"Why is the god of destruction in pain?" she asked, pointing to one of the little screaming statues.

The sculptor smiled, "Because in destruction there is pain."

"And the creator and preserver, why are they in such agony?"

"The birth of something new always begins with pain.”

“There is pain in existing.”

“There is pain in everything."

Squawk! Squawk!

The parrot unnerved him. He had his back to it, but he could tell the parrot was squawking at him. The husband unnerved him as well. He smiled a lot, like he knew something; and he took too many photographs.

The woman lowered her voice—“That’s a story you’ve made up for people Jogi.”

The couple was in awe of his work, he could tell. She said her name was Allure. An Indian woman with a foreign name was not unheard of, but it was rare. Soon though, he thought to himself, there will be no more Indian names. They will all be gone; replaced by something new, something Western. That thought unnerved him too, even more than the husband. Strange; he had never considered himself much of a traditionalist, at least not one that would be unnerved by the loss of names.

“I want to know why they’re really in pain Jogi.” Her voice interrupted his thoughts and that calmed him. She wore a pair of white shorts and a sleeveless orange top, not very unusual for a woman that lived in a city. She wore flip flops and her hair was cut short, very short. If she didn’t look so feminine, she would be mistaken for a man; a very pretty man. Her face on the other hand showed no signs of the Western influence the other aspects of her life seemed to take on. Perhaps that is why he was so drawn to her, why he couldn’t keep his eyes off her in spite of her husband being right behind him.

Squawk! Squawk!

Bala—the lanky husband with a camera and a parrot—he looked at every statue with wonder; wonder that only a child can possess. No, not just wonder, something more. Something Jogi did not want to know, because if he knew, he was sure he would know nothing more.

They had walked into his little shop by the road and looked at every one of his statues—the Western gods, the Greek pantheon, the Hindu gods and every god that had given life to man and every god that man had given life to. They had looked at them all and they had loved them all without exception. He could tell.

Sometimes, that is all it took for an artist to open up.

And he told them his story.

“I lure gods with a song and I bind them to their statues.”

“I... don’t quite follow.” she said.

So he explained.

“Years ago, a human stumbled upon a song called The Summoning. It was a song that called gods to the earth and trapped them until the singer returned to them their freedom. No god can ignore The Summoning.”

“The human was a fool. He had forced a god to come down to him and he had let it go without bargaining for anything.”

“My grandfather was no more ambitious than the human. He had seen the whole thing and all he did was pass on the story and the song to my father. My father did nothing either. They were both unambitious and they were both ordinary. But that is how the song found its way to me. I altered the song to force gods into statues and I bound them there forever.”

“It is this pain of binding you see on their faces.”

Squawk!

Jogi scowled at the parrot.

“What do you do with these statues?” asked the woman.

“I sell them.” Jogi could not think straight around this woman. He felt like he was talking to a girl for the very first time. “People buy them, and they keep them in their houses; they worship them. And the Gods suffer some more—so close to faith and devotion and so far from escape.”

Squawk! Squawk!

Something wasn’t right.

“When does this end?”

Jogi smiled at the woman. “It is already over. There are no more gods to bind. They are all gone.”

“Then it is time for new gods.” said Bala.

Squawk! Squawk!

Bala lifted the bird cage. "This is the Eater of stories Jogi, and it has eaten your purpose, it has eaten your soul, it has eaten your last story. You have no more stories to live Jogi. This world has no need of you anymore."

No!

No! No! No!

This could not be happening! Your last story can only be eaten if you willingly told the monster the purpose of your life.

He hadn't.

Unless...

Of course! Allure—it wasn't her name. She was Allure. Allure wrapped in flesh and blood and bones and a face like that, a face that would compel him to do so much more than just tell her his story. He would have made new stories for her. He would have unwritten every story there was on this godforsaken planet and he would have made new stories for her. Instead, he had told her his story. He had told her his purpose.

The Eater had listened, and it had eaten.

He dug through his mind for stories. He had lived long. There were many stories. Any story would do, even an insignificant one.

He tried to think, but could remember nothing.

Why was he trying to remember his own stories? Did he not already know them?

Squawk! Squawk!

The Eater! Of course! He needed stories... any story, even an insignificant one.

Allure smiled. "It's already too late Jogi. Look at your hands."

He did; and he saw he no longer saw the hands of human. Instead they were his hands—demon hands.

"You've forgotten how to hide inside a human. You’re already forgetting who you are. You're forgetting your purpose and your soul."

"It is time for new Gods." Bala repeated.

Allure and Bala walked out of the empty shop.

I wrote this short many years ago, and gave it to random people on the road to read. It's a long story. I don't know what I was thinking. Anyway, I've rewritten it here and uploaded it. I hope you liked it.