We are story tellers, all of us!

We are weavers of fables that we tell ourselves. We have our monsters slayed, beasts tricked and the wise crows humbling the beautiful swans. We are great story tellers, for without a coherent tale what would our streams of desires and experience amount to. A cacophony of beastly calls without a tale leading to a moral? We are all Aesops! Wise beastly men of tall tales.

Our journeys are imagined strings that pierce the hearts of experiences and seek to attribute plots, sub-plots, characterization. A conversation between a Hindustani and an old Turkish butcher gets M.K.Gandi and M.K.Ataturk woven into a common fabric of freedom! Both M.Ks! One could never have thought of ends justifying the means and the other dreamed of freedom with the courage of a indefatigable warrior. Yet, the conversation was a concerto of mutual admiration of two great dissimilar leaders conducted on the same staff line by a Turk butcher and a Kashmiri Pandit.

Our friendships, love affairs are attempts to make sense of the sweaty palms, pounding chests and the burn of dry lips. Everything happens seemingly in the accidents of providence, yet we seek to thread them into our pet narratives. He is my true love! She, whose waxed arm I held at the small of the elbow, is my best friend for ever. The one! who wore those over sized ear rings and the oxblood lipstick, is my bridge across arrhythmic beats. We tell these stories to ourselves. We craft meaning across events that happened, we write, direct and produce our own flash-back movies!

We are inventors of new labels too, it would be impossible to express that one special pounding of the heart, that irresistible desire to wear that white dress, that urge to make a deliberate mistake while playing ones part in a Duet. How does one explain that interlocking of hands and holding them tight in the belief that the intents and feelings would jump across the embracing lines of palms. The finger tips tracing the prints of each other as if to take a tactile print that will never fade. What would one call it? Friendship, love? We invent words, we are good at word-smithy, forever dissatisfied with the limited nuances of our language. It feels like a compromise to say that she is my love or he is my friend! It feels like a betrayal.

We are artists to the core, story tellers, sculptors, painters and poets too, but most importantly, we are story tellers. We tell ourselves stories to make sense of the string of experiences that otherwise are pointless acts of destiny, chaos or just pure chance. We become our own gods, our own creators of meaning. We all are word smiths, bead-thread weavers and bards!