Story of the Storyteller

Ali, a young boy about seventeen years old, a healthy son of a young couple Faizal and Shahida. His family didn’t possess much of materialistic happiness which I believe most of

the people would love to have. He was quite popular in his town Kubra, a small town of about 10000 odd people located somewhere on the western coast of the country. “What an unfortunate child” were the words he used to hear when he passed by any mob. Ali belonged to a family whose ancestral possession was storytelling. The town didn’t have many educated people to record his ancestral stories nor did they have any old people who could tell about his grandfather Fahim. I believe history has its own way of vanishing in time. As per the stories of

the town, Fahim was an excellent storyteller. His stories had humour, fun, emotions, drama and all that required for a story to be fulfilling to one’s ear. It seems his stories would touch one’s heart, celebs including great actors, musicians would visit their place at sharp seven in the

evening every Sunday to hear him tell a story. His talent was in genes which made Faizal a great storyteller. Faizal’s story had love, companionship, tragedy and above all, intense emotions. Fahim died at an early age of 37 and so could not see the success of his son who continued his ancestral legacy. When Ali was born, Faizal’s story was included in the syllabus of

English literature, for MA students in the nearby Kurump University, which is at a distance of about 100 miles from Kubra and so he considered his child very fortunate.

As a child, Ali was very curious to know why he was named Ali and not

something with the letter “F”, to which his father replied that he would tell it when he would turn eighteen. As he grew older, he had forgotten the question. People always said that he was a bad fruit in the basket. All the legacy that Fahim and Faizal bought, would be lost because of him. Ali was a good decent boy but he didn’t possess the talent of storytelling in his blood. He knew stories, but couldn’t tell them. He was always criticized for his introverted nature and bad communication skills. Those were the things he had heard from a long time but deep down he knew there was something missing.

It was a day to his birthday and his Abbu reminded him about the question which he would answer at midnight. After cutting the cake, giving a warm hug and wishing their son, both Shahida and Faizal asked him to sit down on the floor and listen to the story which his granddad told only to him and not the rest of the world. After all, kids are the world to their

parents. As all the three sat down, Faizal said in a deep infectious voice, “You are going to hear a story unknown to the world. The finest story of all time”. Ali asked, ”Finer than yours, Abbu?” in a doubtful tone. “Yes, it would take a lifetime for me to write such a story”, said Faizal. It was

about a quarter to one and Faizal began the narration.

There is a land about 2000Km from here, somewhere in the mountains, there is a place called Zabeenat, and the people who live there are known as Zabeenies. Every citizen of this town, has the word Zabeen in their name, an ancient tradition of the land.

Since the land is surrounded by mountains, it is safe and sound from the outside world. The town hardly has 2000 plus people and their main profession is to grow beans. Beans of

Zabeenat are very popular in the nearby towns, due to their popularity and rise in demand, they are now called Zabeens.

Long ago in Zabeenat, there was a man called Zamindar Morari Zabeen, a

tactful businessman and the head of the town. He was a bloodsucker for his employees but had great marketing skills. He had 25 acres of land where he grew Zabeens. Among his 32

employees, who worked in the fields, took care of the land, loaded the beans and sold them in nearby towns, was a very popular and chivalrous Ali.

Nobody in the town knew where he came from, he didn’t belong to the town either. As per Ali, he accidentally came into the town looking for his flock of mountain sheep. When people said that they didn’t see any of his mountain sheep and asked him about his town, he started crying and said that he doesn’t know the way back to Baliya. All the Zabeenies were staring at him with suspicion in their eyes as if it were a place from where the ghosts came. Baliya did not even exist in

the geographical map. As Ali was young, he couldn’t have left alone to wander and he was summoned in front of Morari. Looking at the opportunity Morari offered him a job and assured his safety and convenience at Zabeenat. Upon asking his full name he replied ‘Khuledar Ali’ which was later changed to ‘Khuledar Ali Zabeen’ following the tradition of the land.

Apart from Morari were Kamla the short tempered, Sundar and Dobriyal highly unorganized businessman, to whom the land belonged. These four were the rulers of the town who had their share of the land and handled their own business. Ali used to work for Morari at a very low pay when compared to others. Even during festivals while other workers requested for a hike, he never asked.

As time passed Ali had become quite popular in the town for helping everyone. He helped women in the fields, gave free massages to all the old people, got the cattle back to the

farm at the night, he did it all and all alone. He knew each and every house’s the inside story. He knew whose family was going through a financial crisis and whose going through an emotional breakdown. The guy Ali who was once unknown to the town became a household name in the town.

One day Ali broke out in the night, amidst the darkness of the sky, into the fields. He was in the field of Kamla. Ali’s habit of singing slowly started disturbing the silence of the night and Gulshan, the caretaker of Kamla’s field, woke up. Looking at the lamp in his hand he thought he wished to fire the land which had Zabeen just a day far to

come out. He rushed to her place and called Kamla and her husband who rushed to the field and were shocked looking at the way Ali was roaming and singing in her field with a lamp in

his hand. She shouted out “Ali, you fool.” Hearing her voice, Ali shivered and came running to her with the lamp in his handheld low and touching the plants while the other hand

looked as if it was hung loosely to the shoulder oscillating back and forth. Few plants caught fire, looking at this scenario Kamla became furious and gave a look to Gulshan. He immediately arranged water and checked that fire didn’t spread. Meanwhile, Kamla started hitting Ali with a broom fallen nearby asking his true intentions if it was to light

up the whole field. She didn't give a moment to answer and asked him to leave the town right away. Ali without hesitating left the town. Next morning Dobriyal, Morari and Sundar along with the rest of the village came to Kamla’s house. Everyone tried to convince her that Ali wouldn't do any such thing. She pointed out her finger towards Morari and said that ”It must be you who gave an order to light up my field”. Morari could not control his

temper and said “ Are you mad, young lady. I have been doing business even before you ever thought of starting”. “Everyone in the town, knows that my Zabeens are better than yours, I’m sure because of jealousy you have taken that step”, said Kamla. Ganga, the younger daughter of Kamla, woke up due to the noise and came to the veranda. She then very politely went to her mother and said: “I had asked Ali to search my ball which I lost in

the field yesterday, we all know that he sleeps late in the night and so he would have gone to search my ball”. Kamla realising her mistake, felt as if the floor on which she was standing, was removed all of a sudden. In order to repent, she put all her money to search Ali in the nearby towns, but after no result, she was in grief.

Eighteen years old Ali, filled with questions asked “Where is Ali now? Where did he go? What happened to the town?”. “The whole town misses him, son,” said Faizal. In order to the duty that he provided to each person of the town, that too free of cost, Zabeenat was renamed to “Alighar”.

Faizal said “Ali is dead now” to which his son asked, “How do you know, have you met him?” Faizal said, I’ve met him, he is none other than my Abbu and your grandfather, Fahim. “Are you

serious?” asked Ali in a serious tone. Shahida nodded her head by approving the information. Faizal then asked Ali “Why do you think nobody in Kubra knows much about our family history?

Why do you think people loved his stories? My dear son, your granddad came to this town when he was thirty and then became a storyteller. It is not just Zabeenat, but he has travelled to many places across the country and met a variety of people and had mastery in many professions like carpeting, designing, servicing and now storytelling. My son, a person just cannot sit and think of a story unless he has seen it either completely or partially. All the stories that humanity has read have been witnessed by someone on the planet. All of Fahim’s stories are just an extension of his experience that he had gained from

his life. Ali, always remember, every storyteller has a story, and it is that story which makes

every storyteller different.”

Ali filled with pride after listening to the story of his grandpa and asked his Abbu,

“What’s your story?”