‘If strangers confess their fears to you, if friends share their deepest sorrows, the ancient Turtle would say you’re not cursed with sadness - you’re chosen for it.’

A reflective narrative about a writer who specializes in sadness, reuniting with his childhood friend, the ancient Turtle, who reveals a profound truth: some souls are chosen to be “Prophets of Sadness” - those gifted with the ability to understand and carry others’ burdens. Through the Turtle’s wisdom, the protagonist learns that God kissed certain souls to give them the power to see beyond happiness’s seductive blindness and witness the pain that others overlook.

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‘Do you know the problem with your writing?’ My filmmaker friend asked me.

He and I are old friends. He knows me well. I write, and sometimes he is kind enough to give life to my words.

‘Please enlighten me.’ I said, while smiling at him.

‘The world needs to be a happier place.’ His voice resonated with exasperation, ‘The world needs to hear happy words. People need to forget the dark side. They need a light at the end of their personal tunnels. But you, my friend, write only of heartbreak and sadness.’

‘Yeah! I guess you are right.’ I nodded. ‘But this is what I am. I can write of happiness and joy and laughter. But most of the time, I don’t want to.’

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Yeah, you have guessed right. I am a writer. And yes, as my well-meaning friend mentioned, I mostly write about sadness and tragedies. In fact, I write when sadness resonates inside me and my eyes are filled with tears. Each tear gives birth to a sentence. Sometimes, the stories are about my own life. But mostly these are just figments of my imagination.

Writing enables me to wear the skin of my characters. I live the life they live, and I breathe the air they breathe. Their sorrows vibrate in my soul, and their tears cloud my eyes.

I see the smiling face of an old and poor woman. I am not fascinated by her smile. Instead, I walk along the deep lines creasing her skin. I peer into the cloudy pools of her eyes. I feel the roughness of her hands. I taste the bitterness of her broken heart, and I feel the tiredness of her exhausted soul.

I see a child playing in the park. I am not charmed by his excitement and joy. Instead, I see the burdensome life ahead of him. I feel the sting of thorns lining his path to adulthood, and I see the grey clouds of worry circling his head. I hear the thunder of disappointments, still distant and far away, and I fear for his sanity.

I see a couple romancing in the rain. I notice the magic of love, but I choose to ignore it. Instead, I see the fading colors of passion. I taste the sourness that comes with possessiveness. I sense the growing distance between the souls, and I hear the tinkling of breaking hearts.

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‘Well, I guess my friend is right. Maybe the world does need to be happy. Maybe it does want to live in the light and deny the existence of darkness.’ I thought and walked into the open arms of the tired evening. The dipping sun is painting everything a pale-yellow shade of gold.

I looked around. Autumn was gently receding, making way for the blissful winters. I heard the crunch of dry brown leaves under my feet. And I felt the rustling of a dry breeze amongst the leafless branches of the old Banyan tree.

‘Hello? Who goes there?’ An old, raspy, and deep voice called out of the rose bushes.

‘Who is there?’ I asked and was surprised as the bushes were too small to hide anyone.

‘My! My! If it isn’t my old friend?’ The voice was warm and affectionate this time. ‘How have you been, son?’

I peered closely and there he was, my childhood friend, the ancient Turtle. For those of you not familiar with him, I had been friends with an ancient Turtle since I was very young, probably four or five. He lived in our backyard and had always acted as my mentor and an intimate friend.

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‘Hey! You are still alive?’ I was amazed. I never knew turtles could live this long. He was at least a few hundred years old when I last met him. And I was just a four-year-old kid back then.

‘Yes, still alive and apparently in quite good shape.’ He winked at me with a warm smile and asked, ‘What about you, son? How have you been?’

‘I am fine. Just a little grownup, I guess.’ I answered.

‘Well, being grown-up doesn’t matter as long as you keep on believing in talking turtles. Eh?’ He cocked his gnarled head and inspected me in detail, ‘Fine, you say? You don’t look so good to me.’

‘I am just a bit sad, I guess.’ I smiled at him.

‘Oh! But, you will always be a bit sad.’ The Turtle chuckled softly and said, ‘You were sad when you were a child. You are sad now, and you will always be sad.’

‘Why do you say that?’ He always had a knack for saying the most shocking of things in the simplest of manners.

‘Please scratch my back a little. I have an itch that refuses to leave me in peace.’ Instead of answering my question, he requested me.

I just laughed, bent down, and started scratching his mottled grey-green back with a small twig.

‘Are you hungry? Can I bring you something? A carrot perhaps?’ I offered.

‘Nope. I have had my fill. The brown leaves tasted just fine this afternoon.’ He burped a little to confirm the fullness of his stomach.

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Several minutes passed without either him or me saying anything. I just kept on scratching his back, while he closed his eyes in contentment. I looked at him closely. There was no change. He looked the same and smelt the same - the pleasant smell of dried up moss and ancient magic.

‘Why did you say that I have always been, and will always be sad?’ I asked him when he reopened his eyes.

‘Hmm! You see, son, when God created the souls, He first created a big shimmering blob of conscience.’ He said while shifting a little to catch the last rays of the dying sun. ‘Then He took that blob into His old, wise hands, and molded souls out of it. He sat back and took pleasure in what He had created. But something was wrong somewhere. God could feel it.’

‘Did He make a mistake?’ I asked the Turtle, unbelievingly.

‘No, not a mistake.’ The Turtle shook his wise head, ‘Once you can guess something is missing from your work, it is not a mistake. It just means you want your work to be perfect. And God is the ultimate perfectionist.’

‘And why have you stopped scratching?’ He asked annoyingly.

‘I apologize. I got lost in your words.’ I started scratching his mottled back again with a sheepish smile.

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The sky had turned orange. There were a few stray clouds with purple edges. It was a beautiful evening - full of marvelous colors. The birds flew over my head - flying back to their hungry children and little warm nests. They looked down on us with amazement - a grown-up man and an ancient turtle - but had no time to stop and exchange gossip.

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‘So, what was I saying?’ I was brought back to reality by the Turtle’s question.

‘You were saying that God thought something was missing in the souls He had created.’ I reminded him.

‘Yes, something was indeed missing.’ The turtle agreed with me while relaxing his body in pleasure. Apparently, my scratching was doing wonders for his itch. ‘God knew what was missing. He picked up a handful of souls and kissed them softly. With that kiss, His creation was complete.’

‘Why? Why did that last kiss matter?’ I said while looking at the Turtle in confusion.

‘You see, son, God being the creator of all, knew very well that life would bring sadness to the souls.’ The Turtle explained, ‘In fact, as life brings more sadness than joy, God wanted at least a few souls to understand the essence of sadness. This handful of souls, God made them the Prophets of Sadness.’

‘So the last kiss was the kiss of understanding?’ I was beginning to grasp what the old Turtle really meant.

‘Yes! The last kiss brought understanding and also a special power - the power to lighten the burden of sorrow and the power that could heal.’ The Turtle confirmed with a proud smile. ‘Happiness is a drug, which keeps you human beings sedated and oblivious. Joys make you unmindful of the sufferings around you. But pain and suffering live on, feeding on your blissful oblivion. There must be a few souls capable of rejecting the drug of happiness. These few souls are the Prophets of Sadness.’

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‘So that is why some people come to me and confess their fears, and share their sadness?’ I asked the Turtle, while thinking of so many of my strange encounters.

I thought of the middle-aged friend of mine who held my hand and wept over a wasted life, and I thought of the old man who whispered of his fear of death in my ears.

I thought of a friend sharing his desperation for a love he was never going to find, and I thought of the woman who told me she was afraid nobody was ever going to love her.

I thought of the little girl who was sad because nobody liked to be her friend at school, and I thought of the little boy who was bitter about the bullies making fun of his short height.

I thought of all those familiar and vague faces, and I relived their pains, sorrows, and fears within a mere moment.

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‘I listened to them. I felt their pain. I shared the burden of their sorrows. And I felt threatened by their fears. But I never healed them.’ I said while looking at the Turtle through the misty curtain of my disappointed tears.

‘No, my son. This is where you are wrong.’ The Turtle patted my hand reassuringly. ‘A tree never talks to the people resting under its shade. But still, it provides them with something they need. The tree provides them a place to shed off their tiredness and a place to rest awhile.

‘I would like to think I am a shady tree. But I am really not.’ I knew myself and my shortcomings far better than the old Turtle.

‘No? Not yet?’ He asked with a naughty smile. ‘Okay, no issues.’

But then, seeing my long face, he took pity and said, ‘Remember, son, ego is a poison that stunts the growth of the mightiest of shady trees. Ego climbs up their massive trunks and wraps itself around the delicate branches. It sucks the life force and keeps on sucking it until the tree dies. You get rid of your ego, and you will reach your true destiny. You will become the Prophet of Sadness.’

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‘Baba! Baba! Where are you?’ We were interrupted by the voice of my young son.

I looked at my friend, and he was beginning to gradually fade away.

‘What are you doing here, sitting on your knees?’ My son asked, finding me kneeling beside the rose bushes.

‘Nothing, my love. Just chatting with an old friend.’ I stood up and held his tiny hand in mine.

‘Which old friend?’ He was surprised and looked here and there, but could not find anyone. The Turtle had long gone.

‘Don’t worry, he has already left.’ I smiled at him.

‘So tell me…had any troubles lately?’ I asked him as we started walking towards the house.

‘Why? What will you do with my troubles?’ He asked while looking at me strangely.

‘I will listen to your troubles and understand them. I will put them all in a small box and bury that box within my heart forever. Your troubles will trouble you no more.’ I said while drawing him close.

‘You know what, Baba?’ He smiled his peculiar smile, which was growing wider by the minute.

‘What?’ I asked while peering back into his mischievous, dark eyes.

‘You are becoming strange.’ He announced.

I stopped, looked back at the rose bushes, and took a deep breath. The Turtle had already left, but the air still smelled of moss and magic. ‘No, my love, I am not becoming strange. Rather, I am becoming a Prophet of Sadness.’