Nazir Jahangir
(It all began when a clash erupted between the writer and the creative characters, leading to a story that wrote itself. It merits a mention here that actually, it was my Kashmiri play titled “Wirasat”, which was broadcast on Radio Kashmir in the 90s, and I had written its dialogues in poetic form. Now, at the insistence of my peers, I have adapted it into a short story…)
He was lost in a maze of thoughts, caught in their relentless grip. One thought, like a thread, pulled him out of this labyrinth and unraveled a new idea. Determined, he decided to write a story that would convey his message to the world. To achieve this, he needed a character—someone who could achieve in fiction what he, as a writer, could not accomplish in real life.
One day, a thought struck him like an arrow: his existence couldn’t be pointless. “My life isn’t in vain,” he told himself. “God created me for a reason beyond mere survival.” He often pondered this, seeking a purpose greater than the mundane rhythms of daily life.
Thoughts have a way of giving birth to new ideas, and soon his mind became a torrent of possibilities. They swept him away, crashing against uncharted shores and pulling him into deep whirlpools. His heart leapt like a trout struggling out of water. Amid this chaos, one thought surfaced and planted a question in his mind: “What is my purpose in this world?” He wrestled with the answer. “I’m not a politician, reformer, or spiritual leader. I am simply… a writer,” he mused, as if engaging in a dialogue with himself.
That idea took root: he had a purpose yet to be discovered, and it must be tied to the betterment of humanity. He began to sketch out a story, creating a strong, vibrant character, one who could bring his ideals to life. Yet, when he tried to steer this character according to his vision, the character resisted.
This creation, brought to life by the writer’s imagination, started to challenge his authority. Instead of following the plot, the character asserted his independence. He began to ignore the writer’s directions, insisting on his own needs. At first, the writer was shocked, even amused by the rebellion. But soon, anxiety crept in as he realized that his character was behaving like a self-aware entity with desires of its own.
One day, the character confronted the writer directly. “I need a companion,” Arman said, his tone unyielding. “This loneliness is unbearable. You made me, gave me a mind, emotions—how can you deny my need for companionship?”
The writer was taken aback. “You’re a creation, not a person with free will,” he replied sternly.
Arman countered, “Perhaps you gave me more freedom than you intended. I exist with my own longings. It is your duty, as my creator, to listen to me. If you deny me, I will be nothing more than a hollow puppet in your hands, devoid of the depth you seek in your story.”
After a long silence, the writer sighed, realizing the impasse. Arman’s friends, figments of the writer’s own imagination, urged him to find a compromise. “Negotiate with him,” they said. “Only then will your story move forward again.” Reluctantly, the writer reopened the dialogue.
They struck a deal. The writer would create a companion—a beautiful, wise, and understanding partner for Arman. In return, Arman promised to fulfill his role and advance the story according to the writer’s vision.
With the agreement in place, the writer crafted Noor to match the desires of Arman. She was everything he had envisioned—young, graceful, with deep, expressive eyes, flowing hair, and a radiant smile. The writer hoped that Noor would bring the story back on track.
He introduced Noor to Arman. “I have made her just as you wanted,” the writer said. “She’s beautiful, strong, confident. Her charm can soften the hardest of hearts. Now, it’s your turn to keep your promise.”
Arman’s eyes lit up with gratitude. But as the days passed, a new problem arose. Arman fell deeply in love with Noor, but she did not share his feelings. “She’s indifferent to me,” he lamented to the writer, his voice filled with despair.
“You must let the story unfold naturally,” the writer replied, trying to keep his own doubts at bay. Yet, inside, he knew the story was slipping from his grasp.
The unreciprocated love led to tension between the two characters, halting the story’s progress. Instead of moving forward, the narrative veered into turmoil. The once-brave Arman became despondent, and the writer’s plans unraveled.
Seeing the distress of her suitor, Noor approached the writer with a plea. “You are my creator. You must protect me from his unwanted advances. He troubles me, pursuing me relentlessly, and I am weary of this torment.”
The writer, exasperated, tried to reason with her. “You should know that Adam’s first partner, Eve, faced judgment because she sought independence from Adam and her Creator. A woman who defies the order is seen as a threat.”
She shot back, “I don’t care for these old tales. I am here now, a living creation. I deserve freedom, not restrictions.”
The writer, weary of the quarrels, asked for her advice. She told him that she desired a companion of her own. “I want a new character—strong, wise, and my equal,” she proposed. “He could help resolve the conflict.”
“And how would that solve my problem?” the writer asked.
“Because I will guide him. I’ll encourage him to fulfill your mission in this story,” she assured him.
Seeing no other way, the writer agreed. He crafted Zaroon according to her wishes, hoping to restore balance.
But instead of easing the tension, this only deepened the story’s chaos. Noor quickly grew fond of Zaroon, and he of her. They spent all their time together, completely ignoring the story’s original theme. Meanwhile, Arman became bitter, his role shifting from hero to antagonist. His jealousy boiled over, turning him into a rival.
The writer watched helplessly as conflicts between the characters consumed the story. To make matters worse, he found himself captivated by Noor. He fell in love with her, an infatuation that made him resent both Arman and Zaroon. Their presence began to feel like thorns in his heart.
The internal conflict between the story’s world and his own emotions pushed him to the brink. Frustrated, he abandoned the story. “Maybe some stories are meant to remain unfinished,” he muttered to himself, trying to find solace. “Not every masterpiece needs closure, like Donatello’s sculptures, perfect in their ‘unfinished’ form.”
Yet, as he closed the pages of his story, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had truly lost control or if the story had simply found a life beyond his intentions, weaving its own destiny in the unwritten spaces between his words.
The author is a noted journalist