Of life and storytelling

I am an ardent storyteller. I have always loved relating the day's incidents, some experience of mine - pepper them with vivid details of the scene, the people, their expressions, their intents. I am wont to meandering into sub-plots, losing one story for another 'more appealing' incident. This is, perhaps, why I love the Bollys- and Hollys- of the world. This is, definitely, why I blog.

At times, well, at most times, my friends wonder how I remember tiny, largely insignificant incidents, even from the time I was in Class I, err, maybe even earlier than that. However, I am of the opinion that most of us do. The memories are hardly ever amply clear. Surely, there is a messy yet elaborate muddle of emotions, usually accompanied by sketchy visuals, and a complete lack of audio bits.

Stories, fictional or describing real happenings, are constructs. Yes, there are certain immutable aspects to every narrative. Yet, how often is it that the way things play out changes form, emotion depending on your situation, your company, your mood at the time of narration. There are always blanks to be filled. That one can choose to fill them at will is exciting, delightful and horribly dangerous at the same time. 

There are times when these gaps are filled for you by other people. Think about it. How many of your childhood memories are actually your construction of vague recollections, repeated narrations of those incidents by your parents or older siblings, and in all likelihood, varying quantities of sugar and spice that you add as per the occasion and audience? Mind you, however, embellishing past stories with a bit more colour is not to be confused with outright fabrication. 

In most cases, the narrator is equally convinced that things actually panned out in the fashion he is telling the audience they did. Take for instance. You are sitting with a group of friends and happen to crack a biting joke on one of them. Now, of course, you are friends and don't expect the remark to be taken seriously. However, as you head back two people tell you that they could see the person in question looking uncomfortable by the remark. You are fluttered and try to look back on the setting, your faint recollection of your friend's face after you doled out the comment. And the more you think about it, the surer you become that that, in fact, was the case. The smile you remember on your friend's face, slowly, unknowingly, starts looking more forced. Then you get convinced there was a hint of dismay. Till you are certain you missed an obvious frown there.

It's fascinating how the human mind works. It's even more remarkable how collective memory works. The individual. To a group of close friends. An entire community. We are all just painting out surroundings the way we want to. It doesn't matter if you paint them red now, if later everybody's going to remember them to be blue.

Being happy does not just take one to believe in a better future, but, at times, it requires one to pick up a palette, and add some colour to the past as well.