He could build a story out of anything and
everything.
When he walked down the street,
his feet falling in turns between the tiny cracks on the sidewalk that no one
else can see, he built up his own story. Brick by brick, crack by crack,
looking around at everything and nothing, until the faces at the windows of a
passing bus, the bearded man smoking aimlessly at the street-corner, the
twinkle in her kohl-lined eyes, the droplets of rain that clung to his own hair,
the ice-cream man in front of the mall, the group of pretentious girls outside
that eatery and the unclad, uncared for child crying at the roadside swirled
into one crazy mesh of abstract forgotten meanings that were so random that he
couldn’t put them together anymore.
By the time he used to reach
home, all that was one screaming chaotic mess of whimsical nonsense in a corner
of his brain.
He sat in front of his
grey-black laptop, opened an empty, inviting text document and placed his hands
on the keys, the tips of his fingers fitting satisfyingly into the depressions
in them where the letters were painted in bold white.
And he waited.
And he waited.
And he waited.
Like he had never tried before.
Willing it all to come through. It was not a long way. Not really. Just out
from the corner into the front, down through his neck, his shoulder, into his
arms and out…OUT… through his fingertips. Like he had imagined and pushed and
pushed and pushed so many times.
Oh, he could too. Make up
stories out of everything and anything. But he wished sometimes that he could
tell them. For real. Not just that fading dull scream tucked somewhere into the
back of his brain. They only came alive for him. Only for him.
The unlimited expanse of human
expression lay before his eyes and ears. He succumbed to its tempting call and
was lured away to serenity. For a few moments, he found happiness, and for now,
it was enough..
There was always a bit of him in
every story he wrote.
This time he had no problem
moving his fingers over the keys.
And this is what he wrote..
Once upon a time,
in a city far, far away, there lived a girl with a smile to die for and eyes
that weaved magic. She worked in a bank that liked to see (Read: _C_C_) everyone
eye-to-eye (Read: I_I_I) and made their employees work on the last day of the
year and the first day of the next. But, that’s beside the point..
Fact is, it so
happened that there was a boy who lived in a city far, far away who.. well, who
composed mediocre poetry & cracked really poor jokes.
Now, this boy once
went to this girl’s city, met her, stayed for three dream-like days & they
had a lot of fun. At the end of it, he had to go back to his city, & he
missed her a lot. She never asked him why he had come to her city; if she had,
he would’ve said, in an instant, “For you.. I came here for you.. because you
need no reason.”
Soon after the boy
had returned, there arose an opportunity for the girl to visit him in his city.
He couldn’t believe it when he heard, & he wanted her to come visit him
like he had wanted few other things in his life. But she said she wouldn’t..
She told him that
they’d only have about 72 hours, that it was better to cherish what they had
had already and carry on.. he reasoned that it was like putting up a score in
the first Inings of an ODI; whatever you set, in hindsight it would always seem
inadequate.. He believed that they would only add to the good memories they’d
have; he wanted her so visit him.. But she said she wouldn’t..
He realized of
course that it was perfectly understandable for her to not come; not to
himself, but to her maybe.. What did it matter that he could prepare life for
that moment, that second, that bit of eternity - waiting, training, living,
till that moment came..? What did it matter that finally, when that point came,
when he would get to meet her again – they would have immortality for that one
second, that one heartbeat, the one cubicle in the history of the chaotic
universe would become completely theirs..? What mattered was that she said she
wouldn’t visit him..
