Friend Short Story – The Storyteller
Friend Short Story – The Storyteller
Photo credit: krosseel from morguefile.com
He walked. His name was Kahaanikaar, the Teller of Stories. He trampled earth and existence beneath him, but it looked as though he didn’t notice. It would seem that his eyes were fixed almost lifelessly on his boots. Not true. He noticed everything that happened around him; but he cared about next to nothing.
Kishore, the village history teacher, remembers him. He still remembers, best of all, the Kahaanikaar’s friendship, so to speak, with the fabled Nagu. Nagu would have considered himself ordinary, but the legends spoke of a mightier figure: greasy hair that curled in his namesake serpentine fashion paired with the body and marijuana addiction of a modern day Shiva. The sight of him made girls feel just a bit dizzy; each one thought that she would be the one who would tame the devil in his eyes.
The storyteller will always have stories. He had told them far and wide, but right now, he needed to go home. Needed the sights, the sounds, the smells. The good and the bad. Both were ugly, both were stunning. He could almost believe that it was real: he could actually see the wooden windows, cracked with age; smell that strange, sharp smell that could mean nothing else. He fed himself on the feeling of home, and that had been enough to satisfy him. Until a while ago, perhaps, it had been enough.
The Kahaanikaar knew Nagu as well as anyone could. They were a strange pair; two awesome enigmas that never really bothered to understand each other. They were both too preoccupied with their lives, they begin friends out of necessity. Modern comedians tell us the prettiest girl in the room is the loneliest; most boys are intimidated by her. The sort of deference and respect these two received was enough to ostracize them, they gravitated towards each other out of necessity, what other friends did they have?
The fields The Storyteller passed through now were empty, save for the waist-high, dry, yellow grass. He liked it that way. He didn’t understand most of the people he came across. Quite a few of them troubled him; nearly all of them puzzled him. So he kept away. He walked through that field much as he had through life: staring at nothing but the next step. The Kahaanikaar lived like his father, and father before him. He didn’t belong here; this was a man who belonged in a different world, an ancient one where promises were honoured and truth was the ultimate prize.
Like all madnesses worth their salt, Nagu's began with a woman. She was the Dark Lady to his Shakespeare, the Irene Adler to his Sherlock, she was the Jungle Woman and Carmen Santiego and Kali Ma and the First Mother. Nagu had found the perfect complement to his hazy dreams, the ideal companion for his trips. Between her, his chillum and the sun, Nagu was happy.
She died. Her death did not live up to her aura; there was no war or murder, no wild animal on a rampage. She died a ludicrously normal, albeit early, death. Pneumonia is never pleasant, but it’s a better way to go than most.
He could hear noises that he could only describe as silvery. The Storyteller didn’t pay them any attention. He knew they would be one two things: the leaves whispering their secrets to one another in the safety of the night, or the moon, whispering words of strength to a fellow traveller.
He did not deal with it well. Her death opened a window in Nagu’s mind, one that was better left closed. The Kahaanikaar did not understand his comrade’s sorrow, he had greater stories to tell than the one about the Girl Who Got A Cold. He left. He is very famous now. Everyone knows the Kahaanikaar.
Instinct made the old Kahaanikaar look up. He could smell danger. Smoke, tears and fear. He could smell it.
“I wish you’d stayed,” he whispers into the night. “I’d have hated you for it, but I wish you’d stayed.”
The Kahaanikaar’s eyes focused on a spot in the distance. What he saw made him sink to his knees. Memories-some sorrowful, but most of them stunning-rushed through his mind, leaving it emptier than before. He looked as though he was calm, his features relaxed, his mind was at peace. Quietly, he watched his home burn. His eyes reflected the fire as they told a story of passion and a dark, deadly beauty.
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