So I was standing on the 9th floor of the building where my office was. Weekend had started and I was waiting for a colleague to be free as we both intended to leave together. I had wrapped up all my tasks until Sunday and had literally nothing to do. So, I went down to the lobby to get some fresh air and watch my little city of Baroda roll by with ease. That was when it struck me.

The 9th floor not only held miniature head twirls but also my fantasy of a distant view of the city. From such a height, everything appeared small and granular. But something much heavier sunk in me. Each vehicle that passed by held something in itself.

I believe that just a normal Indian city held so many stories. So many of them just went away untold – totally anonymous. Something had happened in the history of mankind but it was not known to everybody. Every human has their own share of unique stories – moments of triumph, events of happiness, mishaps of jealousy or nervousness and sadness.

Every story in itself has something to tell – a lesson to teach that has to be remembered forever and if possible to be passed on to the coming generations. I remember when my parents started of the usual parental chatter “When-I-was-your-age” stories; I had million reasons to scoff at them. Lack of patience, what else can be said! Young blood will never understand the story. But what they might never understand is the beauty of the story that got woven in that particular era of time.

I then looked at some of the old black and white photographs of my family members; each faded yet speaking more than a thousand words. That was when I realized the kind of situation my parents were brought up, how they became what they are today, the pains, the struggles, the victories, the happiness, the falls and the rise – each in itself an epic story which now I know and I believe in passing on.

I have lot of respect for the common man – common man with common stories, each day though life is an epic drama he fights through with; sometimes he wins and sometimes he loses the battle  but still goes on. Standing in that lobby of the 9th floor, I saw in a distance a window through which yellow light shone. I smiled to myself; a story was existing there but millions like me didn’t know but the concerned person was living through it.

Its a straight bow of respect for every human who has had a brilliant story to tell and share; if penned down, others can laugh and cry, feel angry and sad, nostalgic and romantic through it. In a way, it makes me sad sometimes that there are wonderful stories and incidents on planet Earth of which I am totally unaware. The person in me wants to know all of them but cannot; even she knows that. Yet, I feel that if however bad or however great be it, every story at least once has to be told in time; keep it thriving in the atmosphere and pass the legacy!