When I read novels and short-story collections, I yearn to write one too. I begin writing and then falter. I can’t seem to make up anything. Its funny. Its disheartening. Our lives are made up of zillions of stories. Yet, I cannot convert one into writing. I think I have disappointed myself. I am just an ordinary writer. I wish I would become a storyteller.
I pause for a moment and smile. I squint my eyes and bring them near the computer screen and read what I have written. Is this how it should begin?
I sit by the window and try to take in the nature. I realize there isn’t any left. Everything appears so man-made. There are a few specs of green in the distant- forlorn and dying. Apart from that, the entire landscape is adorned by buildings, small houses, narrow strips of road… No nature at all.
The only thing that makes its presence felt as some divine intervention, is the sky. It seems more alive than the earth. There are hues of blue, orange, yellow scattered across. The clouds stretch as soft bunches of cotton on the background. As the light keeps dimming, the outline of birds flying towards their nests rises against the fading horizon. The breeze is in tune with pleasant atmosphere. It is soft and cool; gently blowing and bringing with it, the sweat of the people who have toiled all day, their happiness of returning to the comfortable solace of their homes, the minor frustrations that will get wiped off with the innocent laughter of their children and the small bundle of memories that were created as the day moved along.
I sigh and think again. Is this really what I wanted to write? I wanted to write a story. I wanted to fill it with characters. I wanted to bring out their relationships. I wanted to begin a tale and fill it with various elements of fear, hope, love; with imaginary incidents based on true facts; with paragraphs of intricate details.
Instead, it is turning out to be an observational account off the diminishing day. The grand welcome of the lonely night. Of the dwindling nature. Of the creative human mind. Of regrets about the artificial environment. Of pride in form of buildings reaching out to kiss the sky. Of trees that are less yet blooming with flowers. Of people who are in a hurry and have no time to stop….
I suddenly realize that I am indeed telling a story. Not like others with imaginary events to share. Not like the ones who create characters and making them immortal. Not like the ones with powerful words creating explicit relationships. Not like the ones weaving fables of great personalities.
But the one that grasps the beauty of even simplest of the things. The one that writes in tune of everyday incidents yet uncovers the mystery behind them. My imagination is nothing but the tool that helps readers to turn my writing into a picture right in front of their eyes. My characters are nothing but souls mingled with the nature. My words are nothing but the vehicles to transport others in the realms of memories. My thoughts are nothing but the collection of something true yet hidden in the guise of the most obvious things.
The only power I possess is SIMPLICITY
I now realize what it means to be in the class of our own. How several contrasting minds co-exist in one single environment. Of their variety and differences. Of the one-ness that grows despite the multiplicity.
Writing doesn’t has any boundaries. Its fuelled by millions of thoughts. Some imaginary, some real, some vague, some clear.
Notions and ideas.
Alphabets and words.
Living in harmony.
I am one of them. A tiny ray of light. Same as others outwardly.
But with an individual identity.
Finally, it has dawned upon me,
I am also a STORYTELLER….