My Last Story

My Last Story – Unusual Short Story
Photo Credit: www.cepolina.com

I was furiously typing on; typing the rest of my last story. Words were cascading down through my finger tips and my imagination tinged with real life experience was shaping itself into another short story. My stories were great in number and all were filed neatly and kept in my room in a closet, next to my bed. Not one had been published.

My son had offered to get them published. He could have got them published in the most popular magazines with his influence. But who would read an old man’s gibberish on values, morals or emotions?

I told him,”No,” and added,”it’s just that I want to see my thoughts as words, just as a painter would like to see his thoughts in colours. I am happy that you read them, my child, and give lavish praise, in spite of your busy life. Let it be, Shyam, let it be,”

My son seemed a bit puzzled by my response but he did not talk about it again.

So I was carrying on with my story writing, with the old type writer in the corner of my bedroom. Only a few years back I had typed out a story on this typewriter which I found in the out house and Shyam had happened to read it.

“Dad, this is beautiful!” he exclaimed. “You really have good imagination. I’ll get you a computer and you can bring out all your ideas in print!”

“Shyam! This typewriter seems to have some magic in it. Move it into my room. It will give me company. I want only this.”

Thus I had started writing – writing stories.

Shyam made it a point to read my stories and express his thoughts about them.

‘Dad, you could have made the story a little more realistic. It is a melodrama, cinematic,” he used to laugh, at times.

“Do you think so? When it happens to others we feel incidents are exaggerated. We cannot imagine things are right everywhere just because everything is right beneath our roof,” I used to say and he agreed.

In fact Shyam’s life itself was on the melodrama side. He would have felt the agony of loneliness acutely had he not immersed himself in work. His wife, my daughter in law died of leukemia nine years back and he had not remarried. His only son, my only son’s son was schizophrenic and had committed suicide a few years back.

Me and my son had each other and he tried to make the best of it. Though my movements had become restricted, we had dinner together and that was the time he read my stories. He sometimes wheeled me to the large dining room or we had dinner inside my bed room, near my type writer.

My thoughts had trailed off and I had stopped typing for some time.

I heard voices outside the window. Watchmen were changing shift. As my room was in the ground floor in close proximity to the gate and the time was past three a.m., I could hear their conversation clearly. A younger watchman, who was a new appointee questioned the older one.

“The light is on in that room. Who is typing at this unearthly hour? Is some office work going on?”

The older one’s titter was heard.”It’s our M.D. saab’s father. He keeps on typing. Sometimes never sleeps. Don’t bother about it.”

I started typing again.The younger watchman came near the window and peeped inside. He looked shocked.

“Bhaiyya, I can’t see anyone inside,” he shouted at the receding figure in darkness.

But the older watchman had cycled off, out of ear shot.

My story got completed in a few minutes. The younger watchman came to peer inside once again. I removed the last sheet of paper, filed it and closed the typewriter, as he watched with horror.

“Paper and typewriter moving on their own,” he gurgled, wiping his eyes.
He was right, wasn’t he? I had fallen a few hours back at the dining table. Shyam had called for the doctor and he had pronounced me dead.

What…? I was shocked. My last story was only half finished. I should finish it. My son cried for a long time. I tried my best to console him but I had no voice to reach him. Finally, when he was making arrangements for my funeral, I floated into my room to finish my last story. He will read this story tomorrow. I have a lot of soothing words typed in it for him.

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