The last lesson

Every story generates its listener when that story comes into being, into the mind of somebody or into the surroundings of the one who ultimately tells it. And, stories do not exist without listeners. Even when it is not told to anybody, it is repeated into the mind and heard by the one who tells it too.
It is difficult to live anybody in mid of fiction or reality. Encounters should be without any anticipatory images formed in the mind or anticipations and imaginations should not culminate into anything real and approximate.
I do not know how I will be in the future. I want to submerge into pool of people living continuously around me. I want to watch formations and interactions of personalities. I want to see how people come together, cross initial mud of disbeliefs, form mutual trust and then how uncertainties rolling over them wither all what have been achieved, even with careful and delicate balance of human actions and diverging intentions. It is not I am sadist. But, I am not really ‘optimistic preacher’ which will sooner or later proclaim about some ultimate truth, happy and eternal.
Or I wish I should be just away from them. But, these questions are engrossing. Once one start thinking about them, it is difficult to leave them completely. They haunt, they elude and they keep you in their mystery, almost forever.
The every end generates new possibilities. This is what we hear right from childhood or adolescences when we first experience some end, in family or in school or in relations with people or animal or things with which we live. Soon we forget and jumps into honkey dorey state and feel like ‘life is just happiness’. Then again it goes back to ultimatum, again we console ourselves with age old wisdoms, but we do not really live it. I am writing it, am I living it?
So about the story.

They all have gathered into vast roads of the city. They were not shouting, not crying, and not seeking any familiarities with people of the city. They have brought many creatures with them. They have animals, some of them were declared ‘extinct’ by city scholars with statistical significance, some plants which were not yet listed into piles of Ph.D.s and some smells, voices, touches, none of which are listed into giga or tera storages of information. They are not having any identity cards and they were not filling any applications. They were just standing, chatting with each other in friendly murmur, hugging each other, caressing animals and birds and plants, listening to voices, experiencing touches and just keeping themselves away and yet into shadows of familiarities from city.
News has spread in the city about empty villages and empty fields and empty sanctuaries, museums and empty conservated areas. But, since nobody is elected from empty lands, nobody has asked news channels to cover such ‘emptiness’. The worries have reduced about resources with such vacancies. In the night, some librarians have reported that few books have turned blank. Some of them are travelogues of jungles, fictions about land where people lived with their mystics and symbiosis with something called ‘nature’ and voyages into hitherto unknown then. Since, there is nothing new and unknown left now, nobody is worried about such disappearance. After all, past leaves its relevance quickly these days.
They formed some sort of arrangements, not like marching forces. It is gregarious flock of friends, going for beloved destination. They started walking, towards boundaries of city, near the sea. They walked, in the afternoon gaze of sun, in reflections of them into mirrors of sky-scrapers and through roads full with wonders of automation. They walked, barefoot, bare skin and with tidy nakedness of their unnoticed existence. Soon, some songs flew in the air, whistles of woods, calls of birds and animals and conversations of man with another man.
They reached the shore. Now sea waves are running among their feet. Sun is about to set, but paused momentarily with bemusement. One of them came in front of them. He has rugged smile and enriched years on his face. He said, in soft, unwaving voice,” this is it my friends. This far and no further. Our friends living in the city are in trouble. Their ideas are blocked by our innocent but foolish amalgamations with the land, water and time in which we live. They see much further than what we see. They listen much sharply than we can and more than all this, they cannot come back to us, even though we remember that once they were part of us, we bidded them farewell since they promised to bring back us our dreams in real life. Now space which we have occupied, not on earth but in their conscious and trouble which we are causing, not of adjusting our retarded lifestyle into their, but of making sense of our irrationalities into their perfect system of meaning, let’s give them what we deserve. It is not outrage, anger but simple act of accepting that we do not belong here. See, this huge canvas before our eyes, sea and the beautiful blue limits in which we soon depart.” He smiled, few tears rolled on his otherwise calm face. Others stood metamorphosed for few moments, and then they looked at whatever surrounded them, filled all their senses with memories but no dreams and started walking into depths of sea.
Soon, with last few rays of sun left, they all are peacefully assimilated into sea. Part which cannot be separated from it, part of sea from what once first living being crawled out. They completed the circle.
………. In the night, one child, as child often does what it is not supposed to do, hurriedly wake up mother. “What?” mother said. “I am not seeing any dreams” child said with touch of loss. Mother looked at child, may be helplessly, as answers have submerged and cannot be traced now.