And master Mehmut, the well-digger, in Orhan Pamuk’s The Red Haired Woman, was inside the well because of an accident that made him stay there inside for a few hours until someone rescued him; Mr. Okada in Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-up Bird Chronicle went inside the dry well to think, to think in peace and he stayed put inside for a few days surviving on water he had carried in his flask until Creta Kano rescued him and later went inside herself to think. I am inside the well and I have no idea how I happen to be here, I just seem to be here. I have no memories of landing down here, I opened my eyes and here I am, alone and stagnant, no sign of an accident and no hipflask to drink and quench my thirst from. I look up at the void of darkness and see nothing. I do not know what I want; I do not know what I should feel. I am here just flesh and bones.
Everything in this world is a continuation of that grand event, the first story and every character has his story which actually takes that one story forward. So, my story, my unique story, is actually the wool of the black sheep that knits the story and acts as a link to the other stories; without my story, this story, your story is incomplete. And since everything is just a link to the chain of things, my story has to begin with an and.
This is how I justify my being inside the well.
And I sit crouched with my hands around and face on my knees. I cannot see anything thing outside from the bottom, and I don’t know what time of the day it is, or is it night? I don’t know if it is a dream or a delusion, I don’t know how or when I was transported here, here inside the well. I know one thing, just one thing that my fate lies in the suddenness. I have stopped thinking about getting out of the well, because I cannot. I will come out like I came in, suddenly. Inside I am going through metamorphosis; I am slowly turning into a shapeless and a formless being, an amoeba. I am not afraid anymore. And as my reasoning leaves me slowly, like water draining out of a bucket, I think with my last remaining ounce of thought, why is being an amoeba is to be unafraid? Now, I am water, taking different shapes at will, flowing and never quite getting stuck. I am filling up the dry well; I will quench your thirst. I will rise up till you can pail me out in small amounts to take your fill.
And the story ends here.
I was helpless inside the well until I changed into water, free flowing and nurturing and nourishing. To lose was to rise, to be afraid was to be anchored to the bottom forever. It doesn’t matter anymore how I got here. The story apparently begins here. I can see the smoke rise up above the well’s mouth; I can see things now, now that I have risen. I still don’t know what the source of the smoke is, dry grass or a funeral pyre. Whatever it is; when I see from here, everything on the other side of the smoke is cabalistic. It is like looking through a dirty glass, it’s not clear and at the same time it’s mysterious. But I am water, still and undisturbed; you can see everything clearly through me and I know what my story is. I know what it was when I saw the smoke rise.
My metamorphosis makes me see through the bottom of the well into the earth crust, and I can see manuscripts and stories written on bones. Bones scuttled around and each skeleton has a story of its own. I have to be ripple-free to read the words and sentences on the bones. And I stay still, decoding each story and dictating it to the universe. The sky sucks up every story that leaves my lips and all that comes out of my mouth are the lost words of an unsaid sentence. I cannot relate the story to you. Read it to know it.
And all that remains inside the dry well are bones and eyes.
And as all stories are related to each other unveiling the divine truth of the cosmos, I understand why we have family, friends and foes. My story and their stories are more closely crocheted and affect each other directly, like sharing a common karma. This is our family. This is our friends and this is, of course our enemies. What story we start here had already been written in past life and what story we will have in the next life is how we play our role this time around.
The well is the same well, talked about in all the conversations going around the world and the same one written about in all the books in this universe. When you fetched a bucket of water from the well, you drank a part of me. Now, you are me and somewhere, I am you.
The extract is taken from the diary, Delirium.
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