TALE OF A STORY

My grandfather and grandma were as odd a pair as could be. Grandpa lived in the clouds and fed on nectar with the butterflies. Grandma would have none of this nonsense, as she called it. Poems are made of daydreams, she would mutter as she tended the cows. And daydreamers are worse than loafers. At least a loafer does not pretend he is busy. The moment you ask one of these dreamers to do something visible, there comes a groan of lost thoughts, of a ruined great verse. No, that tough woman would have none of this poetic stuff.

Grandpa was at his wits ends. He would churn out verses everyday hoping one would draw the applause from the only person in the world he loved. And every time he came back with a sermon on the precious moments he had wasted on that folly; moments he could easily, and USEFULLY, have spent in cleaning up the attic.

Then suddenly it changed. Grandpa decided that if with this story also he could not move her, he would either quit writing or quit.

MY DOLL

I was a child who walked alone. Not at all like them. Clutching their dolls, they ran around, feeling grand in the illusion that the dolls accompanied them. Sometimes I felt that some of the dolls were actually running around, clutching children’s fingers in their tiny white hands. And I jeered, anyway. The skin will get creased, the body will come apart. You carry pieces of the future, ink of the past, none of the present. And they carried on, happy in their illusions.

Then I saw a doll. It was there without being one. And I saw the absence of illusion. Its skin would not crease, for it had no skin, and no body that would come apart. It had all of the past, present and future and beyond these. And like others, I too wanted a doll. No, I wanted this doll. But it was there without being one.

They got together and discussed. I could get the doll. But I must buy illusions first. The doll first, I cried. They were amused. The doll sleeps on illusions. Want to keep her awake. So I lied. I showed an empty box. Yes, I have bought the best illusions. The doll can have a nice sleep.

They said I now got the doll. I do not know. She must have opened the box. And she was swallowed by the dark absence of illusions. I could not follow her. This was my beaten path. The absence of illusion lights up when I step in. Then, even darkness becomes illusion.

I still refuse to buy illusions to get that doll. But I have stopped buying empty boxes. I do chase an illusion. That is, that doll.

She stays just beyond my stretched arm. And then, she is swallowed by the dark absence of illusion, to await my next step that lights up. And I keep up the chase.

She enters the clouds and becomes a cloud. I follow, flapping my wet wings and fly through it. The clouds dry up. But before the sun peeps in, she is swallowed by the dark absence of illusion. Tired, I return to my nest of open space.

The other day I saw her hiding in a bunch of words. I started stringing them so that she could hide no more. I could hear her sob behind the last word left. I snatched the last word and the jerk made life drop out of my nest of open space. That left nothing, not even an illusion. And the absence of illusion, the dark devilish absence of illusion, promptly swallowed her. As I stepped in, the light showed the space sitting on the heap of wordless life, mocking at me.

Now I have stopped chasing. I know the doll is there. She runs if I chase. Whether I run or sit, she is just beyond my stretched arm. That is right. She IS there. That is what I had always wanted. Again, I refuse to buy illusions. But I refuse to cheat also.

*****************

Grandma stared at him for a long time. She was smiling. It was clear to him that she had not followed the story. But smiling she was. Of one thing she was certain; she would tell us in later years. The story was about her. Rest were words and as meaningless as words are. Perhaps, she wanted to say a lot more. But how much can you tell your grandchildren. That is the problem with words. So she would just smile. One thing did happen. From that day she was more tolerant to his daydreaming.

Grandpa did not quit writing. Nor did he quit.