When the Muse Refused to Come — A Ponmanipudi Story on Creativity, Pain, and Waiting

THE DAY THE MUSE REFUSED TO COME

(A Ponmanipudi Story)

Laxmana Tirtha, the poet of Ponmanipudi, sat on the stone steps outside Appuswamy’s tea stall, staring at a blank notebook like it had personally insulted him.

The pen lay untouched.

The tea had gone cold.

The words… refused to arrive.

“Nothing,” he groaned. “Absolutely nothing.”

Appuswamy didn’t even look up.

“Then why are you still sitting? Go home Tirtha. Blank book also needs rest.”

Laxmana clutched his head dramatically.

“Uncle, this is not tiredness. This is creative pain. Pain of child birth”

“Pain-aa?” Appuswamy scoffed. “Drink tea first. Then see if pain still exists.”

But Laxmana wasn’t listening.

He saw Dr. Chari walking toward the stall and sprang up like a man spotting a miracle.

“Chariii!” he cried. “You must help me.”

Chari smiled, already knowing trouble had arrived.

“What happened this time, Laxmana? Muse, ran away again?”

Laxmana looked offended..

“Ran away? She never even came!”

They sat. Tea was poured. Silence hovered.

Then Laxmana burst out.

“Rayare, you don’t understand. I wait. I sit. I pray. I beg....baa maa...baa...

I even clean my table. But Sarasu… nothing!”

“Sarasu?” Chari raised an eyebrow.

“My muse,” Laxmana said, wounded. “I call her Sarasu. Sweet name. Soft name. But she is very very cruel.”

Appuswamy snorted.

“Good. At least she’s honest like real women.”

Laxmana ignored him.

“Yesterday I even pleaded aloud,” he said.

‘I will write good poetry, Sarasu. No unnecessary metaphors. Come once!’

But no. Complete silence.”

He looked at Chari with desperate eyes.

“You write every day, Chari Rayare. Stories. Blogs. So many things.

How does your Muse come so faithfully?”

Chari stirred his tea slowly.

“She doesn’t,” he said.

Laxmana froze.

“What?”

Chari smiled.

“My Muse is also totally unreliable. I call her Mira.”

Appuswamy nearly dropped the tumbler.

“Aiyo! All Muses same factory product-aa?”

Chari chuckled.

“Every morning, I sit for two hours. Sometimes Mira comes. Sometimes she doesn’t.

Sometimes she dances. Sometimes she sulks. Sometimes she sings...sometimes she hugs...sometimes she shows love...

Sometimes she arrives in the last five minutes.”

Laxmana leaned forward.

“Then what do you do when she doesn’t come?”

Chari answered quietly.

“I still sit.”

That silenced him.

“I still write,” Chari continued.

“Bad sentences. Useless paragraphs. Broken thoughts.

Not because I feel inspired…

but because I am available.”

Laxmana frowned.

“But Chari sir… shouldn’t art come from love? From longing?”

Chari nodded.

“Yes. But longing is not begging.

Longing is showing up even when the beloved ignores you.”

Laxmana felt something sting inside him.

“But Sarasu is heartless,” he muttered.

“I talk to her. I flatter her. I suffer for her.”

Chari looked at him gently.

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

Laxmana looked up sharply.

“What?”

“You’re asking Sarasu to love you,” Chari said.

“But Muses don’t come to be loved.

They come to see if you love the work enough to wait without reward.”

The words settled slowly.

Appuswamy cleared his throat.

“So basically… don’t chase the muse. Do the work. Muse will come if interested.”

Chari smiled.

“In crude language… yes.”

Laxmana stared at his notebook again.

“So Sarasu doesn’t owe me poetry?”

“No,” Chari said softly.

“She owes you nothing.

But if you stay honest… she will visit. Even briefly.”

A breeze passed through the tea stall.

For a moment, Laxmana felt something stir — a faint sentence forming somewhere deep inside.

He reached for his pen.

And then… it vanished.

He groaned.

“See! Even now Sarasu left!”

Chari stood up.

“Come,” he said. “Walk with me.”

They walked toward the banyan tree near the pond. The evening light softened everything.

Chari stopped suddenly.

“Tell me, Laxmana,” he asked, “when was the last time Sarasu came?”

Laxmana thought hard.

“…When my father died,” he said slowly.

“I wrote three poems that night. Without effort.”

Chari nodded.

“And when else?”

“When I fell in love once… long ago.”

“And?”

“When I was completely silent.”

Chari smiled.

“Exactly.”

Laxmana frowned.

“What exactly?”

Chari said quietly,

“Sarasu doesn’t come when you are noisy inside.

She comes when you stop trying to impress her…

and start listening to yourself.”

They stood in silence.

Then — unexpectedly — Laxmana’s pen moved.

Just one line.

He gasped.

“Rayare… she’s here.”

Chari didn’t look surprised.

“Good,” he said. “Don’t look at her. Don’t praise her.

Just write.”

Laxmana scribbled furiously, afraid the moment would break.

After a minute, he stopped.

Sweating. Smiling.

“Gone,” he said softly.

Chari nodded.

“That’s how she works.”

They walked back.

As Laxmana packed his notebook, Appuswamy asked casually,

“Poem vandhucha?”

“Yes,” Laxmana smiled. “One line.”

“Only one?”

“Yes,” he said peacefully. “Enough for today.”

That night, Laxmana Tirtha slept well.

And in the quiet of Sriranga Vihara, long after midnight,

Dr. Chari sat at his desk.

Two hours had passed.

The page was still blank.

He smiled faintly and whispered into the silence,

“Mira… I’m here.”

The pen moved.

Just once. Just two lines....Mira..