A young handsome man was standing there. His honey-brown eyes were friendly and warm, and as he walked towards the group confidently, the smile stretching across his face lit his eyes and they appeared to be like two shining orbs of melting caramel chocolate. He extended his hand towards Huzaifa.

An awkward Huzaifa shook it. The man’s hand was as cold as his smile was warm.

“Mr. President, I believe?” His voice was deep and musical. To Alia, it seemed like the gentle sound of a small waterfall and, somehow, for her, his mere voice painted the picture of the waterfall over a beautiful little pond, with wild creepers and lush green trees.

“Yes…umm…yes. Who may you be?” Huzaifa stammered and looked around at his friends.

Alia was smiling shyly at the young man. She quickly fixed her hair and thought, My God, what an adorable looking guy. He is so cute!

Ahmed was looking at the man suspiciously, his grey eyes narrowed. He eyed the young man’s clothes, his friendly, confident face and then looked around at his friends with his lip curving contemptuously. All we needed a jerk to crash our meeting! How does this weirdo know about our cave anyway? WE discovered it. Nobody from the town knows about it!

Sobia got over her initial shock and, after taking a good look at the newcomer, tried to suppress a smile. Fashion statement here, man! Behold the bell-bottom pants pulled wayyy above his waist and that tacky old-fashioned frilly brown shirt! Who wears clothes like these nowadays? And the weird hairstyle? I mean, what is THAT all about?

The young man beamed at Huzaifa and Ahmed, and then smiled politely and respectfully, at the girls, nodding to each one individually. “I’m sorry to interrupt your wonderful storytelling session, and I especially apologize for interrupting your story.” He smiled apologetically at Huzaifa, cleared his throat and then continued, “Earlier, I was standing outside, waiting for you to leave, but then I decided to listen to your remarkable stories. I didn’t wanna come inside lest you got awkward and left without telling them. But now I interrupted you because…”

“So you were eavesdropping, were you? And what do you mean by waiting for us to leave? Why should we leave? We discovered this cave, it’s ours!” Ahmed interrupted the man and rambled on and on.

“Ahmedddd…” Alia patted her hair, smiled nervously at the young man and shot Ahmed a dirty ‘what’s-your-problem-behave-yourself’ look.

The newcomer smiled back to Alia and then addressed Ahmed, “My apologies for eavesdropping. But the story of this Miss here whom you address as Sobia, I believe, was so captivating, I didn’t dare interrupt your meeting for fear of breaking the flow of her remarkable story.” He smiled at Sobia who returned a weak grin. “As for the cave being yours or mine, I can’t really say much because it’s a part of all that belongs to God. But if you really wanna know, I discovered it. A long time ago. Some fifteen years ago, I think.” He ran a white, almost translucent, hand through his silky brown hair and smiled thoughtfully, as if a wave of nostalgia had washed over him.

He’s so old? Poor Alia gazed at the man in wonder and disappointment, her dreams crushed beneath his many years.

Huzaifa finally spoke up, his voice as calm and confident as ever. “If you would please excuse my saying so, I just discovered this cave last week. It was all covered with overgrown thorny bushes and trees and I had to cut my way through with my machete.”

The man gave Huzaifa a very queer look; he had a surprised look in his melting eyes and his eyebrows curved like bows to give him a very thoughtful appearance. “Really? Is that so?” Then he shook his head and spoke up. “Well, anyway, I managed to muster up my courage and dare to interrupt you folks for a purpose. Since you are here to learn from each other and master The Art of Storytelling, I thought I would come here and give you one tip which is the most important thing to consider when you are writing.”

The man paused. Huzaifa, very interested, encouraged him. “Go on.”

“Well, there are two ways to narrate a story. One: you tell a story. Two: you show it. What you people were doing, you were telling the story. You were just narrating the story without showing any specific scenes or giving the story some strength by showing dialogues between people. Your storylines were great, so they covered up for this error. Otherwise, what makes or breaks a great story is the way you give it to the reader. You must never tell a story, but show it!” He spoke excitedly, his words tumbling over each other. Obviously, writing and storytelling really fascinated him.

Huzaifa looked at the young man thoughtfully. He nodded. “Yes, of course. It makes sense, you’re right.” He smiled, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that himself.

The young man looked at the group wistfully. “Ya. That’s right…You people are so lucky. Storytelling…it’s been such a while…” He looked down at the floor, deep in thought. His right hand started caressing his left wrist; then he started rubbing it hard, impatiently, very fast, as if it hurt him.

“Well, why don’t you tell us a story if you like storytelling so much?” Alia suddenly spoke up, boldly.

The man shook his head, as if trying to struggle his way out of his swamp of thoughts. “Huh? Me?” He laughed. Such a clear, ringing beautiful laugh, it sent chills running up and down Alia’s spine. “No, no, it’s been such a long time since I have actually told a story. My story ended years ago.” He looked drowned in his thoughts again, and his fingers kept playing with his left wrist.

Sobia smiled at Alia’s audacity, but her eyes were fixed at his caressing fingers. She tried to see what he was scratching at every now and then, but the man was expertly hiding his wrist from view.

“Oh, come on!” Huzaifa urged. “Obviously, you know a lot about storytelling. I’m sure you’re a good storyteller too. Tell, na, we are the Storytellers’ Lab, we just love good stories.

“This hottie has something to him! Everybody’s feeling so comfortable with him all of a sudden! Alia grinned at Sobia, excited, her heart fluttering in her throat.

The young man finally managed to disentangle himself from the mesh of thoughts. He smiled. “No, kids, it’s been so long I’ve told a story, I think I may even have forgotten how to tell it.”

“THE ART OF STORYTELLING IS TO SHOW, NOT TO TELL.” Sobia, Huzaifa and Alia cried in unison, and then laughed.

The young man laughed with them. That beautiful, musical laugh. “Well, if you are so eager, I might as well show you a very important story.” Excitement was growing in his calm face. “But I have my own way of storytelling. I have two rules. Firstly, nobody interrupts me while I’m telling the story. Please understand this. I just cannot accept the violation of this rule. You’ll understand why, as the story progresses. But remember, you CANNOT speak up during the story or else that very same moment I will stop telling it.” He smiled at Ahmed and shook his head slightly, since he had already opened his mouth to interrupt. “Secondly, you can’t just sit around in a circle all the time and listen to my story. You have to watch it with me, move around and follow me as I take you with me to that world.” His voice already had become deeper, more mysterious and fascinating.

The Storytellers murmured their assent. For the moment, with his permission, they sat down quietly.

Suddenly, a nervous rumble came from Alia’s stomach and echoed in the cave. Everybody looked up, startled, and then laughed. She looked at the mirthful face of the newcomer and prayed hard for a hole in the cave to swallow her.

“Well, then, gather around me, my friends, and prepare to hear the story of the nineteen-year-old boy who lives.” He smiled kindly at the blushing Alia and then turned to the others.

“This is a story of a young man; innocent, naive, hardworking, kind-hearted, loving and very, very poor. Ah, yes, my friends, alas, our poor Hero was very, very poor. He was a son of a widow, in the village of Zubeerabad, which today has become a full-fledged town and where, incidently, you people live today. The widow used to be a seamstress, and had travailed to make her son study in a school. The son was a fine boy. He was an obedient, compassionate and sensitive son who realized the hardships his mother had faced for him. He, thus, delved into his studies and soon won a scholarship at a famous college in the nearby city of Dipalpur.

Our Hero never forgot the pains with which his mother had gotten her son through school, so, in college, while other boys his age busied themselves with girls, cigarettes and even booze, he remained steadfast on his chosen path of education and knowledge. In the long hours of the night when other boys made love to their girlfriends, all the time thinking of which girl to have sex with the next night, our hero spent his time writing stories about girls.

His college friend, Zarar, had asked him once, “In your stories, why are the heroines always happy and…and so blessed? Why are they always loved? Why do all the men in your writing give up everything for women? That doesn’t happen in real life!”

He had replied shyly, “I believe that girls are always to be respected and loved. They deserve to be cherished. They deserve to be happy.”

“Why so?” Zarar had raised an eyebrow, inquiringly.

Our Hero had smiled shyly, as if embarrassed. But when he spoke, his voice was firm. “Because my mother, too, was once a girl and I can never tolerate the idea of any man disrespecting her. So if she is to be respected, why not other women, too?”

After completing his education at college, Our Hero came back to his village. He was a handsome young man now. Even at his early age, maturity peered out of his honey-brown eyes, though his glowing face was innocent and young. He had a habit of being very shy in front of ladies and girls which endeared him to his mother’s friends, the Auntys. Aunty Fehmida, especially, loved the way his long lashes caressed his cheeks as he looked down at the ground whenever he dared talk to her.

“Ah, my puttar, he is so sharmila, he can’t even look at me when I am addressing him. That rascal of a boy, Akbar, you talk to him and he makes fun of you on your face! No manners, no respect in that boy! Now, my puttar here…this boy is what I call a decent one.” She would pat the young man and play with his dusty-brown hair.

Our Hero had a dream. He wanted to give his mother rest from any kind of work, security and all the wealth and happiness in the world. He had even secretly thought of the means to achieve this dream. Back in college, his Creative Writing teacher had, not once, but many a times declared, “My son, you are a born writer. I seriously wish and hope to see your name in print very soon. Do not give up writing, boy. Make a career out of it. Not only do you need to write just for your happiness nad self-fulfillment, but it can also, very easily, prove to be the means to make your family very proud and wealthy.”

Our Hero wrote. He wrote and wrote and the world around him became beautiful. He would hold a pen and a piece of paper in his hand and the hot dusty village of Zubeerabad would become the lush-green, beautiful city of Neverland. He would jot down a thought and his life of tensions and problems of work, money and his ageing mother would suddenly become very bearable. When he wrote, he was at peace with himself and the world.”

The young man gently guided Huzaifa out of the cave and the Storytellers followed. The man pointed towards the top of the Muraad hill. “Do you see that huge rock up there? Well, that’s where Our Hero would sit and write. His thoughts, reflections, poems, stories, novellas or just his daily diary. He would sit there and write, and the world around him would become serene, beautiful, complete.”

Huzaifa stretched his neck and scrunched his eyes to look at the rock, despite the blazing sun. Suddenly, he thought he saw something falling from the top of the hill, from where the young man had said the rock was. As the thing dropped down on the ground, Huzaifa rushed to pick it up. It turned out to be a balled piece of paper. In a neat tiny handwriting, some words seemed almost calligraphed.

Confused, Huzaifa turned to show the paper to his friends. They were completely engrossed in the young man’s story and waved at him to shut up so that the man could carry on.