The Rendezvous
What's in a story? She asked me. I looked at her and watched her hair blow in her face. Her hands continually brushed them away from her mouth as she looked out into the ocean. I followed her gaze into the infinite blue.
Any story in particular? I asked her. She looked at me and laughed.
No, silly. I loved it when she called me that, silly. Just a story, she said. A tale, an anecdote, whatever.
What about it? I wasn't quite understanding where she was getting at.
Story-telling. It's an undying art. It would be revered in every society, every era. It might have been Shakespeare's plays, it might be those stories about that celebrity breaking up with that one because of something that happened. They are all tales, and we love them, don't we?
I don't know, I said. And I didn't. It was interesting to wonder. Human beings have been telling stories even before words existed, what with cave paintings and all. Words came and we learned to tell stories through them. And then humans learnt to capture images and tell stories to them.
I think I know why, she said.
So tell me.
Mortality. I think, what we have in common with our ancestors - where our thought process is concerned - is that we want a part of ourselves to remain. For someone else to know: yes, I existed. I lived. And maybe, don't do what I did. I made mistakes. Maybe you can do better. But my life wasn't so bad. I've had people to love and cherish.
Yeah? I asked her. She was still looking out into the ocean. We had this one day before we had to go our separate ways again. Something that was necessary, so that one day, we didn't have to go our separate ways anymore.
So we tell stories because we want to be immortal?
In a way. It won't be fun if we're really immortal, will it? You get infinite amount of time to get things right. No. The brevity of the life that we have, that short time that we get to perfect the formula. If we were truly immortal, without knowing what death was, I don't think we would have done half of what we have.
You know, I read somewhere. That you don't have to fear death. Because you're a new person every day, and a little bit of you dies every day.
That's interesting, she said. I knew she didn't think it was. She said "interesting" when she wasn't even slightly bothered by something. I shrugged and looked away at the waves.
I wouldn't want to die before I did something though. No one would, she sighed.
Will you write to me, she asked.
I will.
Every day?
Every day.
Good. I shall write to you too. We should try the snail mail thing, you know? I get this image of a girl waiting at her gate for the postman to come and give her a letter. A letter she knows that is coming, but she doesn't know when. And each day he shakes his head, she goes back in dejected. But one day, she does get it, the letter she's been waiting for so long. She opens it slowly and unfolds the letter in her hands. She does it slowly because she wants to savor every bit of it. And she reads each word, caressing it as it settles on her mind. She reads it and rereads it. And then she goes to sleep, the words she read beautifully dancing across her dreams.
I love your words, she said. They're like parachutes.
Parachutes?
Yeah. You jump and you relax knowing they're there and that you can use them to land safely.
We sat there, till the sun set. There is this scene in a Malayalam movie, where the boy and girl are sitting on the shore and the boy thinks to himself, "Beach side, beautiful sunset. It's the perfect time for a kiss," and he leans in for a kiss. I didn't want to though. I stayed there, frozen in time, wanting to keep it that way forever.
Any story in particular? I asked her. She looked at me and laughed.
No, silly. I loved it when she called me that, silly. Just a story, she said. A tale, an anecdote, whatever.
What about it? I wasn't quite understanding where she was getting at.
Story-telling. It's an undying art. It would be revered in every society, every era. It might have been Shakespeare's plays, it might be those stories about that celebrity breaking up with that one because of something that happened. They are all tales, and we love them, don't we?
I don't know, I said. And I didn't. It was interesting to wonder. Human beings have been telling stories even before words existed, what with cave paintings and all. Words came and we learned to tell stories through them. And then humans learnt to capture images and tell stories to them.
I think I know why, she said.
So tell me.
Mortality. I think, what we have in common with our ancestors - where our thought process is concerned - is that we want a part of ourselves to remain. For someone else to know: yes, I existed. I lived. And maybe, don't do what I did. I made mistakes. Maybe you can do better. But my life wasn't so bad. I've had people to love and cherish.
Yeah? I asked her. She was still looking out into the ocean. We had this one day before we had to go our separate ways again. Something that was necessary, so that one day, we didn't have to go our separate ways anymore.
So we tell stories because we want to be immortal?
In a way. It won't be fun if we're really immortal, will it? You get infinite amount of time to get things right. No. The brevity of the life that we have, that short time that we get to perfect the formula. If we were truly immortal, without knowing what death was, I don't think we would have done half of what we have.
You know, I read somewhere. That you don't have to fear death. Because you're a new person every day, and a little bit of you dies every day.
That's interesting, she said. I knew she didn't think it was. She said "interesting" when she wasn't even slightly bothered by something. I shrugged and looked away at the waves.
I wouldn't want to die before I did something though. No one would, she sighed.
Will you write to me, she asked.
I will.
Every day?
Every day.
Good. I shall write to you too. We should try the snail mail thing, you know? I get this image of a girl waiting at her gate for the postman to come and give her a letter. A letter she knows that is coming, but she doesn't know when. And each day he shakes his head, she goes back in dejected. But one day, she does get it, the letter she's been waiting for so long. She opens it slowly and unfolds the letter in her hands. She does it slowly because she wants to savor every bit of it. And she reads each word, caressing it as it settles on her mind. She reads it and rereads it. And then she goes to sleep, the words she read beautifully dancing across her dreams.
I love your words, she said. They're like parachutes.
Parachutes?
Yeah. You jump and you relax knowing they're there and that you can use them to land safely.
We sat there, till the sun set. There is this scene in a Malayalam movie, where the boy and girl are sitting on the shore and the boy thinks to himself, "Beach side, beautiful sunset. It's the perfect time for a kiss," and he leans in for a kiss. I didn't want to though. I stayed there, frozen in time, wanting to keep it that way forever.
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