Storytelling (Part 2)

Our heroine’s successful storytelling debut convinced her to do it again. The first story had striked a conversation which didn’t end. Only the arrangement changed. From a cozy Dylan’s Cafe where the warmth comforted them, to the cold Assam House’s terrace, where they endlessly shivered beneath hundreds of thousands of stars. Our heroine was in pure bliss. She strangely felt at ease around the strangers. There were more stories, more discussions, and more debates. It couldn’t get any better.

Dylan’s Cafe felt like a home to her. The other day when she walked in, she was welcomed by the familiar faces but with a few positive additions – a gleeful smile, healthy greetings, and heartwarming hugs.

The clock struck nine thirty and the gates were closed for visitors. The gang started to shift the tables aside. The main chair was placed near the counter with a mic right beside it. Fresh hot brownies, marshmallows to go with the fondue, shakes, momos, thukpa, and soups were ordered. They sat there excited, wondering how the words were to charm them tonight.

Our micro celeb chose to go last. She even came prepared with her entire set. The lake she had visited before turned out to be quite an inspirational point to make her second time better. This time though, there was no story but instead, some words she weaved together in the past. Some of her own, while some she had read and engraved in the brain. Of course, the reasons she holds them dear are lost with time. But, that hasn’t changed her love for those words. Happily so, hopefully.

She began reading.

Oh, the comfort!

Oh, the comfort — the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts, nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them — keep what is worth keeping — and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away. Oh, that comfort!


Does history repeat itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce? No, that’s too grand, too considered a process. History just burps, and we taste again that raw-onion sandwich it swallowed centuries ago. It just makes us realise how lucky or unlucky we were to not be a part of it. Accordingly, it gives us the sweet or bitter taste which stays with us long enough, until, one day we make our own history.

Everything we didn’t

Everything we say is valued and considered. Maybe, not now. Maybe, someday later. But, what about the things we don’t say? Why aren’t they understood, or even misunderstood for that matter?
It’s human tendency to hear just what one says. We never try and understand what the other person didn’t say. Surprisingly, we aren’t always at the receiving end of this transaction. Sometimes, we are a part of it. We hold back things. There’s so much we would (and could) say but there’s very little we actually end up saying. Sadly, it doesn’t matter until that one time when you’re miserable you didn’t say it. Or didn’t do it. Whatever you wanted to. Whatever you had to. Post which, all there’s left to say and do is regret. Fortunately, you do that at least. With everything you have, or don’t.

She read those words slowly and clearly. Letting the words sink in from time to time. She wanted to make everyone feel exactly what she felt. The applause at the end made her assume she had succeeded. Even if she hadn’t, she was okay with it. Somewhere along the way, she had connected the puzzled dots inside and had made her peace with it.

As rituals demand, a beer was popped open and a last toast was raised to the words. Little did they know, these words are the way they would remember each other. After all, they were okay being forgotten as long as those words were remembered.

The end.