Fiction

I want to tell a new story. I will be telling stories woven in my imagination off and on. This is the story of a little girl who asked her teacher who taught her English stories how she could write stories and get published. The teacher who was low on belief but high on contempt immediately rebuked and told her that she must be born great to be a great storyteller. Sob – sob stories of the kind girls tell only make them laughed at. Or stories of  a  Prince charming running away with his fairy prize. The girl was left thinking what it is to be born great. Should one’s parents be leaders in the community like those of  Tagore or Nehru or Gandhi? She sighed that there was no hope for her. She wrote stories…and wrote them knowing them to be crazy. She lent herself the crutches of self – belief and faith in her sanity. Thus she moved from one crazy story to another and was rejected by one publisher after another.  She found a kindly soul who offered to publish for her. This is not the success story of one who rose to miraculous heights but that of a normal human who rose out of dejection due to sheer force of endeavour and who found comfort in the belief that small favour came as recompense for her tireless efforts. This small reward she got in life keeps her going still despite the world seeing her with a quirk of the eyebrow. After all, who is she and who knows her? No matter these doubts, she is self – realized! And it is the true stamp of glory, believe me.

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