a short story

The “greatest” struggle of a writer differs from person to person. Some find sitting at a desk for hours on end with an motherboard of thoughts to be draining. Sifting through the drab and finding the daring is the next battle; putting them down on paper is a whole other war. Perhaps a lesser known sparring lies within the writer’s mind itself. It is the back-and-forth between reality and fiction.

This is the truest, most elemental duel, and every writer must find their own precarious balance between creating their world and maintaining its foundations in the realm of humans, if that be their genre of choice. Once a writer has created their world, they may do what they please in it, but the construction of this world is crucial; it must be simultaneously irregular and yet, graspable. Aryan Parikh found the search for this equilibrium to be his insurmountable adversary. He could not, in spite of his valiant and untiring efforts, weave in the optimum amount of realism, if there be such a thing. Maybe this was simply an extension of an artist’s self-doubt, maybe it was genuinely a Greek fatal flaw in his otherwise captivating writing- irrespective- it was driving him insane. The need to create art that satisfied him consumed Aryan, it pervaded his sleepless nights and restless days, it tipped him towards madness.

It was a Wednesday evening. The honey sunlight flittered in and landed on Aryan’s skin, illuminating his mildly grotesque face. The golden warmth of the rays was lost of Aryan, who was far too consumed by his thoughts to appreciate the radiance. The light, although serene, was doing Aryan’s appearance no favours. It highlighted his uneven complexion, drew out the dark circles underneath his eyes, enlarged his already pudgy nose and shadowed his troubled, sunken eyes. His shaggy mane of hair sprung out from his scalp and reached his shoulders in an unattractive murky brown. A rough stubble grew on his jaw, and this, combined with his bushy eyebrows were just a few signs of his neglect. He sat at his desk, in the same pyjamas and transparent vest he had worn for a week, but today, something was different.

Everything around Aryan was the same as it had always been. The vaguely fishy stench in the air, the sound of trains rushing on the tracks, the mess of an apartment he was currently inhabiting. Aryan lived in the far-flung suburbs of Mumbai with his best friend, Neil, and the two were similar to the point that it was almost uncanny. After graduating from the same average college together with impractical degrees in literature and philosophy, the inseparable pair had decided to move to Mumbai to pursue their writing aspirations. Neil, actually, had achieved considerable success in the sense that he was a paid and published writer. He had written a book about a satirical zebra, an idea so brilliant, Aryan had hardly been able to contain his pride at Neil’s success. As a result of this, Neil was a freelance writer and spent a majority of his days (such as this one) sleeping either with women or just at home, without working. Aryan, on the other hand, worked for nine hours at a call centre six days a week, and Wednesdays were his day off.

It could’ve been because of planets in retrograde or stars dying, winds changing or birds singing- something had clicked in Aryan’s head. He felt rejuvenated in a way he hadn’t felt since his childhood. Today, Aryan was energised, empowered and, well, undeniably alive. He was suffused with a million emotions tugging inside him and this saturation of feelings was the only state where he could write fluidly, he thought. Aryan was barely in control of himself, the pen in his hand drove him, owned him. The perfect balance between reality and fiction? It was, according to him, finally in arm’s reach. Maybe today would be the day where his work would satisfy him. He didn’t know how he had reached this heightened state, this literary excess, but he thanked the gods for it all the same, and did the one thing he could finally do- write.

His thoughts fell fast and flowed far, they darted around in his head and coursed through his veins. His mind, buzzing and aroused, was meticulously constructing the perfect world inside his head. The perfect world of reality in an age of fiction. His art would be a fact of existence, at long last. All he had to do was harness the incredible songs his brain sang. So, Aryan Parikh dove deep, deep into the intricacies of his own thoughts and let himself drown in them.

Aryan was writing about a girl who had failed. He pondered, what could he call her? He settled for Tia. Tia’s dream was to be a writer, but she lacked the talent to attain any remarkable progress in the field. Tia, while a decent writer, lacked any creativity or originality of her own. She could not envision a world of her own, she could not authentically write. Everything about Tia was inorganic, borrowed and dull. This came out through her writing but to the people around her, Aryan described Tia’s social interactions to be mere pretences, tainted with false appearances and the bonds she formed with other members of society were simply because they were not discerning enough to uncover her perverse and questionable character. Tia lived with the one exception to this rule, her best friend. This man, Aryan wrote, was a man who whose craft was close to divine ability. The man, let’s call him Rahul, was a writer too, a struggling one albeit, but Aryan conceptualised him as one of the most gifted writers of his time. Rahul was vividly eccentric, astoundingly dynamic, and regrettably capricious.

Aryan felt the world around him ebb away. There was just him, sitting at his desk, writing. Writing, creating, conceiving a universe of his own, one which was both enthralling and yet believable. It was a writer’s utopia- beautifully fleshed-out, complex characters set against the backdrop of everyday urbanity.

The conflict arose when Tia, the affluent, undeserving girl, presented her friend with the book she had just been told was getting published. Her novel. Tia could barely contain her excitement at the fact that commercial success was sure to follow. Rahul grinned from ear to ear, genuinely proud of his friend’s achievement. Later, as Rahul flipped through the pages happily, for he was not a bitter man, his mood paled. There seemed to be distinct similarities between this novel, Tia’s novel, and an idea that Rahul had had earlier. Rahul paused. He carefully inspected each and every word printed on the manuscript. It bore striking resemblance to a brilliant idea he had had for a book and he knew definitively that he had shared it with her. Unable to comprehend what was happening, he read Tia’s book, a satirical book about a zebra, for days on end. He could neither process nor fathom what Tia had done. Tia had stolen his work. His art. There was no redemption. Rahul, in his state of befuddlement, simply nodded and smiled and hugged and congratulated; he went through the motions any proud, caring friend would. But somewhere inside him a deep fury brewed. Tia quit her day job and became a freelance writer, content and secure in the money her book had earned her. At the same time, Rahul persevered. He trudged through his days with a depression characteristic of the mad or the furious.

Aryan was a man possessed, sustained on a certain sense of elation that he acquired only because he had finally attained the one thing he had been yearning for; the right amount of reality. His writing felt real, like he was connected to it, and it made his heart beat faster than it ever had. He had triumphed over the struggle of being a writer. The balance, the skilful craft- it was his.

One Wednesday, Rahul was sitting at home, and he peered over his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he could see Tia lying on the couch. He considered his course of action. Rahul darted toward the kitchen silently. Aryan, writing this, could almost sense Rahul’s adrenaline. The cool marble felt numbing against Rahul’s bare feet and he quietly inched open the drawer they had reserved for cutlery. Aryan described how Rahul’s fingers must’ve felt touching the raw steel as his fingers clasped around the knife. Rahul, stealthy as a tiger, stalked towards Tia who was lying there, blissfully slumberous. Rahul gently clamped her mouth shut with one hand. With the other, Rahul slit her throat. The warm blood covered Tia’s body, Rahul’s arm and the ground. Rahul, secure in his victory, smiled the smile of a tortured man, a wicked man, a cursed man. But Rahul was, in fact, none of these things. He was simply a writer. So, Rahul stared at Tia’s lifeless corpse with little remorse as the blood oozed out. It was gruesome and it was scarring, but Rahul didn’t tear his gaze away.

Aryan was out of breath. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He could hardly believe that he had spun that story out of nowhere-it was like a dream. His eyes were still firmly closed as he revelled in his own talent. He had succeeded. Finally. The story felt compelling, raw, real. It had overcome the greatest struggle Aryan faced as a writer. Satisfied, Aryan opened his eyes. When he saw his roommate Neil’s lifeless corpse, he screamed. When he realised he was holding a bloody kitchen knife, he screamed. When he looked at his blank notebook on his desk, he screamed. Reality, Aryan realised, was a fragile thing. Fiction, Aryan realised, was a fragile thing. And then, once again, he screamed.