10th April, 2015.
“You, there! Yes, you! Is that a glass of wine in your hand?
Or is it a cup of coffee? Or a cake? Well don’t bother telling me what it is. Tell
me, are you comfortable? On the sofa or your bed or wherever you are while
reading this? Of course you are, I know it! So let me tell you something. If
you are reading this, with all the comfort around you, then believe me, you are
not dead. No, you might are sad and gloomy for now, and so unfortunate to
stumble on this piece of paper, but you are not dead. You are very much alive
my friend. If you are reading this, then you are alive. If that’s not enough to
celebrate, I cannot tell you what is! Though what I can do, is ask you to live,
write, eat and fall in love and stay there and give him/her all you have. Nothing can be more exuberant than that. Create stories like this one and be
a storyteller or poet. And the day you figure it out, you won’t need this
message anymore. All the love, regards, Antigone.”
The piece written above, I found it in a book, on the last page.
Whoever owned this book wrote it with a red pen and donated it to the college
library where I spent most of my time during college days. I still don’t know who
was she, but I love her. Okay I said she because I know it is a woman, much
older than me, like 10 years older. The handwriting was clearly of a woman and
plus, Antigone, being an alias, is a female character from the Theban plays by Sophocles.
I found the book in the literature section during my first year, and since
then, whenever I found the book, I read that message. Not because I wanted to
figure it out who she was, but for the last line that said “create stories like
this and be a storyteller, or a poet…”
since then, I have been following her instructions, and still trying to figure
it out.
Well, does anyone know what Dastangoi is? Anyone? No? Well, it is an art of oral storytelling in
Urdu, presumably originated during 16th century. Quite a beautiful
term, isn’t it? Dastangoi. Something that you can repeat over and over without
losing its meaning. But why am I speaking of this? Well, keep patience my
dears.
My father (note to self, I need to write about him too), has
always told me that the toughest job in the world is nothing but the art of storytelling.
That and making people laugh. If you are telling a story, the first thing that
you should remember is how to get a grip over the heart of your readers and listeners.
To make them stay and follow you into the world you created is the hardest job
of all time. Same is the thing with poetry. If you can’t tap the emotions of
the person who reads your works, you are no good. I think I am in agreement
with my father in this matter.
Strictly speaking, I am not a storyteller. I am not even a
writer of any sorts. Though I will not call the stories I wrote false or
something. But calling them readable will be a dire insult to those who are
more apt than me in writing. I don’t know if I ever was successful I making
anyone stay and read it completely, or was I ever able to touch someone’s heart
ever. But still, since someone asked me how I write or wrote such “good”
things, here is my answer; I hope it will be sufficed and will quench the
queries.
Well, it is true that there is something going on inside my
head. Always! Like right now, there are 25 different situations in my head,
with subsequent characters and their emotions that range varyingly throughout
the broad spectrum. Those situations are basically nothing but the things I see
on the road, metro, bus, or anywhere. It happens while I am travelling or
walking or just am sitting quietly on a bench, looking at people. I know I sound
too clichéd, but there is no other way I can put it. I don’t even know how the
characters come into my existence, but at times, I become the character,
feeling the emotion that s/he is feeling or will feel or that reflects the
situation. And that’s it. If the character and the situation survives, it goes
down in my register, and then in my blog. Though in fairness, I have written
only three stories on the blog although there are more than 18 stories around. I
didn’t posted them for this reason or that, and I don’t want to post them for
no particular reason.
As far as poetry is concerned, I believe poetry can be found
anywhere. But mostly, it resides in the chaos of our hearts. Although I might
have lost my touch on that, but my heart is still in a chaos, and I might find
the poem I need. I am giving it time.
Now, coming back to the question why I am speaking of this,
there is no reason at all. Or maybe a random reason. Or maybe too random to be
random or not random at all! Two days ago, I went to my local library, and I found
a book of poems. Tattered, torn and with page marks. The book belonged to
someone called Seemita Anddy, and the year is 1981. I love old books; there is
so much in them. Well, I randomly opened
a page which was marked, and guess which poem I found?
“Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old time
is still a flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.” – R. Herrick- page number 71.
So, what does it say, the poem? Quite strangely, it reflects
the message I found 4 years ago by Antigone. She told me, or anyone else who
read that, to celebrate and live. There is nothing else to do instead of
loving, reading, writing. I might die tomorrow, or might drop dead right now
after writing this. So I am gathering my rose buds. And although it is a tough
task, I am not quitting. Not yet. Antigone asked me not to. I don’t know her,
but she might was or still is an amazing woman, for person who can write such a
thing on the back of a book and then donate it to library is anything but
ordinary. She wanted us to read her
message, and she was successful in terms of speaking. Reading the poem reminded
me of that message, the handwriting and the deep meaning inside. Yes, I am yet
to figure something out, and I am waiting for the day when I won’t need the
message any longer, but until then, I will keep up this silly task. I am too
stupid I assume, following some random person’s whim and fantastic instruction.
But then, if everyone became smart together, life would be boring.
Also, there is
another thing. Quote by F. Scott
Fitzgerald, which said – “I’m not sentimental- I’m as romantic as you are. The idea,
you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last—the romantic
person has a desperate confidence that they won’t.” I tend to believe in this
quote and I assume I am a romantic, in a way or other. That might explain why I
am like this. And why not anything like anyone else, like normal people. I am
just trying to do something that people generally overlook. I try to find
stories, not inside books, but in human heart. And I believe that everyone has
got a story to tell, no matter how silly, morbid, stupid, funny or inspiring it
sounds, there is a story. And if by chance you don’t have one, you can always
make one. Just look for yourself around you. It is not easy, I know, but it
surely is not impossible. And who knows, your story might is someone else’s
too!
I think I have spoken far enough, but if I was to take
liberty and add something to Antigone’s message, I would say, “If you have
scars, don’t hide, don’t be in the wounds. They are there to show the world
that you survived something. And maybe, it will be those scars only which might
make you loved. And maybe someone is!”
So, where is yours?
Thank you Antigone!
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