta.
“What is it Abdul “ anything juicy to cover today. “ I yawned.
Yes a 16 year old tried to commit suicide by drinking a bottle of poison.
“Where ? “ I asked, as I brushed my hair quickly and picked my bag.
“Koramangala”.
“Another one of those facebook cases “ you know. Girl meet boy on social media. He ditches her., she tries suicide.
He filled me in as we packed our equipment and left.
*******************************************
I , Veena . Got back home by 11 PM.
The girl that attempted suicide thankfully was out of danger.
I barely slept that night.
My job paid me to cover juicy tidbits across the city.
I made my monthly income covering up crime cases.
My job drained me out . More mentally than physically.
How long would I thrive on writing about people, more so about misguided teenagers.
*********************
The priest mumbled a few mantras and the coconut smeared in turmeric smashed into two.
My friends clapped and a cheer rented the air.
To have my own firm some day was a dream I had been cherishing for long.
Abdul shook my hand and congratulated me.
My face broke into a smile.
Parichaay was born.
Parichaay – my dream of setting up a counselling agency for misplaced teenagers and their daily battles had come true.
Parichaay was an answer . It was an apology for the many juicy gossips my fingers dolled out in the name of crime scene coverage.
The very same fingers now would hold hands.
Hands that needed guidance would now hold mine and seek a friend that can be confided in!
(Image credit: JV05 Anik Aimal, used under a CC Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license)
(This post is an entry for the online short story contest – My Pocket Story conducted by tell-a-tale.com in collaboration with youthopia.in)
