Savi Sharma - This is Not Your Story

THIS IS NOT YOUR STORY

THIS IS NOT YOUR STORY

SAVI SHARMA

westland ltd

61, II Floor, Silverline Building, Alapakkam Main Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai 600095
93, I Floor, Shamlal Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi 110002

First e-pub edition: 2017

First published by westland ltd 2017

Copyright Savi Sharma 2017

All rights reserved

978-93-86224-39-2

Designed by SRYA, New Delhi

Savi Sharma asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Due care and diligence has been taken while editing and printing the book. Neither the author, publisher nor the printer of the book hold any responsibility for any mistake that may have crept in inadvertently. Westland Ltd, the Publisher and the printers will be free from any liability for damages and losses of any nature arising from or related to the content. All disputes are subject to the jurisdiction of competent courts in Chennai.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.

Dedicated to

YOU, AGAIN

Remember, there is a cost for every story in your life.

A cost for making your story better,

A cost for not making your story better.

And its you who will have to pay for it.

So decide carefully, what you want.

Which story you want to tell.

CONTENTS

For a moment, forget who you are. More importantly, leave behind who we are and empty out everything. Instead, just be me.

I never wanted anything from life.

If I say those words, I would be lying. In fact, that would be the biggest lie of my life. I wanted, I have always wanted. I just never could bring the words out. My voice failing, my heart breaking, my soul shattering.

But, what do I really want in life?

I dont know yet. So, I will tell you everything I wanted and still want. Today, I will be true; true to you, and most importantly, true to myself.

I I I want to live.

Yes. Not one but many lives in one lifetime. I want to write about myself and everyone I ever met, capture the essence of what its like to live. To be able to read everything beautiful and painful ever written and appreciate the experiences captured. All of this hoping to inspire and be inspired.

I want to learn and to teach. Yes, both, because I have had life-defining encounters that need to be shared and understood. Even so, I still have life-changing experiences, lessons to learn.

I want to give away everything I have. Yes, I want that and I want to begin again. To remind myself what it means to start over, to be back at the beginning of ones life.

I want to eat and dress well, have a nice car and a nicer home. To be rich, famous and appreciated. The little things and the bigger things, I want all of them.

I want to be single and yet attached. Alone yet accompanied. I want to be everything and nothing, all at once!

I want Death to want me. He cannot take me, I want him to come when I have exhausted these lives I want to live and become! I want him to desire the enriched soul I will be!

I want it all; slowly, gradually, definitely. But is this all possible? Can one person be all these things in one lifetime?

I dont know, but I certainly want to know.

Jaipur

I was excited at the thought of sharing my dreams with my parents. My mom has always been a loving and gentle woman. A petite woman far shorter than my dad and I she was encouraging of what I did for the most part, and put my own wellbeing far above her own many times. Housework, cooking, and attending to me made her content. Her smile never failed to cheer me up, and the contrast she held to her husband, my dad, was like a light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. She created warmth, and with a kiss she could cure a childs injury without ever expecting a thank you for the miracles of motherhood that she performed.

As for my dad, he was an orthodox man in both appearance and action. He was a firm believer in letting things off your chest, but he was infamous for asking questions that made you second-guess your decisions. I would cringe at the thought of not meeting his approval in my choices and actions. The intense stare from those brown eyes would hit me, making me feel as if my belly was flopping down onto the cold, marble floor. His mouth would move with precision to slam me with questions to encourage me to think things through. I knew that this was his way of showing me he cared about my future, but his questions stripped me of creativity, imagination, and, more times than I could count, my dreams as a child and adult. His words fell from his lips in two manners: an elected official, or a priest.

Sitting across the table from him added to the anxiety wrapping itself around the joints of my knees and elbows. My moms spoon clacked against the pot with each scoop she served on the plates before us. She settled in her seat, and I remembered to breathe for a second. In my head I was trying to figure out how to start. Do I ask for their attention first? Or should I just blurt out my dream? No, maybe I should at least announce where I plan to go. My decision does require that I leave Jaipur, leave them far behind. The thudding of my heart made my chest ache; my palms were cold with sweat, and again I had to remind myself to breathe. Had I only taken two breaths since Id sat at the dinner table under my dads watchful eye?

Mom, Dad. It had taken me weeks to build up the courage to make the announcement. I want to go to Mumbai.

The clanking of my dads silverware against his plate made me flinch. Why on earth would you need to go to Mumbai?

It was more abrasive of a reaction than I was prepared to face. The way his face reddened, the vein pulsing on his forehead and the sharpness of his stare cut me down with precision. He made it clear with his reaction that there was no reason for me to even think of Mumbai as a place I could go. Worse, clenching my fists under the table, I knew deep down the reaction wouldnt improve when I stated why I wanted to go there. I managed somehow to cling on to my courage to survive that moment and carry on.

I Swallowing, I pulled my courage back beside me before it could flee. I want to go there and take a filmmaking course, become a film director.

Thats no path for people like us, he grunted, and returned to the aggressive cutting of his food. A career like that is all about luck. Its a fools dream.

And why do you need to go to Mumbai for that? My mom had paused in her own eating. Cant you take classes here in Jaipur? On the side?

Mumbai has the best classes. I had locked eyes with my dad, sweat trickled down the side of my neck. There are more opportunities to land a job afterwards in Mumbai as well.

I see. My dad took a bite and chewed on it before continuing his interrogation. Shaurya, have you considered the cost of living in Mumbai?

It was one of the practical questions I had prepared myself for. I am aware of that, Dad. In fact, I have been saving up for some time. My plan is to take the train to Mumbai. I have an idea of a few places within walking distance of the college I wish to attend, and