I have many stories to tell. And there are many more that I can’t tell. The stories I can tell, I sit with people across the table and tell them with cinematic twists. Sometimes I add melodrama and spice to it. Some stories, I tell people with pride and joy. And there are many more which I tell them with the right mix of drama, humour and poignancy. Then I go back, earning their pity, love and friendship. Sometimes, I even return home with their admiration.
There are other stories that I pick and choose to hide it silently under the floor carpet that has been sprawled out in my living room. Sometimes, I take those stories and fold them neatly into tiny packets and place them under my sleeping mattress. And then I go about doing my daily chores pretending I have no stories of shame and guilt that lay silently buried under the mattress. And sometimes, I break them into tiny pieces, and drop them one by one on the streets I walk, imagining myself to be Hansel who has lost his Gretel and the broken bits to be bread crumbs. I also hope that the crumbs be eaten by a hungry crow so that those unbearable stories disappear without any trace. But the crows never come. And the stories patiently wait under the bed for me to return.
So, in the Ionely nights, I hear those stories’ husky whispers. Then, I scream loudly begging them to stop. But they never stop. They haunt my dreams and lives. And when the dawn breaks, I go about keeping them unnoticed. They are absolutely humiliated by my indifference. So every night, they return to haunt me.
And I have few other stories that I always carry within me. They are invisible. But they are present around me. But people never notice. And that is convenient. When I walk around laughing and chattering loudly, I have them trailing around me silently. I am conscious of them. But I know they will never get known to others. And so, I hold my head high and take them around with courage.
There are few other stories that I don’t see but others do. Others see through me and they know the stories that I am part of. I never get to see those stories. Those who see them, pity me. Sometimes they are repulsed. Sometimes irritated. And many times surprised. In other few times, they offer love. People do all sorts of things. But I never get to hear those stories. I know there are some stories around me and within me, the plots of which I will never know. I frantically look for them around me to know those thickened plots. I see them scattered all around me. But there are too many stories and too many fragments. It is not an easy jigsaw puzzle that can be solved in this life time. But I never give up on my search.
These stories are not solely mine. These are stories of my mother, my grandmother and great grandmother. Roots of many stories trace back to a forgotten time, probably to a time when the first generation of my family was born.
Those stories I can’t tell people, I share them with that black dog that comes running behind me every night when I return back home late. He comes running wagging his tail. I sit with him in front of the gate of my house and tell him the story. I tell him with high drama, that after a while, he turns and runs back to his home. He is simply not interested. Or perhaps, he thinks I am taking his love for granted. For the love he offers to me, I return it with a heavy and boring story that fails to impress him. He is disappointed with me every night. So, I stopped telling him stories.
Sometimes, when alone at home with my pet dog, I lie on the floor next to her and try telling her stories. Minutes after I start, she just moves away to the comfy corner under the table. She is just not prepared to hear all the drama. She knows the dram queen I am. Her life is filled with enough drama. Every day, she has to struggle through the cinematic rivalry with the street dogs in the neighborhood during her evening walk. That gives her enough dose of drama and she is not interested in the stories of humans that are unnecessarily melodramatic. So, I tell those stories to none.
Depressed and empty, then I run to the dark cinema halls to listen to the fictional stories instead. And in the darkness, amidst the sounds of popcorn crunching and Coke slurping, I let my emotions run wild. Then I return to the bed, under which lay those stories, silently, waiting to haunt me. And I listen to their whispers.
There are other stories that I pick and choose to hide it silently under the floor carpet that has been sprawled out in my living room. Sometimes, I take those stories and fold them neatly into tiny packets and place them under my sleeping mattress. And then I go about doing my daily chores pretending I have no stories of shame and guilt that lay silently buried under the mattress. And sometimes, I break them into tiny pieces, and drop them one by one on the streets I walk, imagining myself to be Hansel who has lost his Gretel and the broken bits to be bread crumbs. I also hope that the crumbs be eaten by a hungry crow so that those unbearable stories disappear without any trace. But the crows never come. And the stories patiently wait under the bed for me to return.
So, in the Ionely nights, I hear those stories’ husky whispers. Then, I scream loudly begging them to stop. But they never stop. They haunt my dreams and lives. And when the dawn breaks, I go about keeping them unnoticed. They are absolutely humiliated by my indifference. So every night, they return to haunt me.
And I have few other stories that I always carry within me. They are invisible. But they are present around me. But people never notice. And that is convenient. When I walk around laughing and chattering loudly, I have them trailing around me silently. I am conscious of them. But I know they will never get known to others. And so, I hold my head high and take them around with courage.
There are few other stories that I don’t see but others do. Others see through me and they know the stories that I am part of. I never get to see those stories. Those who see them, pity me. Sometimes they are repulsed. Sometimes irritated. And many times surprised. In other few times, they offer love. People do all sorts of things. But I never get to hear those stories. I know there are some stories around me and within me, the plots of which I will never know. I frantically look for them around me to know those thickened plots. I see them scattered all around me. But there are too many stories and too many fragments. It is not an easy jigsaw puzzle that can be solved in this life time. But I never give up on my search.
These stories are not solely mine. These are stories of my mother, my grandmother and great grandmother. Roots of many stories trace back to a forgotten time, probably to a time when the first generation of my family was born.
Those stories I can’t tell people, I share them with that black dog that comes running behind me every night when I return back home late. He comes running wagging his tail. I sit with him in front of the gate of my house and tell him the story. I tell him with high drama, that after a while, he turns and runs back to his home. He is simply not interested. Or perhaps, he thinks I am taking his love for granted. For the love he offers to me, I return it with a heavy and boring story that fails to impress him. He is disappointed with me every night. So, I stopped telling him stories.
Sometimes, when alone at home with my pet dog, I lie on the floor next to her and try telling her stories. Minutes after I start, she just moves away to the comfy corner under the table. She is just not prepared to hear all the drama. She knows the dram queen I am. Her life is filled with enough drama. Every day, she has to struggle through the cinematic rivalry with the street dogs in the neighborhood during her evening walk. That gives her enough dose of drama and she is not interested in the stories of humans that are unnecessarily melodramatic. So, I tell those stories to none.
Depressed and empty, then I run to the dark cinema halls to listen to the fictional stories instead. And in the darkness, amidst the sounds of popcorn crunching and Coke slurping, I let my emotions run wild. Then I return to the bed, under which lay those stories, silently, waiting to haunt me. And I listen to their whispers.
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2 comments:
Beautiful!
This is such a fab piece! Enjoyed it so much.
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