The town that dreamed in third person
Experimental Short Story Series #61
Title: The Town That Dreamed in Third Person
By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)
They once called it Girdaspur.
Now, maps call it nothing.
It was a modest town — red dust roads, broken clocks, neem trees with secrets in their shade. But what made Girdaspur truly strange wasn’t its quiet or its past. It was how the people spoke.
No one used the word “I.”
Not even in their thoughts.
"Rafiq is going to the well," a man would say, even when speaking to his own reflection.
"Zeenat wants a cup of tea," she’d murmur, pouring for herself.
"Will one come home tonight?" a mother would ask her daughter, referring to herself.
Children learned early that "I" was dangerous. It made the tongue heavy. It drew unwanted eyes. The last man who said "I" in Girdaspur vanished. They say he was swallowed by his own name.
No one remembered when this all began.
Some blamed the old schoolteacher who once tried to rewrite grammar. Others pointed to the poet who wrote a book titled “He Who Dared to Say I.” No one ever found that book. No one even remembered what the poet looked like.
And yet, every night, Girdaspur dreamed.
But the dreams weren’t personal.
They were collective.
A lake made of ink.
A bird reciting riddles in a courtroom.
A funeral where the coffin held a mirror.
Dreams blurred the line between man and myth.
And one day, something shifted.
The Stranger
He arrived without noise.
Wore a shawl of storm-colored wool and shoes dusty from places no one dared name. He sat at the teashop and said it.
“I will have chai.”
Silence cracked like a dropped plate.
Chatter stopped. The wind held its breath.
The teashop owner — blind in one eye and half-mad — began to weep.
“You cannot say that here,” he whispered. “Not in this town. Not after what happened…”
“What happened?” the stranger asked.
And for the first time, someone answered:
“We forgot who we were.”
The Echo and the Name
That night, the town dreamed differently.
Each person dreamed their own dream.
A mother saw her son forgive her.
A farmer saw his dead wife dancing in mustard fields.
A child saw herself grown, powerful, joyful — shouting, “I am not afraid anymore!”
When dawn broke, something impossible happened.
The people spoke... in first person.
“I’m tired.”
“I remember now.”
“I was never just a name in a story someone else wrote.”
Even the trees looked newer.
Even the crows cried out with confidence.
And when the people searched for the stranger, they found only a note carved into the side of the tea shop:
"I dreamed of a place where people forgot how to say I.
So I walked in, and reminded them they still could."
Why We Wrote This Story
Because too many live like they’ve forgotten themselves.
They speak through others’ voices, live others’ dreams, carry names they never chose.
But deep inside, the "I" waits. Not selfish. Not proud. Just… real.
We wrote this so that someone, somewhere, might find their voice again.
And say it. Out loud.
“I exist. I matter. I remember who I am.”
📘 Discover more such surreal stories and literary gems at:
🔗 farazparvez1.blogspot.com
Where stories aren’t just told — they wake you up.
By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)
Would you like the custom image for this blog now? I can design a symbolic, painterly-style illustration that fits the mood of the story.
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