↟Meera↡
I had always been inspired by storytellers. I loved my job as an HR manager. It allowed me to interact with different people from different places, each one having their own different stories, bringing their own songs to the dance.
Life was a chaotic struggle, trying to search for where I belonged and who I was supposed to be. Each person I had interviewed had his or her own fascinating story, which made me wonder: what's my story? I didn't want to be 'normal', just like so many people I had met in life. Being only twenty-six, I wasn't exactly sure what the meaning of my life would really be, and where I could find it.
Every weekend I found myself sitting and listening to amazing authors at the café Coffee & Us. I was drawn to authors, fascinated by their ability to create other people's stories. How could they draw the truth from each individual and build a beautifully woven tale? I guess, having stories stuck in my own soul was the reason I needed to hear other people's stories. But I didn't just want to hear stories; my heart was aching to tell a beautiful story which would change people's lives, or at least mine.
So there I was at Coffee & Us, my hands wrapped around a warm, soothing cup of coffee. I could listen to the world around me, hear the songs of life, or I could put my earplugs in and mute out the world. I had seen so many writers come through these doors, and often I wondered if this café had some magic within its walls.
Kabir, the manager, paused in his duties and addressed me. 'When are you going to stop dreaming about being an author, Meera, and finally write a book?'
His voice might have sounded stern to an outsider, but Kabir had become my good friend. I'm not sure when, but at some point while I was becoming a regular visitor to his café, our casual interactions had blossomed into a warm friendship. He respected my opinions, and I treasured his.
'I don't know,' I said, frowning.
I ran my fingers through my long hair and let out a frustrated sigh, looking around at all the people in the small café. 'I think I will know when it is the right story to write. I just haven't come across it yet. I'm still searching for that unique story, the one that will inspire me to take that next step.'
He strolled to the counter where another cup of my favorite coffee—a frothy cappuccino—was placed. Kabir set it in front of me, smiling gently. 'I am sure, one day, I will be here, pouring coffee and fetching people their orders, as I listen to you up there. The place is going to be packed; you will see.' He smiled at the thought and I wondered for a moment if this was my dream or his. Of course, as friends, even our dreams would work in unison, wouldn't they?
Still, I lacked the confidence he seemed to have in my future success. As much as I wanted to take that next step to give my words the life they deserved, something held me back. I glanced over at the small area where so many writers had stood, taking a small sip of their ice water and clearing their throats before speaking the words I craved to say.
'I don't think I would be good enough to stand up there and face the world and a group of readers. It must take a lot of courage for them to do what they do,' I said, blowing on my coffee before taking a tentative sip. I smiled as the frothy bubbles clung to my lip and licked them off delicately. 'What if someone laughed at what I wrote?'
My friend chuckled. 'They would only laugh if you were reading something funny,' he said confidently. 'Now, tell me, are you coming for the authors' meet next weekend?' he asked.
'Definitely,' I said.
What would the weekend bring for me? Would I still be lost in search of my story?
~
'Live life in moments, not in days or years or your schedules. It's our misconception—most of the time—that we live our lives the way we want. Every single step that we take is influenced by others. Only the part that we hide from everyone else and keep deep within our heart, is our own. I strongly urge you all to realize that hidden part of yours. Go, live that part. Live your life. Don't let your dreams die within you. Trust me, your struggle, your fight, will be worth the risk in opening yourself up. Get up. Inhale the air of passion. Start your journey. Grab your dreams. Enjoy your mistakes. Dance to the rhythm of your heartbeats. Smile. Laugh. Love. Live.'
Author Arjun Mehra uttered these final words with confidence. His hands were clasped together as he looked expectantly around the café. His eyes met mine, and I felt my heart beat a little faster. It was as if he was speaking directly to me. But, in fact, he had touched the hearts of every single person in the café with his mesmerizing words. How was it that an author could hold such a magical power over people? I closed my eyes and imagined that I was the speaker, standing confidently in front of an audience. I smiled softly to myself. Perhaps one day I would actually be able to move a crowd like this.
'What's your story, young girl?' I was torn away from my thoughts when I realized Mr. Mehra was pointing directly at me. His soft brown eyes were holding mine, kindly, but with a challenging glint. 'What is your purpose in life?' He softened his question with a smile and, suddenly, it felt like a friend was speaking to me.
I took a deep breath. 'I ... I want to write like you,' I began nervously, twisting the napkin in my hands as I decided to answer him as truthfully as I could. 'But I don't know what to write. I am inspired by the world around me, but I am still in search of a story that can change the lives of people.' My words sounded hesitant to my ears and I wished I hadn't spoken them.
Mr. Mehra nodded firmly. 'People need stories. Stories of love, hope, survival, wisdom and sometimes pain. Maybe you don't tell them the full truth; maybe you tell them lies. But what is this world? A lie in itself.' I was still held by his gaze, but I absorbed his words and heard others around me chuckle. 'But your lies are good lies. They change people and mostly for the better. I wish you the best,' he said warmly.
'Thank you,' I managed to say, shivering a little at his words, even though the café was almost uncomfortably hot.
'You are most welcome.' With that, he started looking for someone else to ask his next question. He turned his attention to a young man behind me. 'Sir, what do you do for work? What's your story?'
I had been so engrossed in his words that I hadn't noticed the man earlier. I turned around to see who he was speaking to and found a smart, handsome guy around my age. His black casual blazer suited his brown eyes and short dark hair and there was an air of confidence about him as he sat straight in his chair. I was surprised that I hadn't noticed him before.
'I work as the assistant branch manager at Citibank,' the young man answered. His voice was deep and rich.
Mr. Mehra continued his questions. 'What is it that you demand from life? Is it the thought of success, money or fame that brings you true happiness?' I found myself leaning toward the man behind me, curious to hear how he would answer.
The man cleared his throat. 'I have money, status and success, but I am still not sure what my purpose really is. I do know that there are days I want to escape the life I am living and grab my bags and just travel.' He trailed off and it seemed like his mind was already on those journeys.
The writer pressed him. 'What do you think you will find when you travel?'
'There will be no one who will follow me around, demanding things from me,' he responded.
'There will be no one pressuring me to meet deadlines. Money comes with a price, and for me, the price is both freedom and a real life. I hope someday I can make up my mind to chase my dreams.' The young man sipped his black coffee as he completed his answer. I saw his shoulders relax a little as he savored the dark blend.
Mr. Mehra nodded his understanding before he swept his eyes over the audience once more. Holding up his hand, he said loudly, 'I hope the same for all of you here. Go ahead and make your dreams come true.' As his last words were spoken, concluding the event, the café filled with loud applause. I joined in, clapping so loudly, my hands began to tingle.
I had come to hear the writer, but I'd found myself deeply impressed, inspired and intrigued by the young man's answer. I wanted to learn more about him.
It was a bold move, and I took a deep breath before turning around to speak with him. But his chair was empty, a half-filled coffee cup sat on the table. I stood up, my eyes searching the room for his dark suit, and I spotted him leaving the café.
'I will see you next time,' I muttered, determined. He might have escaped for the moment, but the excited pounding of my heart told me that I had found my story.