A Friendship Tale.

The alchemist needed new company, because, it knew Hitler’s story too much to be known.
It needed a new friend, a new tale, and some new words.
And once, amidst all the alphabets that formed the sentences, that formed the stories, that formed the pages of the novels, The God of Small Things was placed beside The Alchemist on the shelf.
Like, Paulo Coelho standing besides Arundhati Roy.
Like Roy’s words besides that of Coelho’s.
“You’re huge. Huger than all the books, except Mein Kampf, as obvious.” The Alchemist said, looking up at The God.
Like a child that looks at the sky;
Like a wisher looking at the meteor.
“I know I am huge. But don’t measure me by my size. I am really good on the inside. I am The G-O-D of Small of Things.”, The God said, with a proud emphasis on the word ‘God’.
“Well, God, I am The Alchemist. Coelho’s one of the best creations.”
“The Alchemist, yes, I’ve known you. So, how long are you on this shelf?” The God asked.
“Quite long. Do you see Mein Kampf besides me?”
“Yes, I do. I do see Hitler.”
“From the time I’ve been here, Mein Kampf’s always been besides me. God, you know, a little Hitler is yet alive in all those words, Nazi Germany alive in the pages of the book. In the narrow space, between the words, I’ve felt smell of war, the smell of arms, the smell of loss, the smell of hope, and the smell of insecurities, I’ve felt it all.”
“It seems you’ve been here too long to know Hitler.”
“Ha, oh yes!” said The Alchemist. “And, hence, I’ve wished for a new companion. I am glad that you’ve been placed besides me. You would know, right, the bliss of feeling the happiness of new stories and the serenity we feel after knowing a tale?”
“Of course, I do. I am, though, unknown of all experiences you’ve felt. I am here directly out of the publication house, wrapped safely in bubble-wrap, transported in the truck and brought here, to be placed besides you.”
“May be our destinies decided to meet.”
“May be.”
“So, tell me your tale.”
“I am, The God of Small Things; The God of little things; The God of loss.”
“You seem so fascinating.”
“I am. The words inscribed on me tell the story of two twins, two egg foetuses, two dizygotic. The story from the time they were and weren’t in this world.”
The God started to talk to The Alchemist, then.
The Alchemist heard, keenly. As if, The God had been hypnotising The Alchemist with its tale. But, yes, The God’s words were mesmerizing enough to captivate The Alchemist.
The God shared its origin, the start of its life. As though, The God was the Guest of Honour for the night. As though, it was made to speak the life of struggles and successes. “I am a tale, simple yet shattering, beautiful yet bold, sad yet surprising.”
It said how its words meant world to him. How its life shared the story of Esthappen and Rahel, the two egg twins.
“With them, I begin my story. With them, I begin my life. With them, I begin my existence.”
It said, how their life was its story; and how their story, was its life. How much their pain, their love, their happiness mattered.
The sad elements of its story saddened it.
It told The Alchemist, ‘Life can be, in most circumstances unpredictable. So, it’s best to be prepared.”
The God of Small Things spoke of its reflection on the paradoxes of the caste and colour in Kerela, it enfolded to The Alchemist, the story of life in the Ayemenem House and in Kerela.
It enthralled all the silences, spoken and unspoken.
The Alchemist heard The God and related all the similarities and indifferences within them.
When The God would speak of a happy situation, from the story, The Alchemist would feel unbridled ecstasy with no limits. When The God would speak of the sad, The Alchemist would turn itself low, and imbue within itself the blues of The God. When The God would speak of love, The Alchemist would feel the eternity and perpetuity of the most pure feeling in the world.
As The God concluded its story, ending the tale of Estha and Rahel, it said that, the only difference between itself and the story was the end of twin’s story was not its end.
That, The God of Small things would still live on the shelves of homes and that of libraries and in the rough drafts of Roy’s creation. This equation, though, The God couldn’t fathom.
The God of little things,
The God of Small Things.

As The God finished its story, the rain which rained outside calmed down as the clouds finished weeping over the lands of earth. The dust on The Alchemist felt the edges of The God of Small Things, as The Alchemist felt the words of The God.

“The. God. Of. Small. Things.” The Alchemist said.
“Yes, this is me. The God of Small Things.”

There was silence between the books. The rhymes of poems settled in the poetry and the mediocre words hidden by the atrocity of high class vocabulary.

“I felt your sorrow, the dolorous tale of yours.”, said The Alchemist, breaking the silence like one had blown off a fire cracker in pin-drop silenced room.

The God smiled. It said to The Alchemist,
“I’ve known you as one of the ‘must read’ books. But I haven’t known your story. It is your turn to unveil your saga.”

“I am the life of Santiago. Santiago, the shepherd. Santiago, the dream catcher. Santiago, the traveller.” The Alchemist said feeling the words on it, written by Coelho.

“Sa-An-Ti-Go.”, The God tried to pronounce.

“Sant-Ee-Yaa-Go”, The Alchemist corrected.

“S-A-N-T-I-A-G-O.”, The God said.

“Yes. It’s the story of his life. It’s the story of his destiny. It’s the story of his treasure.”

“Is Santiago, the hero of your tale, as close to you, as the twins to me or let’s say, Germany to Hitler?” The God asked.

“Obviously, The God.” The Alchemist said.
“But, obviously, again, unlike Adolf, I wouldn’t get aggressive for Santiago’s worth, like he did, for that of Germany’s.” said The Alchemist, in a hushed whisper fearing the presence of Mein Kampf just beside him.

The God gave soundless smile.

And, The Alchemist spoke its story. The story of chasing one’s dream, of chasing one’s destiny.

The Alchemist spoke as though it had been asked to prove its ability. But, it didn’t have to. The Alchemist was a good omen on its own.

The Alchemist spoke some more.
The winds blew some more.
The air cooled down some more.
The God heard some more.

The Alchemist enchanted the words on it to the God.
The Alchemist explained the theory behind, ‘When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.’ It told The God, that, rise is possible only after a fall. It said, that if one succumbs to the failure one faces, then, success is faraway thought.
“I reside in my dazzling simplicity, but, trust me, I am an inspiration to all those who’ve felt the words on me.” It said.

The God felt The Alchemists words, like the earth felt the raindrops. Just as, the raindrops became one with the soil, The Alchemists words became one with The God.

The Alchemist wasn’t lying.
Because, The God sensed the feeling of a one of a kind inspiration.
And,
The God started believing that, ‘Where your treasure is, there will also be your heart.’
And, The God felt, that, probably it was its greatest treasure to secure a place besides The Alchemist. It felt its heart from its soul. It was its greatest treasure to hear the words of The Alchemist from The Alchemist, itself. It realized the significance to seek one’s destiny. It realized the significance of small things.

And, for once,
The God realized that The God of Small things is the real God.

The Alchemist gave its climax like a thunder in monsoon rains, smoothly, but in a terrific way; smoothly terrific.
And, this thunder hit The God’s nerve.

The Alchemist was now quiet.

The shelf was quiet too and words on the books lay unspoken.

In the shimmered chaotic home as the window panes blushed with touch of the wind, two books felt the presence of each other. Two books, despite their differences and words, celebrated their stories and their company.

“The Alchemist,” said The God, “Your story is delightful in every sense. An inspiration to all those who have and will, feel the words over you, to all those who flip your pages, you will be the reason to their life changing opinion. You are not a book read and forgotten; you are a story read and remembered.”

“Aren’t our tales different? Yet, aren’t we so convinced?”

“Yes, you’re totally correct. We are not same, but, we’re similar. We’re not of one opinion but our opinions are masters. And, hence, I guess, The Alchemist, we’re going to be friends with differences.”

The Alchemist smiled at the idea of friends with differences.

Friendships happen over smiles shared, handshakes exchanged, a cup of coffee, or probably, in most unexpected situations, like this, on a bookshelf between two books over sharing stories.

Paulo Coelho didn’t know Arundhati Roy.
Arundhati Roy didn’t know Paulo Coelho.

Two different writers, two different countries, two different works, but, on that shelf, their creations embraced each other; felt their words, knew their stories and became friends for a lifetime, rejoicing novels, ideas, words and languages.