the story of the story!!

A story – no story

My name is story. It is neither a quest nor a revelation; it’s moreover a need of the hour, a need to write. No story is more interesting than this, no plot is as abstract as this and none do I know with whom I have acquainted so much- me myself (if I am to break the ‘myself’ to ‘my self’, I have no stories to talk about it). There is nothing outside which I don’t see in me and there is nothing in me which I don’t witness outside. Often I have heard people saying as often as I have said it “you know what, the world outside is so full of injustice… hypocrisy... Happiness… pleasure…blah blah” “sometimes inside me I feel like a big volcano erupting!!” – Inside what? Outside what? I have often wondered (head tilted at 45 degrees with perpendicular fingers to support it) what this game of ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ is. My thoughts or the mind I possess is a miniature of the world I see or perceive if not the big picture itself. That’s it… I suppose that’s the word- ‘perceive’ or ‘perception’- may be… may be that makes the difference. It may be this difference in perception which makes every Tom, dick and Harry what they blindly believe they are. Distinct or unique as they say.

And hence Tom says “I think she is a hot… I mean beautiful”

Dick “you mean her? That flat butted lean crap!”

Harry “what I felt from her body language is she is carrying a lot of pain inside…some family stuff or else her right hand wouldn’t have gone back when the left went ahead”

Dick “Phew! May be she is carrying a baby… but definitely not a family inside...Ha...Ha...”

So these are the people who are stories by themselves, who tell stories and who listen to stories. At this juncture comes in a man of no names like an obnoxious weed among the lot and declares “she doesn’t exist at all… she is your perceived imagination! She is not there as you see her”. So now what crap is that? Where can one among the elite group of Tom, Dick and Harry relate to that nonsense? From this it’s vivid that the arena is well set for the stories and the game has to be played, passed, targeted and received among these relative ideas. Here if a goal keeper happens to witness the football coming, the ball passing him and thrashing on to the nets, he is not applauded for the potential haiku baby in him but is chucked out of the team! At the most people can tolerate a ‘Higgwita’ kind of saving a goal but never this. Here I ‘perceive’ that a story lives and dies on a relative string of those seen, heard, smelt, tasted, felt, argued, understood or at the most imagined. This is the story of ‘story’ which my grand mother didn’t say to me. A tale like me has umpteen possibilities as is the permutations and combinations from the string but something is always missing… something is always in search… out of reach… that unreadable… may be it is that fourth man of no names… may be it is that poetic goal keeper!