Standing here on the rooftop of the house I presently reside in, I can see a flyover. Cars and buses lit from the inside in the darkness of the night make their routine journeys back and forth. I cannot really figure out the people and their faces. But there are people. Loads of them. With their own stories. Immersed in their own thoughts. Moving back and forth. Daily. Almost monotonously.
There is something about stories. Each of us have one. Or perhaps, more than one. Some stories we love; some we hate. Some we choose to dwell in. Stories are intriguing. And while yours can be quite similar to mine, they are different. In some way or the other. Hundreds of people living in hundreds of stories.
Each of the windows I see from where I stand reflect a story. One of them shows me a little temple built into the house. One shows me a plump lady trying to go about her chores. Another shows me a mosquito net hanging from the bedpost; preparations for landing into the Land of Dreams. Yet another closed window reminds me of the desks and chairs that lie abandoned and forgotten just beyond it; the building is a primary school.
Interesting, isn’t it? Every window of every house, every window of the vehicles I see whizzing past is buzzing with a different story. Some stories that wait to be told, some that wait to be freed from their iron clutches. And some that are already blowing in the cool breeze hoping to be caught by some stray stranger like me, hoping to be penned down or read aloud.
The one story that eludes me is, however, the story of the sky. The never-ending sky that stretches above all these stories, watching, observing, noting and smiling to itself. Have you ever thought that the sky knows it all? That it silently witnesses all the stories that unfurl, or maybe not, here on the mortal earth? Perhaps, that is the secret story of the sky. Keeping all the unheard and untold stories of the fragile world safe within its vastness, its infiniteness.