Stories at the Edge of Truth

A reader kindly commented on the last blog and made a very important point. In narrative theory there is always an intended audience, and those who think they control the narrative have that audience in mind. It is not always about cleverness, or manipulation, or even power. Sometimes it is simply about survival. The one who crafts the story, trying to write out a character from the plot to make space for the newcomer, is often desperate, doing whatever it takes to keep the new guy happy, like buying a round you can’t afford just so you’re not the one left at the table with empty hands. You tell the newcomer what they want to hear because you’ve got nothing else, because maybe stroking their ego buys you another story, another sliver of a life that already feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. The story becomes less of a weapon and more of a life raft. But as the reader asked—“in my own story, am I the narrator, the newcomer, or the one written out?”—that’s where the whole thing tilts, because the beauty of narratives is that they pivot when you least expect it. The proud newcomer, the one strutting around thinking they’ve overcome every obstacle, suddenly realizes they’ve been spoon-fed a script, not truth, just lines written to keep them hooked. And when the curtain falls, as it always does, the narrator is revealed as someone too human to juggle all the stories, too desperate to keep the contradictions from crashing down. The whole edifice collapses, because it was flimsy, stitched together with shaking hands. And then the crash—because stories diverge when reality barges in. They skid like cars on a mountain road, wheels locked, no guardrails, some careen off the edge, some just stall, and in the wreckage it’s the one who was supposedly written out who shows up again, like the first responder nobody thought they’d need, because they never really left the story in the first place. Meanwhile, the proud newcomer sulks, still trying to understand how the ground shifted, while the old truth just waits, like it always does, until silence is no longer possible. And the narrator—the one who thought words could hold back time—watches as the version of life they clung to dissolves in their hands. Don’t think this is just about personal ties either. In the book I’ve been finishing on the stories of COVID in West Bengal, the same desperation plays out in grand theaters. Governments, institutions, the media—professional storytellers—each one spinning tales to make the horror look smaller, the chaos cleaner, the loss more palatable. They wanted to convince their audiences that everything was still in control. But the cracks couldn’t be hidden, the numbers betrayed them, the silences screamed, and slowly the truth surfaced. What lingers is their desperation, their fear that if the truth got out the story would collapse and with it the fragile illusion of order. And that’s the point—when life itself is slipping away, whether in a hospital ward or in the mess of your own shrinking world, stories become the only trick left, the last hustle to keep a little dignity, a little recognition, a faint shadow of happiness. But reality always shows up uninvited, and when it does, you remember the voice of Johnny Cash, gravel in his throat, confessing the bottom line: “What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away in the end.”