THE AUTOGRAPH (short story)

I sat at my desk, staring blankly at the stacks of papers and unfinished tasks. My hand trembling as I reached for my coffee cup, I took a sip, but it was cold and didn't ease my tension. My eyes felt heavy, and I couldn't focus on the words in front of me. My mind was racing with thoughts and worries, and I couldn't keep up with them. I leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm my nerves. The weight of the work on my shoulders was palpable, and I felt myself sinking deeper into my chair.

I sat nervously at my desk, phone pressed tightly against my ear as I waited for the editor of the journal to speak. The silence on the other end felt like an eternity, but finally, I heard a calm and collected voice. "Alright! You can go to the hotel at two o'clock. They will give you an entrance card." The editor's words were measured and matter-of-fact, but I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over me. I could see the editor in my mind's eye, speaking with a controlled and steady voice, as if he was delivering a routine message. The way he said the words, with a hint of finality, made it clear that he had made his decision and there was no room for negotiation.

As I walked through the grand entrance of the hotel, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for arriving two hours early. I glanced at my watch, watching as the seconds ticked by at a snail's pace. The entrance area was a visual feast for the eyes, with its array of cubic shapes in different hues of white, red, blue, and black. The rows of high-end cars parked outside added to this impression, their shiny exteriors glinting in the sunlight. I felt like I was looking at a child's drawing come to life, with the bright colors and shapes appearing playful and whimsical. However, as I looked closer, I realized that the colors represented something deeper, the hopes and dreams of the city's residents that may never be realized. The cars, in their different hues, symbolized the human values, positions, struggles and distances that we all contend with in our lives.

I flipped through the pages of my notebook, scanning the questions I had prepared for the interview. The questions I wanted to ask my high-ranking interviewee had nothing to do with colors and their differences, but they painted the color of people's faces, their dreams and their worries which could only be captured with a child's crayons.

Perhaps the little daughter of the man who owns that sky-colored car cannot depict the flow of water in her paintings because there is always water in her house. Maybe the child of the owner of the red car will not paint the apple...The thought crossed my mind that, perhaps, the children of these families do not need pencils and paints at all, as they have already seen and experienced everything they need.

Cars drove by the street, their engines revving as they slowed to a stop. The doors opened, and out stepped elegantly dressed men and women, their attire revealing their high status in the city. The drivers, dressed in uniform, quickly stepped out of the cars, opening the doors for their passengers. The scene was like a revolving door of people and cars, each one different in color and style.

The colors of the cars changed as if a child was turning the pages of their paintings, each one a different scene. As the procession of cars continued, one car caught my attention. It was larger and more imposing than the others, and several bodyguards accompanied the person getting out of it. I recognized him immediately as the mayor, someone I had participated in many roundtable discussions with. He stepped out of the car, his presence commanding, and his entourage followed him as he walked towards the building.

I checked my watch repeatedly as the time ticked closer to two o'clock. As I stood there, an enchanting lady approached me. She asked for my name, checked my entry card, and with a polite smile said, "Follow me, please." Without any further delay, I followed her through a door and into a space that was both grand and intimate. The room was furnished with two comfortable chairs and a table that stood between them. On the table, there were bottles of mineral water, jars of fruit juice, a few packages of pricey sweets and heavy glass ashtrays. The guide gestured for me to take a seat and said, "Wait here!" before walking away. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I couldn't shake the feeling of anticipation that was building within me.

The door opened and walked in a man with a disheveled head of hair and a warm smile. He carried a book under his arm as he settled into the chair across from me. "Hello," he greeted me, and I returned the greeting. I carefully placed my questionnaire in front of him, and he continued to smile as he looked at the questions. "Life itself is full of questions," he said. "With every breath we take, a question holds us back, a question hooks us, a question embarrasses us, and a question leads us into the coffin... Is that not so?" I nodded my head in agreement. "You are right, sir, but..."

He interrupted me, "Well, now that I have proven that I am right, please allow me to continue. Please do not think that I have dismissed your questions, which you have likely spent hours pondering. No! I am aware of the answer you expect from me to these questions, and I also know that my answer may not satisfy the readers of your writings in this city. At this point, I would like to engage in a conversation with you without answering any of your inquiries. Then you will be able to find the answers to your questions." He leaned forward and looked directly into my eyes, inviting me to join in a conversation without any expectation of specific answers.

I was at a loss for words, unsure how to respond to his suggestion. But he continued talking without waiting for my reply, his words flowing smoothly and confidently. I sat there, hanging on his every word, captivated by the way he spoke. He scolded, smiled, and praised Santiago from time to time. His words were direct and to the point.

He began to describe a fisherman, Santiago, who never gave up, an elderly man who followed his heart out to sea in pursuit of his dream catch. He struggled for eighty-four days and did not catch a single fish. On the 85th day, however, he returned to the sea and...

As he spoke, I could see the story coming to life in my mind, the image of Santiago battling the sea, his determination and perseverance shining through. The man's words painted a vivid picture, and I was caught up in the story, hanging on every word. His enthusiasm and passion were contagious, and I couldn't help but be moved by the tale he was telling. As the man recounted his exploits, I sat at the table in complete amazement. I propped my chin on the table with my elbows and listened intently to his every word. The speaker's voice was full of longing, and as he spoke, his face came alive with the emotion of the story. He would occasionally run his fingers through his gray hair, his delightful speech almost turning his face into a movie screen. I noticed how his eyebrows seemed to turn into an old man's boat and his forehead wrinkles into ocean waves as he spoke, the scenes of the book coming to life before my eyes.

I was completely fascinated by his words, captivated by the way he brought the story to life with his narration.

I noticed an old man banging his head on the floor, with a young apprentice lying still and frightened in the corner. The old man's actions were intense, and I couldn't take my eyes off him. His presence and majesty filled the room. He spoke with passion and clarity, his tales of the sea, his life, his net, his boat, and his fishing held me in a spell. Occasionally, he sighed, but it was only for a brief moment. He praised the soul and dignity of the old man who had toiled with fate.

I was enchanted by his words, and I couldn't help but notice how the old man greedily pulled the net out of the sea with his hands, his determination and strength palpable in the air. His gestures were full of intensity and vigor, as if he was reliving the moment, and I felt like I was right there alongside him.

Half an hour had passed, and I was hanging onto his every word, wishing I could have stopped time to keep that precious moment all to myself. Unfortunately, that was not only impossible but also unimaginable. Time flew by, and the tape recorder spun as if my memories were gradually fading away.

As he stood up, he asked for permission to leave and as he placed his right hand on my shoulder, he murmured something I will never forget. "I may not have been able to answer all your questions, but never forget this: Man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed, but not defeated." He looked me in the eyes with a seriousness that sent shivers down my spine. His words were not only spoken but also felt, his presence was commanding and his words left an indelible impression on me.

It was as if he was trying to impart a life lesson, something that I should carry with me forever. The weight of his words, his touch, and his gaze all left a lasting impact on me.

After saying goodbye, the man walked away. I sat there staring after him, feeling a pang of guilt for not standing up and escorting him out. My legs felt heavy, like lead and I was stuck to my chair. I cursed myself for my rudeness and wondered if I had offended him. His last words echoed in my mind, and I couldn't shake the feeling that there was a deeper meaning behind them.

As I looked beyond the dark and bare trees, I wondered why he had told me this story, which is one of the solved problems in world literature? Was there something he wanted me to learn, something he wanted me to understand? I couldn't shake the feeling that this meeting was not a coincidence, and that the man had something more to say.

Unopened plastic bottles of mineral water and soft drinks sat on the table, silently keeping an eye on me. A thin, threadbare smoke from his cigarette butts billowed from the ashtray. On the questionnaires, he had left me a book - a signed copy of The Old Man and the Sea, a pen, and a lesson that has stuck with me ever since: Failure is not a real thing. Failure is merely a stepping stone to success...

Firdavs Azam