Untold Stories

Sitting at the railway station, waiting for my train, sipping some nice hot coffee.

The train got delayed and will arrive only after two hours.

Lots of people running, talking, shouting, sleeping, and waiting.

Too much noise. 

I open my bag, search for my Mp3 player, hoping to escape from all the noise and chaos.
Alas! I had left it at home. 

Even the bookstore was closed

Dangit!!

I was sitting there, alone, bored, wondering how to spend the next two hours.

A man approached my bench and sat next to me. He was a shaggy looking man, dirty nails, faded dress, worn out sandals, hair which was probably washed during the times of Alexander the Great, and a beard which looked like a dried out bush in the Atacama Desert.

Must be some poor homeless guy, I thought. He looked at me and then started talking.

I was totally not in the mood to talk with random, homeless, shabby people.I realized that i was being too judgmental,, and he looked friendly, so I decided to respond.

Soon we were deeply engrossed in a conversation.

Then he old me his story.

He was from a tiny village called Retvakhipur in Uttar Pradesh. As his father was the Sarpanch of the village, he got the opportunity and the facilities to go to the nearby town for his studies. Soon he grew up and completed his education.

He ended up in Ahmedabad, with a job with a decent pay, married, and with two beautiful daughters. He lived a comfortable life. He had everything he wished for. 

Then, like a gale that blows out candles of life and happiness, like a dark moonless night, like a nightmare that crushes dreams, came the 2001 earthquakes. 

He woke up in a hospital bed, bruised, but alive. He looked around, expecting to see his daughters and his wife, but he couldn't see anyone. It was then he realized that they did not make it out alive. They were lying there, in the powdery, rocky , broken, rugged, rubble which once used to be their beautiful little home, full of joy, full of happiness, but now destroyed. Along with the house, the soul and the heart of a man, lying alone, bruised, broken,  was also destroyed.

After the earthquake, he was a changed man. 

He was broke. He lost his house, his family, all his possessions, everything.

He had nothing.

Nothing

From a proud, happy,  middle class person, he turned into a depressed, homeless beggar.

But he didnt give up, and starting working. He then joined as a labourer in a brick factory. 

Life was hard, but he faced it courageously. He stood against all the odds, faced the hurricane of obstacles, and lived on.

Then he started talking about the turning point in his life. He said that he received a letter from his village.

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK

His train had arrived, he said a short goodbye, and entered the train, leaving me baffled, leaving a trail of suspense, leaving the story unfinished. In an instant, to my surprise, he was gone.

OH I HATE UNFINISHED STORIES!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was sitting there, with half the story in my hand, watching helplessly as the other half drifting away, far out from my reach, to a destination unknown.

I couldn't do anything about it

I looked around, there were many people.

An old lady, talking on her cellphone who seemed extremely happy. 

A man in his thirties, sitting isolated, sobbing, wiping away his tears, clutching a photograph tightly to his chest. 

A young boy, with dreamy eyes and flowers in his hand, looking at the skies, waiting for his loved one. 

A shaggy looking boy, with a crumpled five rupee note in his right hand, and a small stick in his left, looking scared, lost, sad. 

A man, in an expensive suit, sitting on the bench, shouting on his phone, looking tense, with a sweaty face. 

A middle aged lady, sitting on the bench, blank, expressionless, misty eyed, looking as if the whole world had come crashing down.

 A couple, submerged deep in the lake of love, staring at each other without uttering a single word.

A dog,starving, limping, with a broken leg, searching for food.

I had just heard a single man's story, and not even the whole story.

I realized that every person around me had a story untold. An inspiring story, or a tragic story, or a story full of joy and happiness, or a story full of thorns and pain.

Everyone had their own story, a story, which no one else knew. A story which I probably will never come to know. A story, like a diamond buried deep in the ground, far from everyone else's reach, beautiful, unique, but undiscovered. There were hundreds of stories untold.

The Mp3 player, which i used to plug in my ears every time i came to the railway station, kept me away from these people, kept me away from these untold stories, kept me away in a different world, oblivious to the presence of the various people around me.

Every time I sat there, listening to songs, thinking about myself, thinking about how awesome Taylor Swift or Eminem is, immersed in myself, I missed out on interacting, observing, talking to such people. People, who could teach me something about life, could teach me lessons, or could inspire me to do something. It was as if letting precious gemstones fall through the hole in your bag. Lost forever. No chance for any of them to come back to you

The stories........were left untold.