posted this as a note on FB some days back. realized I have somehow done injustice with my old faithful blog by opting the 'note' to the 'post'. And injustice I can not brook. Hence...
All hail the script!
At age 35, I look back (I usually don't, this here is a rare moment, thoda sa roomani ho jaye etc) and see the distance I have traversed. It has been quite a ride with more than a few twists and turns. ‘Kahani mein twist’. Changes where least expected. Uncharacteristic decisions. Unexplainable, unmitigated Loss that changed life forever. Gains. Beautiful memories that stay suspended, forming a parallel dimension that I can sneak into, when reality gets murky, or worse, algae-d. And the in-between.
Not exactly a potboiler, but decent screenplay, totally. If I were sure I would be living into my 70s, I could say with confidence that half my life is over. In these longevity-challenged times, it would be ambitious to predict thus. But I digress...so, if half my life is over, do I have an interesting enough story to show for it? I say, I do, though the oomph factor isn’t exactly burning a hole through the roof. Oh well, maybe next time.
We all have our stories.
My dad had one (I loved gobbling what he told me of it and made him repeat anecdotes from his childhood, youth and working life), so does my mom (I keep telling her to document it, like I did my dad, but they both prefer to actually live, and at times, relive their stories…fair enough).
The dude on a bike trying to zoom over a red light on his way to work, but is actually ramming into a Tavera, does. The corporate-to-a-T BlackBerried girl with her coiffed hair and manicured air does. Some stories are more dramatic than others, but we all have one. Faces in the crowd, some more revealing than others.
They say, people come into our lives for a reason, good or bad. I agree. Our stories are populated with characters - some get lost on the way, some accompany us beyond Time and dimension, some resurface in serendipitous ways. Others decide to hang around on the periphery, purely out of social obligations. They all leave traces – faint or indelible.
But in the end, it is (like I am so fond of repeating ad nauseam to anyone who will suffer me) all about the script, really.
Karma, destiny, free will, what have you, all built into the plot, beautifully. Mini/abridged Mahabharatas, Ramayanas, Odysseys... Life and its flip sibling Death insist on having the final word though, across narratives.
My dad, the wind beneath my wings, always wanted me to write a book, he thought I could probably weave a story.
Someday I might. Till then, I'll just continue living my story, like he did. On to Act 3, Scene 2.
back to the shell.