Once upon a time there was a man who lied. Absurdly, blatantly, acutely, chronically. He was a brilliant study in the stealthy art of maneuvering. He could have lied to your face without the twitch of an eye, slip of a tongue, or the inevitable flare of the nostrils. He was what you can call a handsome liar. Not because of his seemingly meeting brows, not in the least because of his utterly normal black eyes, not definitely because of his indifferent, peculiar nose, but simply because he lied handsomely. There was a touch of aesthetic linguistic brilliance in his clandestine verbosity. He lied to his daughter that he forgot her birthday as Santa told him not to wish her due to her recent ill behaviour. “That’s what he told me. He even took away the gifts I bought after much consideration for you!” He lied to his son that he can’t play with him because “..there is a dastardly evil force that hunts pairs of loving fathers and sons, who play or even watch television together”, the child was naturally struck with interminable fear while the rational man added,”..he also said something about helping in home-works!” He lied to his parents that his wife loved them,”Oh, she wouldn’t stop blathering about your cooking, Mom. She loves you. And Dad too, she says he smells terrific!” And he lied to his friends that they were his friends.
He wasn’t a bad father, nor an uncaring child, neither a conniving friend. He was simply a good liar. But one lie was one too much. He, in that inadvertent error of a rookie, told his wife that he loved her and only her. “I love you. No one except you. I’d die if I am wrong!” Little did he know that those who lie don’t play with their own lives as childishly as such. Little did he know about love. Sadly, he died a day after.
In the cold, unyielding environs of a severely congested Cemetery he was buried. His epitaph read:
“Here lies a man, truly”