Desperate scribbles on the paper echo through the walls of the silent room as the last drops of ink trickles from the sharp point of the pen, the haste increases exponentially, he looks around to check if he can borrow a pen, around his soldiers, tired he stoops while still leaning on the table. Then he thinks,
Am I obliged to write?
Why cant I sit down for the next few moments and then leave?
He closes his eyes, places his head on the table top and folds it around his arms, the lights go dim and he can now hear the unfiltered sounds around him, the muffled hum of the CPU, the cold groans of the air conditioner and the distant car honking on the far away highway. As he watches the flashes of lights play around his closed eyes, he remembers the comet that he has never seen and then imagines the splinters flying around in an island bonfire, the sand turning ember and the silver waters of the ocean that reflects the moon turn scarlet as they approach the fire . For a while he thinks of the isolation that he has so assiduously succeeded in creating for himself and then spends time wondering on the lonely wordlessness of the evening.
He heard the minute tick away on his wrist watch and lazily realized that he has a pen in his carry bag, as he rises from the table the lights go bright and the voices muted. So I must write he thinks, and starts again. What does he write? He remembers the lonely, schizophrenic father in a movie he recently watched, who repeated the same line over and again in a heavy volume. And then he hears the door open, the lanky, well built boy, steps in to the room, gracious gait and diligently dressed, he carried a friendly smile. Very late into the evening this sudden appearance startled and as he pulled the pen off the bag he finds the boy sitting on the table before him.
So, tell me a story, I hear you are quiet a juggler with words.
And what do you wish to listen?
Just any story, I am here to listen to you, anything that you have to offer.
I must forewarn you, not many listen to my stories, my tales are rather boring and often obtuse.
So what's the story for tonight?
And he started speaking, the ocean of love and the winds of sorrow, the land of Timbaktu and the king of Nowhereland, all appeared and disappeared like the characters in a Dickens tale, they came and went and came again. The twist were all anticipated and the surprises none. In the meandering, unending discourse of the pathos and joy of human kind the men were lost, one spoke and the other heard, the otherwise muddled phrases of the writer were vivid to the boy. They laughed together and they sobbed together and at times they had a their eyelashes equally wet. And then spoke the boy.
So where was the story?
I told you, I am no storyteller. You wanted me to talk didn't you?
Certainly, I wanted you to tell me tales, though you told no story but you certainly are quite a raconteur.
Ya, so I am, It's a pity though , I remember a lot, I don't forget at all.
I know a friend, he doesn't forget either, poor fellow he is perennially sad, he remembers every rainy day, every speck before the sun.
I try remembering the sunflower and the bird, and I remember the bubbly rose along with its thorns.
They went quite. Gazing into each other, smiling. The bulbs went dim again and the room went bright, the moon seemed to come closer and the stars gathered into a garland, like a Bollywood movie the interiors decorated themselves and a silent santoor played in the backdrop.
Is it for real?
You must know, you are here everyday, I was just passing by and decided to see you.
Then it must happen everyday, today seems no special, there was no mention in the newspapers of any unique astronomical phenomenon either.
Ya, it must be happening regularly, did you see it before?
I remember a lot, but I don't remember this. No doubt, I do forget a bit.
Probably you wont forget this time.
Oh, sure I wont.
The moon shone brighter, he thought of the day. It was another tiring day, not much good had happened, another dull day was wrapping up and from nowhere this listener has arrived. He remembers the angel who visited Abu-Ben-Adim and thinks of God. He knows he needs to write, but he needs to know who this young boy is.
And who are you, what made you come to me?
Oh, I have been wandering a lot traveling through the mountains, oceans and deserts and I decided to meet you. I had heard about you and wanted to meet you, we are in the same trade, I write the stories and you tell them.
But I don't tell stories, my stories are mundane, commonplace, everyday stories.
That's what I write and direct.
Then you are another boring, good for nothing thinker.
You may choose to say so.
Suddenly the impressive boy got up to leave, they shook hands and he said a goodbye. He didn't hear the door close but the boy was gone, the moon was nowhere and the stars hid behind a fluffy cloud. Another comet passed by and he rubbed his eyes, three pairs of bulbs were still glowing. And as he found a pen in his bag and sat down to write, he found paragraphs written in the diary and he read the lines one after the another...
Am I obliged to write?
Why cant I sit down for the next few moments and then leave?
He closes his eyes, places his head on the table top and folds it around his arms, the lights go dim and he can now hear the unfiltered sounds around him, the muffled hum of the CPU, the cold groans of the air conditioner and the distant car honking on the far away highway. As he watches the flashes of lights play around his closed eyes, he remembers the comet that he has never seen and then imagines the splinters flying around in an island bonfire, the sand turning ember and the silver waters of the ocean that reflects the moon turn scarlet as they approach the fire . For a while he thinks of the isolation that he has so assiduously succeeded in creating for himself and then spends time wondering on the lonely wordlessness of the evening.He heard the minute tick away on his wrist watch and lazily realized that he has a pen in his carry bag, as he rises from the table the lights go bright and the voices muted. So I must write he thinks, and starts again. What does he write? He remembers the lonely, schizophrenic father in a movie he recently watched, who repeated the same line over and again in a heavy volume. And then he hears the door open, the lanky, well built boy, steps in to the room, gracious gait and diligently dressed, he carried a friendly smile. Very late into the evening this sudden appearance startled and as he pulled the pen off the bag he finds the boy sitting on the table before him.
So, tell me a story, I hear you are quiet a juggler with words.
And what do you wish to listen?
Just any story, I am here to listen to you, anything that you have to offer.
I must forewarn you, not many listen to my stories, my tales are rather boring and often obtuse.
So what's the story for tonight?
And he started speaking, the ocean of love and the winds of sorrow, the land of Timbaktu and the king of Nowhereland, all appeared and disappeared like the characters in a Dickens tale, they came and went and came again. The twist were all anticipated and the surprises none. In the meandering, unending discourse of the pathos and joy of human kind the men were lost, one spoke and the other heard, the otherwise muddled phrases of the writer were vivid to the boy. They laughed together and they sobbed together and at times they had a their eyelashes equally wet. And then spoke the boy.
So where was the story?
I told you, I am no storyteller. You wanted me to talk didn't you?
Certainly, I wanted you to tell me tales, though you told no story but you certainly are quite a raconteur.
Ya, so I am, It's a pity though , I remember a lot, I don't forget at all.
I know a friend, he doesn't forget either, poor fellow he is perennially sad, he remembers every rainy day, every speck before the sun.
I try remembering the sunflower and the bird, and I remember the bubbly rose along with its thorns.
They went quite. Gazing into each other, smiling. The bulbs went dim again and the room went bright, the moon seemed to come closer and the stars gathered into a garland, like a Bollywood movie the interiors decorated themselves and a silent santoor played in the backdrop.
Is it for real?
You must know, you are here everyday, I was just passing by and decided to see you.
Then it must happen everyday, today seems no special, there was no mention in the newspapers of any unique astronomical phenomenon either.
Ya, it must be happening regularly, did you see it before?
I remember a lot, but I don't remember this. No doubt, I do forget a bit.
Probably you wont forget this time.
Oh, sure I wont.
The moon shone brighter, he thought of the day. It was another tiring day, not much good had happened, another dull day was wrapping up and from nowhere this listener has arrived. He remembers the angel who visited Abu-Ben-Adim and thinks of God. He knows he needs to write, but he needs to know who this young boy is.
And who are you, what made you come to me?
Oh, I have been wandering a lot traveling through the mountains, oceans and deserts and I decided to meet you. I had heard about you and wanted to meet you, we are in the same trade, I write the stories and you tell them.
But I don't tell stories, my stories are mundane, commonplace, everyday stories.
That's what I write and direct.
Then you are another boring, good for nothing thinker.
You may choose to say so.
Suddenly the impressive boy got up to leave, they shook hands and he said a goodbye. He didn't hear the door close but the boy was gone, the moon was nowhere and the stars hid behind a fluffy cloud. Another comet passed by and he rubbed his eyes, three pairs of bulbs were still glowing. And as he found a pen in his bag and sat down to write, he found paragraphs written in the diary and he read the lines one after the another...
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