In the midst of some interesting encounters this year, I realised
I have a predilection for stories. Stories in different shapes and sizes. Fiction
and Non-Fiction. Books, films, blogs, some short snippets by Terribly Tiny Tales. A few social media
updates that if put together can be an interesting tale. Distinctly astonishing
reads from The Stranger’s Project, stories
that are brought alive by groups like Kommune.
And the ones that I hear during conversations, at work, over rides, food
and trips.
These stories have laid bare very human desires and many
fears. I now know the reasons behind some choices – which had left me
exasperated earlier. Pretexts of love for a particular food item, song, a film,
a person. The ploy of a kiss, those tears and that hug. One blink and the monotony,
the ordinariness of a gesture is sanitised to reveal the hidden sum of the
hundreds of moments. What I take away from chats, films has changed. I gather
more.
It starts from the start, the family. It took me years to
realise our narratives are supposed to be linked like the fevicol ka jod. There
is no point denying it. They are the ones who are most eager to hear our side,
however trivial the accounts are. Watching the kids grow up and racing the
scooter through the city where I grew up, the usual happened - life flashed
past. A friend said some time ago, we are each other’s experiences, there’s no
living without.
A few weeks ago in Bombay, conversations alluded unrequited
love and a longing to demystify the future. Thoughts slipped into conversations
and I glanced up to place the voice and the person together. An exchange that
took more than 2 years in making, was left unfinished. Others were set in
motion.
The background of every story is love or grief borne out of
it. I have also realised that behind the restrained, evasive remark, everyone
has a story to tell. Fairytales, legends of kindness and companionship, an
account of honesty, a piece of care.
