My story

I was silent. For a long time, the body, mind, and my long story needed a solace. On the busy roads, near the attics of my balcony facing hostel room, the stories hid in silence. Observe, said my teacher. Observation is an art. But I was a lone walker on the crowded roads. How will I observe? Don't see it as you see it. Don't hear it as you hear it now.

Then far away, beyond the hills I heard the silent cry of a mother. Her daughter was away. Far away. Her daughter got a boon from the god of stories. "I bless you with a pen which writes stories. but you can see your mother only when you have a completed story". She thought it was easy. But later, much later realised that the boon was a curse.

Now I know that the daughter was nobody else, but me.  The long stories of the neighbourhood which I overheard at the canteen or turned up as hot gossips were just the best of contemporary relationships. But they all lacked one, the soul. Soul was the one which i searched for. The unfamiliar guys around said, "you are nuts". But less do they realise that  my heart ached when they called me so.

I am not, I will not be either. But my story will be the best in town, in nearby towns and around the world. Because, just because it was real.