As humans, we are all craving for stories to fill our vague life. A story to rejoice our sorrow, a story to hold back those tears, a story to worsen those happy moments and a story to felicitate our failure. How easily can those people hiding behind the pages of some notebook or some torn diary escape the torment of life, but in person, we take years to overcome the loss of an unfaithful lover or a faithful dog.A story a day, keeps the reality away. I was made to believe that life is a lie, when stories reached my ears.But do you know the best as well as the worst thing about stories? It’s that, it ends as soon as it begins unlike life whose ending is never known to us. And when it ended I found that there was no Cinderella, no Little Red Riding Hood, no Popeye, the sailor and no Rapunzel. All there was were the lonely nights with no adventure, mysterious jungle with wild creature, a sea with salty water and a short-haired girl standing in the life’s gutter. Sometimes I feel that the opposite of life should have been story rather than death. Because all that resides after the end of life of a person are ‘stories’ about him. We take so much pride in telling stories that sometimes we almost forget, we are speaking aloud the lies which we would have been afraid to say in person. They tell stories are a form of entertainment, to read, but according to me, stories are the most boring things in the world because all the stories try are to use the best adjectives to define the most uninteresting characters and concealing the pain they face in real lives, of negligence. The biggest hypocrites are the ones who write because they want the readers to sympathize for a person whom he himself is discriminating on various grounds and then telling us that people claim to disrespect them. Aren’t they pretenders? Who speak something on our face but mean something else from within? They are all writing because they are selfish, they know that the paper never betrays and the pen never neglects. All their emotions, they pen down and feel lighter but what about those stories who carry the weight of those emotions we are relieved of? So simply we construct a story that later on destructs the reality and takes us to the world of fantasy. And when today I am writing this story about story, it’s somewhere hitting you that how beautifully I have yet again told a lie in the form of a story which you are reading not being able to address me as a lier who makes stories to blame stories.
DEEPSHIKHA CHOWDHURY