“Uh, well, his life was not really complete. Sometimes he would sit with his mother and listen to her as she told her stories about his dead father. How his parents had gotten married. How they had never ever seen each other till after their wedding. How his father had fallen in love with his mother the very first day. How he used to praise his mother’s beauty. How he…

As Our Hero would sit and hear the stories again and again, his mind would suddenly drift away and, despite resisting, he would find himself thinking of Someone. A beautiful Someone, a smiling Someone, a serious Someone, an annoyed Someone. Someone running after a friend as the friend clambered on a hillock screaming that believe it or not, but I’m sure he loves you.

He would shout out inwardly at himself that he had NOT seen Someone’s cheeks blush red and Someone’s eyes fill with secret pleasure at the friend’s announcement.

Yes, Our Hero was in love. He was in love with the daughter of his dead father’s best friend. Uncle Mashood was a wonderful man with wonderful qualities, who treated the widow and orphan wonderfully. But most importantly, he had a wonderful daughter.

“Sadia…I wonder what God must have been thinking when He decided to create you. Was He wondering if He should create a beautiful white swan that would swim in calm green waters or was He trying to decide between an effulgent daffodil and a lovely starry sky?” Our Hero once remarked.

Sadia’s red cheeks had become like tiny flaming heavenly bodies as she had laughed and then covered her face with her dopatta. “I did not know I fell in love with a writer’s son instead of a farmer’s.”

Our Hero’s laughing face had grown serious. “Not a writer’s son, yes Sadia, but he is himself…a writer.”

“A writer? Really? WOW!” Sadia had breathed, her black eyes opened wide.

“Can I tell you something? Uhhh…” Our Hero had stammered, his eyes on the ground.

“Of course, you can tell me anything you want to! We love each other. Remember how we promised each other that we would always tell each other everything? Please tell.” Sadia spoke innocently, looking pained.

“Right…yes. The thing is, Sadia, I want to…I want to become a writer, Sadia. As in, a real writer. A published author. I know that is a ridiculous dream…I’m not good or anything…but it’s still, a dream. You know how we all have queer dreams.” He tried to cover up by laughing loudly.

“Oh no, please don’t call it a ridiculous dream. If you really want to do it, I will support you. I will help you…though I can’t do much, really. I don’t even know Angraizee…” Sadia flushed as she admitted her ignorance of the English language.

Sadia had only studied in an Urdu-medium primary school.

Our Hero was on top of the world. Not only did the girl he love, loved him back, but the two most important people in his life supported him and wanted him to realize his dream. His mother and his love. He started writing. And writing. And writing.

One day, he mustered up the courage to send one of his poems to a local newspaper to get published. He waited in agony as the newspaper took their ample time to reply to him.

“Uh…Sadia. I wanted…I wanted to tell you something. Actually, I want to show you something. The Art of Storytelling is to show, not to tell.” He grinned, nervously.

Sadia forced a smile on her face. “Yes, I know that. You tell me that a lot. So…what’s your surprise?”

“I…uh…I sent one of my best poems to the newspaper, Jung, to see if they found it worthy enough to print. And…umm…well, they rejected it.” Our Hero looked down at the ground, dejectedly.

“REALLY? I mean…uhh…I mean, really? That’s too bad. I guess that means you should give up writing. Probably people just don’t appreciate your fine work.” Sadia tried to suppress a triumphant smile.

“Hahahahhah…No, my foolish girl, they did NOT reject it. My first poem is in print. Look!” He was laughing joyfully as he took out the newspaper from his pocket.

Our poor Hero was too busy dancing around Sadia to notice how Sadia’s face fell.”

“Awww…”Alia slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the cry which had escaped from her lips.

The young man gave her a reproachful look but nodded sorrowfully, as if indicating he knew how Alia was feeling.

“Alia…you really must not interrupt me, please.”

Alia bent her head down sheepishly and then nodded at the young man, as if prodding him to continue. As the young man opened his mouth to speak, Alia was suddenly distracted by something scintillating in the distance. Something was reflecting the sun’s light and glittering invitingly. She looked around. Nobody was paying her any attention. Taking soundless steps, she rushed off towards the thorny bush where the glint beckoned. Bending down, she saw something covered in plastic. It was a laminated newspaper clipping with the heading, “When Lovers Depart.” As she read it, the wonderful tragic poem brought tears to her eyes.

As she turned back to the group to show them the poem, she suddenly felt annoyed. They probably won’t let me speak, even. Why waste time over them, then? I’m not gonna share my discovery with blehh people, she thought angrily.

She walked back to the group slowly. The young man was still speaking; his face was animated, his voice emotional. “Well, you kids can imagine how happy Our Hero must be. Sadia’s father had given them permission to get married, Our Hero was writing all day long, he was getting help and encouragement from his mother, the love of his life was supporting him to fulfill his dream, to devote himself to his passion. His life was just perfect.

But then one day…one day, he overheard Sadia talking to a friend. She was weeping.

“He wasn’t joking, Aasia. I’m telling you, he wasn’t joking. He meant it when he said that he cannot decide whether the love of his life was me or writing. Actually, no! He knows. He knows the love of his life is writing, not me. He admits it sometimes. He does. He laughs to show as if he is joking but I know it is writing, not me.”

Aasia was trying to console her. “Maybe he actually is joking, Sadia. You don’t know these writers. They have a very odd, corny sense of humor.”

“That’s the thing, Aasia!” Sadia burst out. “I feel like I don’t know him anymore. I thought I used to. When he did not write so…so exceedingly excessively! Now, most of the time he is either writing or thinking about his writing. Whatever precious time he gives me, he keeps talking about his stories and his characters and his setting and God knows what! What do I do, Aasia? How do I get him back? If it were some human, something material, something tangible, maybe a woman, then I could fight with my rival and win my man back. But this is a Shaitan’s work itself. How do I win him from something that doesn’t exist anywhere except his mind? I tell you, Aasia, this demon will take him away from me. I want him to stop writing. I want him to give up writing forever. I wouldn’t be able to live with him if this demon did not leave him for good. How can I tell him I want to win him back, Aasia? How can I tell him I can’t fight with ideas, with things I don’t understand?” The girl’s desperate cries tore at the eavesdropping Hero’s heart.

Our Hero ran away, his streaming eyes blinded with burning tears. He ran and came…guess where? Yes! Right to this very hill, Muraad Hill, which you see in front of you. He came here and he sobbed for hours. He could not believe it. Who he used to think shared his dreams actually wanted to shatter them. Who he wanted to write for and write about, wanted him to leave writing forever. The girl who used to tell him that he was a great writer actually hated his writing.

He wept bitterly as he remembered his friend, Zarar’s question. Why did the men in his stories always give up everything for the women?

He struggled to breathe as he sobbed and wondered whether he should follow his principle or consider his writing, which was one of the two golden keys to his own happiness. Sadia’s love sustained his heart and feelings whereas writing nourished his soul.

Our Hero cried and wrote, cried and wrote all this.

That very evening, Shaukat, Sadia’s twelve-year-old brother sought Our Hero out at the top of the Muraad Hill and told him his father had sent him a note. Our Hero opened it.

“Beta, the thing is, I was just thinking. This is the practical world. In the practical world, people must work hard and earn money by the sweat of their brow. In this cruel world, we are only allowed to see dreams, but not allowed to fulfill them. You know, beta, I went against the whole village’s ideology and thoughts and got you engaged to my daughter. But I have been thinking, beta. Life is not a piece of cake. Ideas, thoughts, poems, stories all are good but they can’t fill an empty stomach. Storytelling can be fun but it cannot warm a cold body covered with rags. To live, one must work. Today, I write to tell you that if you want to marry my daughter, you must take up some full-time proper job. Something which qualifies as a job and is not just a means to put children to sleep. Basically, what I’m saying is, if you want to marry my daughter, you must give up writing. Forever.”

Sobia tried to blink away the tears that stung the corners of her eyes. She looked over at Alia, who wasn’t even making any attempt to hide her emotions; her tears flowed freely. She thought she even heard Ahmed sniff once. The young man, though, had shut his eyes tightly. There was a pained expression on his face. He had curled up his hand into a tight ball, his knuckles were white.

She wanted him to continue with the story but the young man was still standing there, with his eyes closed and his fingers caressing his left wrist. She cleared her throat loudly a few times, but the yound man did not pay any heed to her.

Jittery and impatient, she began to pace around and finally started walking towards Muraad Hill . The other Storytellers gave her a dirty look and Ahmed tried pulling her back, but she shrugged him off and mouthed, Wait, O Fools!

Ahmed followed her. As she wandered away from the group, she noticed a huge rock on the ground, snugly resting in the lap of some flowers. As she picked it up, she saw it was put down on a piece of paper, probably so that the wind wouldn’t play with the paper and toss it around. The paper was yellow and the writing ugly. Ahmed, too, joined her in reading it. Their eyes popped out as they read, “Beta, the thing is, I was just thinking. This is the practical world, beta…”

“Sobia and Ahmed? Can you please come back so that we can move on?” The young man called out to them.

Sobia raced back, with the paper in her outstretched hand. “Look…”

The young man’s face turned red with passion. “May I ask you, Ma’m, would you like to please stay quiet or would you like me to leave? I understand I may not be so good at The Art of Storytelling.”

A confused, nervous Sobia mouthed her apology.

“Well, you know how I said I want you to move around with me and enjoy the story? Well, now I want you people to try and climb Muraad Hill a bit. Just a little bit so that you can get closer to that rock on the top.”

Huzaifa led the way and the Storytellers made their way up the hill. Ahmed quickly caught Sobia’s arm as she tripped over an upturned root. They sat on two middle-sized rocks and looked up at the huge rock on the top of Muraad Hill, sitting so silently, basking in the dim evening light.

Suddenly, Ahmed noticed a man making his way towards that huge rock. From the distance, Ahmed could not make out who the man was, but from his slow unsteady gait, he could tell that the man was upset. The man came and sat on the huge rock, holding his brown head in his hands. Silently, Ahmed looked at the group and pointed at the man.

From the distance, it seemed the man had something in his lap, something with which he was working on with his hands. Very soon, the group realized that the man was actually writing on a piece of paper. The group observed the man for a long time but the man wasn’t doing anything except write. And sometimes rub at his eyes. Probably to brush away tears.

Finally, the man looked up. Resolutely, he stood up and took out something from a pocket. From the distance, Alia could see nothing, but she could swear she saw something tiny glint in his hand. The man looked around him, observing the calm of the evening settled on the hillocks around. He looked down from the hill at the scatter of houses beneath. He looked up at the twilight glow of the sky, noticing how the setting sun made the clouds look angry.

He picked up the piece of paper and stretched his arm. The light breeze played and tugged at the piece of paper and finally the man let go. As soon as the man let go of the paper, he sat down on the rock, and without a moment’s pause, slid the glinting thing across his left wrist. He remained there, sitting calmly. Finally, he seemed like a man at peace with himself and the world.

The breeze carried the fluttering paper over towards the group of spectators. Huzaifa caught it and started reading out loud:

They say love never dies. But I say, passion never dies too. Love exists forever. So do words. I am a lover. I wanted to become a storyteller. I wanted my words to be loved, and my love to be preserved in words. But most of all, I wanted to become someone who never died.

Poets, writers, philosophers, thinkers have all written about how love never dies, how words are always preserved. But, like I, Muraad Butt, have always said, The Art of Storytelling is not to just tell that love and words are immortal, but to show it.

I died and I was born on 13th December 1964.