Ever since he was a kid, Arjun loved reading stories.
Stories where a detective saves the day using his wit and instincts—like the one who lived at 221B Baker Street. Stories where the protagonist travels through the cosmos to find new planets and life. Stories where characters have superpowers, pull a sword out of the stone, slay dragons, and rescue a faraway princess. Stories where anything was possible, unlike the real world.
For Arjun, reality was lifeless and boring. Nothing exciting ever happens here, he often told himself. Stories for him, on the other hand, were the colours of life without which everything was black and grey.
He began writing when he was 28. At first, writing didn’t come easy to him. But his love for stories kept him glued to his laptop, and slowly and gradually, his short stories began to get attention. Praises became common and so did the criticism. But for Arjun, the opinions of the outside world didn’t matter. What mattered was the voice of his imagination that knew no bounds. He continued to write with unbridled enthusiasm for almost the next two decades until one fateful day when tragedy befell him.
Arjun was 45 when he met with an accident that damaged his spine and his ability to write. When did reality become so intense and cruel? He wondered lying in the hospital bed. The only thing that mattered to him in life—to write and live his stories—was taken away from him. A palpable sense of dread and despondency engulfed Arjun. He cursed his stars and became more resentful with each passing day.
Then one morning, a thought popped up in his mind, and for the first time in months, he smiled. What if all this is a story, and I’m its protagonist? If this were true, what would I do? Give up my dreams or fight for them?
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