The Storyteller

“I am the storyteller”. A man with a white beard said to the toddler. He was quite conspicuous by his choice of attire in that train. He must have been at the wrong end of 70’s but still looked quite charming going by his radiant face. The woolen overcoat was amicably placed on his not-so-strong shoulders. The black trousers gave him the perfect look of a detective from some Conan Doyle’s book. But the words which he muttered seemed quite strange as no one takes pride in some profession like this. But it soon dawned on me, that the old man could be some writer.

It was the month of February and it’s anybody’s guess as to what the weather is like in the northern parts of India. It never feels good to travel during this period but when you are living thousands of miles away from your home, nothing seems to suffice. It was the morning train I had taken from Varanasi to travel till Gorakhpur, my home town. If I recollect well, I had managed to spend some time with my brother studying in BHU and the after effects of separation were not adding up to anything good. We had so many thing to talk(we were meeting after years) that we longed for at least 100 hrs in a day. Defeated on that front, I had trudged my way into this train and could secure a cozy looking seat in the general compartment. I must admit that one of the better experiences of traveling in India comes from the confines of these wooden compartments. You will definitely not see smug looking “official” faces. You have to talk, even if you are in no mood to do so. Vendors abound, the non-stop chirp is also a speciality.

By the corner of my eye, I looked at the old man, not giving any indications or showing my interest in their talk. But I told myself that it’s not a bad time pass if he puts some of his stories right on the floor. I was making an earnest attempt to keep my emotions in control.

“Okay, then tell me a story which is not going to end. I don’t like stories which end. I always ask my daadi to tell a never ending story but she always manages to make me sleep before I could remember anything.” the little boy said with clear dejection in his voice. Everybody likes stories, but never ending ones! That’s asking too much.

“But every story has to end my son; otherwise I will not be a story teller. If a story doesn’t end, how will you enjoy other stories? It will become monotonous to have only one story running as a commentary. You tell me, would you like such a situation?” The old man said with sparkling wisdom in his eyes.

“But I don’t like stories which end” The kid stuck to his best line.

“Hmm..I can tell you one”. Old man said with supreme confidence. But I was startled at this new trick of his to keep the kid engaged. I don’t like men who lie to children. They are innocent and too young to understand what goes into the act of trickery. They are not exposed to the whole gamut of emotions and it smacks of hypocrisy when one tells them anything to get their attention intact. What about the ghost stories we used to hear when we were kids? The terror of passing by a peepal tree even with your parents! The crackling sound of bamboo trees, when I used to visit my village and sleep in the open space just in front of my house, still remains fresh in my ears. Seeing things which are impossible to think have been legacy for young generations. I hated the old man more for his attitude than ever in the 15 minutes of togetherness in the train.
"It’s none of our business to contemplate over how we should see others behave." I thought and clung to my denim jacket to not let the cool breeze pass inside.

“But you tell me, how are you going to listen to me? You will get down midway and my never-ending story will have to come to an abrupt halt”. Old man seemed to have made some sense after my mental banter I think.

“You have your answers pre-planned and would not let me hear any story. I know this for sure. Even my daadi promises a lot of things, but she always manages to dodge my pertinent questions away. Ok, tell me a story as long as it lasts”. Now, the kid was almost on the verge of tears saying this. I suppose every kid knows how to get their demands fulfilled. That is a very strange language. The timing also remains perfect.

“Ok. I will tell you a story, but promise me that you won’t leave until I finish the story.” I thought, the expression on the storyteller’s face really expected an answer. I had a smirk look on my face thinking about the solemn concern of the old man.

“Tata Uncle! I wish I could have heard the entire story, but I need to go now.”

“Come on Sparsh, the train will not wait for us. It halts for only 2 minutes.” The father took large strides away from the old man clutching his son’s hand.
The old man waived at Sparsh.

I still had a long way to travel, but somehow in the middle of this entire episode, my mind wandered towards something very different. Call it luck or lucky discovery; I was not to be the same guy ever again.

Aren’t we all travelers in this world? We all have come to complete our journey. Some might get off this train early and others may last a bit long. But, everybody boards this train for a purpose. Like I did, like Sparsh and his father did and like crores of daily commuters did that day. Everybody wants to live forever, but the story teller has something different going on his mind. No use of a single story doing all the rounds to make this world a monotonous place to live in. Everyday we enjoy listening to different stories as each of us tread our path towards our goal. This goal is the destination where this train is going. Amidst all the cacophony, we somehow forget to have a look at things happening around us. Then, comes the story teller to remind us of His existence. Nobody can script a never-ending story as per his/her liking. Sparsh, like hordes of others, want to live forever, negligent of the fact that no one is going to last the whole journey. One day you have to wish goodbye to this whole world and be lost in oblivion, unless the storyteller decides to make it immortal.

Then you have your sentiments quite similar to that of Sparsh, to achieve something worthwhile. You paint a gloomy picture yourself by putting unreasonable constraints. The story teller wants you to enjoy each day as a different story so that the legend may live on. Then you will have obstructions like Sparsh’s father who will let you disembark the train, letting you not complete the journey. The Story teller wants you to go the distance and achieve for yourself what you deserve and what you set out for. But, even if we don’t complete our journey we always keep ourselves reminded of the fact that we are only the medium in his stories. We must thank him enough that he considered us worthy of playing a role in his stories, however little or small it may be.

With a sudden movement, I got back to see the train halted at a station. It wasn’t difficult for me to figure out that I was only one station away from my destination. I looked towards my right expecting the old man to be seated. But he was gone. I don’t know why, but I felt that his absence was not good. As my train started to move, I could feel a tinge of excitement firmly gripping me for having been able to complete my journey of self realization. It is sometimes journeys like these, which give you a reason to look back at your life and contemplate. The moribund aura surrounding modern cities acts as a catalyst to help you forget the very purpose of your existence. It is quite difficult to discover yourself, from that serious a situation.
I can’t thank the story teller more for having reminded me the purpose of my journey. I think, I kind of liked his persona which was far from being too ostentatious, but gripping nevertheless. I hope to unfold new stories everyday from now on.