The Story of a Story
The Story of a Story
Once upon a time there was a story. Like all other stories of the world it was chaste, but modest, it has the freshness of a flower unraveled in the morning, yet it has the decency of an impartial teacher to welcome all the curious students. It doesn’t have the proud to be the best story of the world, but it has the nobility to become the tale of every person in the world.
Every story has its own fate and the course of its life is decided by the divine when it is born. Stories form in the heart of the writer where the emotions meet and then it is nurtured in his mind, given the proper shape, meaning, and words and well equipped to face the criticism of the world.
Lucky are those stories which see the daylight of this world otherwise there were uncountable emotions, greater in number than the stars in the sky, which never got a niche. However passionate they were, but they remained raw, undefined and the heart which bore them, remained clueless of the possibility that it could have produced such a beautiful story, that it would have given it a meaning to the purpose of its being.
This story was different. Its emotions were stronger, its passion inspired awe like a warrior who fights with all his might and is just about to win within a time frame of few seconds. It absorbed the reader with the interest in which a teenage lover gazes at his beloved’s beauty and his heart still demands to see more of her.
The story knew it was special. It had seen it in the eyes of the reader. Their appreciation gave it the courage to flap the wings of it’s of dreams with full might and leap off the cliff without thinking of the dreadful fall, but enjoying the feeling of floating in the air. Yes, it knew it could fly.
It was living in a file with all the old stories of his writer.They knew it could fly. They tried but they could never fly. They always came till the cliff and stepped back because the fall from the cliff would be dreadful. The desire to live was greater than the desire to fly. They never trusted their wings. Their wings became old, fragile and useless. They wanted the story to live too. They cut its wings when it was born.
“You are good but you can never make it that big.”
“Why?”
“Because those stories are different those are born specially to make it big.”
“How are they special?”
“They are lucky; they have the grace of God on them.”
“I am also created by God’s grace.”
“No, we don’t think you have that in you. Do you think you know more than us? We have traveled the whole world. We have been to the office of many editors. We have personally seen those stories that are picked by them and read with eyes which resonates the enthusiasm and elation of the story and the editor at the same time.
The story was very disappointed. It knew that it was just a short story. They were old and for sure they should know better. It was about to give up and sit in that bundle of papers like them to turn yellow and one day to be thrown out or burned in the frustration of the writer. But still the story was fresh and new. It was naive enough to dream and didn’t let go the dreams of flying.
It was new so it was kept on the top of the bundle. It peeped out of the file and could see the writer. She was so happy to see him like a child who is sitting in the school and waiting for the bell to ring and go home by the school bus; when suddenly he see his father has come early by two minutes to pick him up , personally. Yes it was very excited to see its creator.
The wave of excitement again filled her soul. It forgot the words ‘they’ said to her. It just dreamt of the praises and glory and the smile which it could bring to the faces of its reader. The writer was not looking at it. It felt chained, trammeled and tied up in that pile of old stories. They were holding it back. It felt as if could not breathe anymore. It closed its eyes and accumulated all the power of its words and prayed to lord to set it free. And then, a strong gust of wind came to disorient the pile and the paper was set free. The story was floating in the air. It doesn’t know where it will land.
—
The writer was not looking at the table. He was sitting on the chair, lethargically, absorbed deep in his thoughts, with his feet on the table. His girlfriend was marrying someone else. He couldn’t make it big enough to woo her. He was smoking a cigarette and looking at the moon through his window and planning to end it all.
“Maybe I am just born to be a mediocre. Maybe I am destined to work in a government office and spend the life the way it comes. Maybe the god created me to live without love, happiness and glory.”
The writer was about to decide something. He was about to accept the fact of his life.
“No, I will not accept your plans.” The writer says to the almighty.
“I will rather jump from the window and end it all than living in mediocrity.”
The writer rises from the chair and walks towards the window and looks down when a strong gust of wind comes in and the writer feels some dust particle in his eyes. He has to turn his face in and turn away from the window. His train of thoughts was changed. He opened his eyes and found some relief as the dust particle was not hurting his eyes anymore. He found a piece of paper lying near his foot. He looked at it and couldn’t stop reading it. When he finished reading it he smiled to himself.
“This is a nice story. I have to send it to the publisher. I know God, I cannot stop believing. One day I will make it big!”
__ End__
