Der (a Short Story)

Der wasn’t one of them. He pondered over plots that would be despised by the people who read them. Plots that would be deemed scum by the critics. Plots that would make him a joke among the publishing circles of the city. Plots that might raze all his chances of being read. Plots that would perhaps shackle his only prospective livelihood. He was young and rather bright- in the unconventional way of course. And he wasn’t one of them.
 
He pledged he would write what would never be read. Except for a handful of imbeciles who feigned intelligence and considered themselves as some kind of ‘literati-whisperers’. They will of course not publish him. They would insult him and tell him to never try that again. Or if he were a little lucky, they might admonish him to never pick up a pen again in life. Even luckier would be the case if his work got banished. Life was an adventure with ink on paper. It would be a greater adventure if he got exiled. Commoners demanding liberty of speech would storm the streets. Posters and pamphlets would swirl in the wintery wind like embers bearing testimony to his innocence. He wondered if he would be deported for the outrageous words he would put on paper. That would be thrilling. ‘A messiah in exile,’ he thought. And when the revolution ended, he’ll be back- a hero. However, he won’t let anyone get hold of his works. His plots.

But what if they jailed him? That would make the whole effort dull. He’d heard of house arrests. Big men confined to their slimy holes. If it happened with him that would certainly spoil all the fun. But after all he wasn’t a big man- neither of wealth nor of age. He was perhaps aware of the chaos he would render the city with. He was also aware that he wasn’t one of them.            
Alas, no one could stop him now. He would bring out the profanity in him that had made home during these years of utter crisis. Now was the time. He would write it and no one would read it. No one would hear it, but merely hear about it. Rumours fuelling rumours!

It’ll spread through tongues and not through ink.

And it’ll spread: for people don’t listen or tell, they only hear and say.

He won’t write stories of love and hate that the young would love and hate. He won’t tell fables that would make children sleep. He won’t write exhaustive biographies that would inspire old bones. Because he wasn’t one of them.
He looked outside. It had started to snow. The wine bottle kept on the sill had fallen due to the shuddering of the windows. A storm. He suddenly felt the chill on his face and turned towards the fireplace. Closing his eyes and savouring the warmth on his face he spoke to himself- ‘embers in the wintery wind’. That was the day he decided to write and at the same time not to do so. Der wasn’t one of them.    
    

©Vikram Grewal 2015