Circle

Their suite was on the 100th floor, and the hotel elevator wasn’t working.

“Once there were four friends—Ashish, Sonu, Pawan and Anand” my father started the story. “Every year, they used to travel to a new city for vacations, to retreat from their mundane lives. This year, they chose to visit a city called Circle.”

I must’ve been five, and I used to try and make the most of what little time I got with my father. He used to come home late when mother had already put us in bed. Morning’s were busier with the school. I soon figured that my father liked telling stories more than I wanted to listen to them. So, I dodged my bedtime and tried snuggling next to my father whenever I could, each time for a new story.

“Circle was a cosmopolitan city with tall glass buildings, fast roads, lights and lots of people. Bazaar’s used to open all night, with people bustling in the streets. The city never slept.”

He paused for my occasional “hmm” to check if I’ve dozed off.

“So, the four of them booked a lavish suite in a hotel that stood a hundred-storey tall. And, to their excitement, they got their suite on the 100th floor. They were astonished by the view of the city from up top. It looked as if the stars have been scattered on the earth.”

I was already transported into the story by this time.

“The next morning, the four of them...what were their names?” he asked me.

“Ashish, Sonu, Pawan and...Anand,” I replied.

My father used to narrate stories very slowly. Back then, I thought it was his trick to put me to sleep without having to complete them.

“Yes, they booked themselves a car and set out to explore the city. They shopped at noisy markets, ate at luxurious restaurants, and surfed on endless beaches. Without tiring, they trekked into soft-green hills and camped in the enchanted forests; drove to the lush countrysides and then back into the romantic city’s heart. They repeated their routine until they had discovered every amusement Circle could offer them.”

“Umm-hmm”.

It was only when I had grown up, years later, that I realised that the story was full of symbols. There was no way I could have deciphered them then. But, I like to believe that my father knew that this story would be with me, even if age wipes the childhood memories of other bedtime stories.

“On the final day of their vacation, when they returned to their hotel at night, they found that the elevator was out of order! The four of them were all quite tired, and climbing up 100 stories sounded impossible. After a while of discussion, they came up with an idea. They decided that each of them will tell 25 stories each as they would climb the stairs. So, this way, for every floor, they’ll have one story to tell.”

“Wouldn’t that be boring?” I muttered. My father’s pace was making me impatient for the end.

“No, because the rule was that the first 25 stories would be about childhood and adolescence, about summers and springs, about kings and queens, about school. The second 25 stories would be about career, marriage, about making a name in the society, about building a home and raising children, and families.”

My father was and still is a very patient man. He could stand still and let storms take all their time to pass.

“The third 25 stories would be about getting old, retiring, and having grandchildren visit in summers. And the final 25 would be about...” he paused for a moment. “...about how people die.”

“Umm-hmm”.

“And so they started their way up. With every floor, they told one story each. This way, they soon reached the 100th floor. They walked through the lobby and reached their suite’s door. But, all this while, none of them had realised that they have left the key in the car.”

We used to live in an apartment with no elevators in it. And we lived on the 4th floor. I could only imagine what climbing 100 stories would’ve done to their legs.

“So, now they had to go back down, get the key, and climb up, repeating the stories.”

It was my father’s chuckles after every story he ever told that gave him away. He enjoyed telling his stories. Perhaps, in them, he found his moment of recollection in his otherwise busy life.

“Did you understand then what it meant?” he asked me. “It means that there is one thing that all of us are meant to do in this life. We need to discover what that is. Because if we get distracted by matters of life, we will forget about it. We will leave our key in the car. And then we’ll have to come back and live through all of it again. A Full Circle.”, he explained.

As a child, I couldn’t tell the moral’s head from its tail. But this story grew its roots deep in my head. It has grown with me, with its meaning revealing itself gradually.