A Room full of Tales

As Trisha walked down the pathway to the porch of that immense house, looming even larger in its afternoon shadow, she remembered it to be full of rooms. Rooms big and small, dusty and clean, dingy and airy — of all possible kinds, made that house. Each room had some story to tell, and one in particular had stories in hundreds along with a storyteller.

The rooms of that house were arranged in a particular pattern, like the chessboard squares – some occupied, some vacant. And those vacant ones were generally under lock and key, opened only occasionally to be fed with air and sunlight. Even rooms needed nutrition to survive. Like the pieces in a game of chess, each occupant had a designated room, personal or to share. These occupants also had their assigned importance which often shifted with time or manoeuvrings of their fellow house mates. But there was one occupant, the grand old man, whose significance never wavered. Even as a little girl, Trisha had always sensed this — his difference from the rest of the brood, in his personality as well as magnanimity. He was the driving force of the huge, old, almost crumbling piece of machinery that this house was.

He occupied one huge, circular room, containing a semi circular wooden table, its stomach bursting with books from all around the world. There were peculiar arrangements of lights as well. The old man had lights of various wattage which he used in accordance with the light outside. As the day sky gave way to dusk and eventually to the night, the illumination within the old man’s room kept increasing, giving a surreal touch to it. As a child Trisha had found this arrangement fascinating and she loved that room the best. It was where she had spent the best times of her childhood and adolescence; it had signified stories in her growing up days. Stories which homed in the crannies of that old man’s mind, slithered down to his heart and splurged out of his lips as the ancient heart pumped it with a practiced motion. She would sit listening, mesmerised by the perfect modulation of that ancient storyteller. The old man was her Pied Piper, she could dance to his tunes, walk with him to the edge of the world and back. Their mutual love for tales had tied them together in a strong bond – the young girl with her curiosity and the old man full of tales. The tales would feed her never ending curiosity and whet up her appetite for more.

To read the full fiction 

Go to the given link

short fiction