A friend of mine asked me a couple of days back about my story. After the initial “what do you mean my story ?”, and the ensuing searching around for anything concrete with beginning, middle and end, I found nothing.
I asked him quite pompously if he wanted the one where I won the Nobel, or the Pulitzer or the Oscar.
I asked him rather childishly if he wanted the one where I lived by a beach, or atop a hill in Switzerland. Then I added with a touch of reality, if he’d like the one where I lived in the middle of a bustling city.
He repeated, emphasizing on the word “your” this time. I knew that this was one time I wasn’t going to get away with big talk, verbal paintings or smiles. I tried anyway, by saying that my story was too fragile that it might break by just talking about it. Often, I’m at a loss for words. For some strange reason, conversations replay in your head at times when other important things are at hand, Like concentrating on the road, for instance.
This morning, I was riding on my scooty drowsily. The cold wind hit me and tried to wake me up and get me to look at the road ahead. I woke up with a start, in the middle of the road suddenly thinking about what my story was. There’s a lot of things I could have said, should have said.
I should have started off by believing that there was a story to tell at all. Perhaps one that wasn’t quite so moving or great, but it had a beginning and an end, and a middle that was lived entirely and completely.
I should have been honest and said that it was imperfect, with glaring flaws and mistakes that can never quite go away.
I should have been unashamed to say ordinary. But then again, happy to say satisfied.
I should have just for once, gotten up and said, “don’t know. I haven’t yet begun writing yet”
I didn’t say it, like so many other things I didn’t do.So much for my story. Yet to unfold, and yet to be told.