The Girl Who Wrote About Flying

By Kenisha Kapur

When I was fourteen, my grandmother gave me a typewriter and said, “Élodie, this is a typewriter. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours now.”

I didn’t know what to make of the unexpected gift, but I thanked her and went home. I placed the cherry red Remington on my desk. It was dusty and ancient. I wondered if Grandmother had ever written in it. I filled it up with paper and positioned the roller.

I was never into writing. Writing was a special talent possessed by very few, but now that I had a typewriter, I might as well make use of it. I gave my knuckles a crack and typed out words that floated in my mind.

At first, I struggled to string even the simplest of sentences, and I had no clue what on earth to write about. I began by writing about my life using the vocabulary of a toddler. Soon enough, I itched to write beautiful prose on the vintage typewriter. I read classics and poetry and tried to replicate the words which so effortlessly captured the deeper meanings of life, while still being all the more humorous. But what did I know of the true colours of the world? I was just a little girl.

I wrote for hours every day, and my phrases started to sound more poetic, the way raindrops fell on the asphalt. When I wrote, it was as though nothing else mattered, nothing else existed. The clicking sound of each button on the typewriter soothed me.

What did I even write about? Nothing in particular. I wrote about a song that filled my heart or a book that kept me awake. I wrote about the sound of autumn leaves crunching under footsteps and the warmth of a fire. I wrote about pillows absorbing teardrops and the aftertaste of a blueberry. I romanticised every daily action in my writing. I wrote paragraphs on as mundane a task as checking the clock, and I wrote stanzas on end to express the subtle feeling of nostalgia. I wrote about life, I wrote about death, and I wrote about feelings. I wrote about the wrinkles on a worn coat and mirrors that showed one’s past. I wrote about anything and everything my heart desired.

Every time I visited Grandmother, she asked me if I had been making good use of the typewriter. I shared my latest short stories and poems with her. She always said I made a fine writer and that I should never give up my special gift.

One day, on a sunny winter morning, I decided to describe the crepuscular rays outside my window. The dappled light mesmerised me. There was nothing else I adored more than the feeling of warmth in the biting cold wintertime. I put on a grey cardigan and wrote about a young girl with the desire to fly- something I had never done before. In my story, the young girl’s beloved brother had perished in a war, and she was reeling from the sadness of the death. She was in such poor condition, with nothing to wear and nothing to eat and a broken heart, that she wished to be reunited with her brother. So, in the end, I let her fly.

The story made me think of how writing could be so impactful on our lives. A good story always changed my way of thinking, completely altering my brain chemistry. Well-written characters seldom left my mind, and many a time, a good setting was hard to let go of.

I told Grandmother, during my next visit, that perhaps my story of the young girl hadn’t left my mind because I felt connected to it. Each piece I wrote had a little part of my soul etched into it, but this story in particular was calling out to me. Grandmother asked me, “Is this the first story you have written, where the character wishes to fly?”

“Yes, Grandmother, it is.”

“Then go home and write some more. Don’t think too much about the accuracy, just write what comes out of your heart.”

So, I went home and I wrote all night. I wrote seven short stories that week - all about seven different girls. And each one flew. I took them to Grandmother’s. She read them.

“It seems as though you have a strong desire to write about girls who wish to fly,” she said. I sipped my tea- what was she getting at?

“I wouldn’t know if it’s a desire. It just comes out. Each story ends up the same way.”

“Well, then, are you sure it’s not how you want to end up?” The question disturbed me.

“What do you mean? I don’t wish to fly at all! I only want to write!” I came aggressively. “My child, if you keep writing about it, don’t you yearn for it?” Grandmother’s tone was gentle compared to mine. “No. I am sure of it. I have never, and shall never, wish to soar. It is a sin.” 

“Very well, then, if you believe so. But, remember, I have always been rather fond of sins.” I was taken aback by that and tried to hide my expression by taking a large sip of my tea. It tasted odd today, but when I understood what she had meant, I was already falling into a deep slumber. 

I looked down at my teacup and then at her. She gave me the sweet smile she had always given me and asked, “Would you like some more tea?” By the time I could get any words out, I was flying.

By Kenisha Kapur