He came from a small town. And he was born to live a simple life. Cycling with the wind, playing with his sister, listening to the stories of his old grandmother, growing up to take care of his family. A smile on a shy face, a skip in every eager step and joy unbounded in his heart, he was the love and pride of his parents.
He dreamed of being a writer. Days he would spend in his room, reading, learning, never tiring but always craving for more. His mind seemed one with the author and in that magic, he reveled. Time flew by and hours felt like moments. Enthralled he would be when he thought to inspire such enchantment in the hearts of young readers with his words.
But Fate thought to intervene and he was led astray. He was a bright student at school, and his parents decided to send him to the finest college. There he got a degree, one that would help him to get a steady, well-paying job. He would earn enough money, live in a big city and support his family.
Arrive he did in that city of wonders, the city that housed the wealthy in its skyscrapers and the destitute in its slums, the city where dreams were rumored to come true. He was fascinated, by all that was and could be. The people drew him to them the most, and he thought of reaching out to them through his words. He dreamed of weaving fantasies and stories and of telling to the world truths and untruths galore.
He was an underdog, and he worked all day at his stuffy office desk. At night, he hid away from Fate and wrote his stories. During the hours of daylight, he slaved away at myriad unworthy tasks, yet his enthusiasm and sincerity never wavered. Later he would take respite in himself, in his mind and his books, writing for himself. The sweet, shy and scared boy had lived on in this man. He wrote about what he saw and felt, and what he imagined, yet feared to bring it out to the monstrous world.
He lived on, writing, hiding and working, always working. He was promoted and given more work to do. And he persevered. Never could he face the world with his dream alone. Life began to change for him. No longer did he have time to write his books. His smile vanished, his dream disintegrated. He was not an underdog anymore, but now dealing with younger underdogs and dreamers. He grew old, to all the world a successful person.
He tried to break away from the monotony and stillness, but his responsibilities tied him ever tighter. Those magical scraps of paper, with the ink long dried on the captivating and bewitching words, lay to waste in the darkest corners of his house. His mind had gaps in it, like a pleasant dream long forgotten, that gaps of many days spent without ever thinking of that dream. And the days turned into years. The light in his eyes had gone out, his face was marred by the sorrow of a crumbling life. The writer and the dream were no more, a shadow of the boy lived on.
Fate, it seemed, had taken its due. The power of the beguiling words was thought to be forever lost. And one day, he chanced upon an old story he had long forgotten he had written. Memories and smiles it brought back. He hesitated, then stepped forward and gave it to his son. An eagerness awoke in his heart, with hope.
