Once upon a time, I was someone very important in the village. Children and grown-ups alike, awaited impatiently for the clock hands to meet. And just like in the fairy tales, at the stroke of mid-day, I would appear – armed with my bagful of magical wonders and a heart full of fantastic tales. The children were always the first to notice me…they had set up a sort of watchtower in my honour, that would be manned daily till the assigned hour was past.
Gleeful laughter, spontaneous applause and little dancers too excited to stand still would set the stage for my entrance. A fast runner would be sent from one home to another to root out the womenfolk, hitherto busy packing lunches and cleaning houses. They would quickly wipe off their sweaty palms on their dresses before sitting down patiently in a semi-circle around me. The children would climb aboard their mother’s laps and wait restlessly for me to begin. I would set aside my paraphernalia, clear my throat importantly, and choose a piece from my bag to set the tone; and then I would tell them all of the wonders I had seen and the places I had left. Enthralled, they took a few minutes every time to realize that I had finally stopped speaking. Then they would press for some more stories, something magical that could help them pass the dreary life they led. Sometimes, I gave in.
Today, the dreadful box has found its way in every home and is telling tales more fantastic than I could ever spin. No one has the time for a poor storyteller. Ah, well. I have enough money to start my own bar – there would be no dearth of audience there!
Written for Michelle’s Photo Fiction #62