I've heard that the end is the hardest part. but it seems like endings are the most beautiful parts because the audience don't know what happens after that. We can call any part of the story as an ending, and they will never know the rest, if it is beautiful or sad. The endings can never be happy or never be sad, they are what they are. Now that I am leaving to Hyderabad mid August, even in the midst of pandemic with a few friends in search of new beginnings, it is only right to leave me and the idea of me behind. so, I sped up to finish my Novel and will finish the handbook on farming and would even try to finish the damned unnecessary research thing my syllabus has and my HOD is bent as usual on making it hard for me because I chose something Psychological and complicated for media to comprehend. Sometimes, I want to do a research on why research is pointless. Everybody does it on movies, as if movies can be analysed or critiqued upon. Wish I could slap the hell out of them. But on a positive note, here is the end, the final scene. Not just audience, even I don't know where the story goes from here. Somehow my editor loves the story and the end.
“What do you want right now”, he repeated with a gentle smile.
“Right now?”, she asked, her body sagging in exhaustion. “I just need more rain”. She looked at him with a puzzled look in her eyes, seeing that finally after years, their conversations were about her.
“A long journey that ends in rain?”. Dante ran his hand through his hair, feeling the traces of dried mud and blood.
He asked her to follow him, leading her to what he wanted her to see before they would leave this place, and on their own ways. He hoped they would meet again, after years at the little beautiful place called Cardon and share a drink by the fire, after being exhausted from the lives they chose for themselves. The few men who stood around the fires in mourning nodded at their General in respect as he passed by them.
Raga stepped into the tree house, trying not to place her hand on the wall to avoid the splinters at every inch. The door opened with a creak, the odour of decay filling the still air. She followed him to a dark corner of the room, as he searched for something. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the small canvas he handed to her. He had painted the rain, gentle, cooling drops of splashed rain on a glass window. It looked like the old dusty library window in Nant Dale. Tears misted her eyes and made their way down her cheeks as she laughed through the tears. The salty aftertaste lingered for long.
Even in the future, a story began with once upon a time. And once upon a time, there was a man named Dante. He taught an entire generation of Thespania how to grow their food in their homes and how to live their lives without looking up to another man. He was once a General and won many wars, but being loved was his greatest victory of all.
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