The Thinker

Anyone passing by his workshop would think of him as an industrious craftsman- someone who’s hard at work all night long.

The constant hammering, the complete absence of human conversation, the heavy equipment- yes, there’s always work to be done, they’d think.

Hell, he thought of himself as an industrious craftsman too. And he took great pride in his work. Every day, from morning to evening, he’d sit in the center of the town- as still as a human could be. Although his eyes were always darting in every direction- searching, seeking, nobody knew what.

Passersby would be in awe of his ever-silent presence. All day long he sat there watching, thinking, seeking inspiration. All night long he worked on crafting masterpiece upon masterpiece. They looked at him with some absurd reverence and thought-

Ah, teacher!

Wise one!


He looked back at them and thought, which one would it be today? What would it be like to kiss each one’s bloodied lips? How much fight would they put up? Whose bone would gleam even brighter than the moon?

The same posture- hunched over with his chin resting on his hand. Thinking…. plotting… fantasizing… Yes. This was a labour of love.

And then he’d smile. When he’d finally find the object of his affection for the night.

Each time he smiled, they fell in love with him some more. Until one day, their reverence hit a crescendo. And they built a statue of him! Right where he sat.

The reckless fools! He thought as he served them, what they thought was exotic red wine, in pristine white misshapen cups.

As if hypnotized, on and on they hailed-



“The Thinker!”

The Gods laughed. So did he, as he readied himself for another night’s work.


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