Your Story

You do the thinking.

Or do you? Did you prompt yourself to think over this question the writer has posed you? The writer thinks not. The writer argues the thinking happened on its own, and even now, is happening without your so-called will with all its so-called freedom having a say in the matter. Or should the writer say, ‘In the “grey” matter?’

You didn’t find this joke funny. Or maybe you did. Some of us did. The writer certainly hopes you did get the pun, but can’t always count on the probability of us having the required brain functions, past experiences, light heartedness and a good sense of humour to find the joke funny.

You found the joke funny? Jolly good! But let your thinking question itself, or you, if you chose to find the joke funny. The writer is letting you know you did not. You knowing “grey matter” refers to the brain and then realizing what the pun was can only happen to you. Even the act of you picking up a piece of information is happening to you. You don’t happen to pick it up. You didn’t happen to choose to read this story the writer wrote some time ago any more than the universe chose for the big bang to happen and birth itself.

You realize what the writer is getting at. The cycle of cause and effect is unarguably unending, as it should be. We feel a sense of unwelcome confusion, a sense of dread, and helplessness creep into us. We now question our freedom of will, our presumptuous ways with which we have convinced ourselves that we are at liberty to choose.

You despair. Why? Because you’re a writer, at the mercy of your thoughts, and the thoughts the writer made happen to cross your mind. You despair that your inspiration to write must not be genuine after all, and that you are only an ordinary human being with life happening to you. And if the thought you wanted to write out on a blank, ordinary sheet of paper is only a product of your ordinary brain functions, your ordinary past experiences, and your ordinary life, why should your story be a genuine one? Why should you think it’s a story worth writing? Why should you think anybody will even read it, and be caused to like it? Why should you believe you are out of the ordinary?

You despair. You set down your pen after capping it, crumple the blank sheet of paper, and toss it into the trash next to your table. The crumpled paper lays there in a pile of more crumpled, blank sheets of paper. You glance at the shelf clock on your table as it ticks away unstopped, and you are reminded of how your ‘writing’ time always runs out before you are able to put any good ideas on paper. You wonder if for some reason your mind is running out of ideas and you should try your hand at something else, something that doesn’t demand hours of idling in a plastic chair, giving the bookshelf before you blank stares, wondering if your blog, or your YouTube channel, drew in some revenue, and probably risking spine problems. And yeah, money problems. And failure to become a best seller.

You can never know what the future has in store for you. Or if it has anything surprising in store at all. What you do know is you do not want to fruitlessly endeavour to be what you’re not meant to be. Also, you hate surprises.

You lean back in your chair, its plastic backrest unyielding as ever. Out the window, under a pink sky, you glimpse the arrays of residential apartments stretching in every which way the topography allowed. Far west, the setting sun is now clouded over, the MMF Corporation’s sky-high headquarters building no more silhouetted against the orange backdrop. You can almost see the lamplights through its uncountable windows. The megastructure, like always, is obscuring the sight of the sun in its fiery red glory at dusk.

You feel frustrated for some reason, perhaps by the indifference with which the world happened to be passing you by. You pull your feet up, plant them on the edge of the bookshelf in front of you and push against the backrest with a grunt. The plastic gives way to your surprise. You remember why you hate surprises as your arms ungracefully flail around for a something to grab hold of, only to have your elbows tossed like Jenga blocks on the wooden flooring.

The world feels a lot crueller for its indifference now. And still does an hour later when you find yourself staring across the countertop at your favourite bartender, with her choppy bangs and sloppy purple streaks, shoulder-length hair, a chequered apron over an attire that would give Adam Sandler a run for his money.

“She is wondering why you are not talking to her,” says a voice to your left, making you peel your eyes away from her. The man looks ageless, in his twenties to your best guess, despite your immediate impression of your interlocutor being that of a man in his late sixties.

“How can you say?”

“You have been sitting with that empty mug for longer than a man on a schedule to take his business elsewhere after he has had his drink.”

Calculated. His speech pattern, his calm tone, and the way he didn’t rush a sentence out tells you the man has a practiced brevity.

“I like sitting here,” you say, fixing your gaze on the tiny droplets polka-dotting the glass surface of your mug.

“She likes that too,” suggests the man.

“Likes what?”

“You sitting here.”

“How can you say?”

“You should happen to know,” replies he, with a knowing smile.

You do know. You know she is into you. She welcomes you with the warmest smiles, butters you up with comforting words, cajoles you with amorous looks and offers you your favourite beverage on the house every day. Her presence charms you into forgetting your worries, even if for a while. With her, you could almost convince yourself the world isn’t passing you by.

“What are you, a mind reader?” you ask.

“Barely. I am not even a reader,” says the man with a short laugh. “I run a company, if you happen to be wondering,” he offers after a pause.

You size up the guy; he is wearing a three-piece suit, looking too dignified for a man to be taken lightly even in a casual conversation. But your attention is drawn to the small spiral notepad in his coat pocket. Familiar.

“On the side, I like to imagine being other people,” continues the man, looking around. “My empathy is much too important to me.”

You fumble a tad for a response. “Yes. Me too.”

You do have empathy. Not empathy per se, but more like, an understanding. An acceptance. Otherwise, you wouldn’t like her as much you do. She is an artist, she once told you, and much like you did till yesterday, carries a notebook in the pocket on her apron.

The man seems to be aware of your train of thoughts for some reason. “She is an artist. But her kid is a better one.”

You manage to not look sour. You liked her much until today when you realized she was conning you to think that you two could be a thing and go places, that you two were good fits for one another. You never expected an inconvenience to cause a rift between you two, but had you been wiser, you would’ve welcomed the inconvenience to shake you out of your trance sooner.

She only means business, and always has, and does what she’s best at. She’s passing the same ear to ear smiles to others, fooling all the other young guns and avid partygoers, the young ambitious men, the grown men experiencing midlife crisis and the old regretful men. She has most of them wasted, having offered a ten fifteen rounds of drinks on the house.

“I don’t think he can draw well,” you say flatly, looking at the bartender’s ten-year-old while he sits in front of you on his high stool, his nose buried in his notepad. “Plus, he doesn’t even think about what he’s drawing.”

“And hence, the better artist,” says the man, also fixated on the little boy as he flips another page to draw something new and incomprehensible. “His art comes alive, untranslated, undistorted.”

“It’s anything but undistorted,” you say with a snort.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Even I can make whatever he can,” you challenge.

“But you don’t.”

“Yeah, because,” you reply, only to break off mid-sentence. You almost stutter with scorn. “It’s nothing special, so why should I?”

You see it coming. You, for a change, realize how the man will argue his viewpoint further even before he says anything.

“He happens to not be an artist for us,” the man says, to your surprise. “You are an artist for us.”

“I’m not artist. Also, what?”

“There happen to be two ways to look, and you see with one eye shut,” adds the man, unfazed. “You see the picture, but not the depth of it. He happens to not be an artist for us, for he is an artist for himself. But you happen to be a writer for us.”

You suddenly feel all eyes on you. Everybody in the pub has quieted down for some reason, every ear now having been lent to the conversation. They shouldn’t even be in the conversation though; your audience hardly concerns you as you feel like you were smacked on the back of your head with a wooden plank.

“How do you know I’m a writer?” you demand, staring down at the man.

“I just happen to know, since I like to imagine being other people. Also, you are still asking the wrong questions.”

“Who are you?”

“My story is irrelevant,” says the man slowly, as if waiting for you to understand what actually was relevant. “Unless you get what I’m saying.”

You keep staring for a moment. You think back to the words that were exchanged, and you start to doubt if you really grasped all that he had conveyed.

The silence is unnerving. The man sighs, “I should leave you to your thoughts now, but on a final note, I feel urged to suggest you that you should concern yourself more with regards to her and the kid. If you get any ideas, I am happy to let you know if you are right.”

He slides out of his stool, straightens his coat, and with a nod, turns to leave.

“I have a question,” you call out, slowing the man’s exit. “Is this real? Or am I dreaming?”

“That is two questions,” the man smiles, “although I will say you happen to only be thinking.”

“That’s… I… Okay, what?”

“Remember, we do not bring the art alive,” says the man, walking backwards.

“Who’s we?”

“Your audience,” replied he, with a knowing smile. He disappears out the door as your pot of thoughts brims with more questions. You want to know the man’s name for some reason greater than to satisfy your curiosity. You know the name is pivotal somehow. You happen to be thinking about it still.

You find a small note on the table beneath your mug. You know what you’re going to find in it, but as you open it, you still find it pleasantly surprising.

The name’s M. M. Fazli. BTW, don’t forget to think.

You glance at the shelf clock on your table as it ticks away unstopped, and realize your ‘writing’ time has run out before you could even get an idea out. But inspiration has come to you.

You’re sitting on the hardwood floor, and even though it’s uncomfortable for you, you don’t care. The chair anyways seemed to be too comforting; you liked it too much for your own good.

You write down what all just crossed your mind. You write it for yourself, all your thoughts, untranslated, undistorted. Your audience hardly concerns you; they shouldn’t even be in the conversation.

And as you read out aloud your story, a sun ray hits your face. You look to your side, and behold an ordinary sight of the sun in its fiery red glory at dusk. You have seen the same sunset every day, but today, it feels different. As if on cue, your phone beeps: a person has commented on your blog, “I like the story...”

But does it matter now? It does and does not. You should happen to know.

You decide it does not.

You made the story come alive. You did.