Monday, December 19, 2011

My novel excerpt featured on Heart-Bytes


A month and a few weeks have passed since the day I jotted down the basic plot for my novel. The name is yet to be decided and the ending needs to be poured down onto paper and once these two things are done, I guess I can finally call myself a novelist. And since the end of this enriching task is fast approaching I find this time ideal to publish an excerpt from the novel that has taken pretty much all November. The excerpt has been featured on Heart-Bytes, The Sacred Heart College Blog and here is the blog’s link Heart-Bytes

Now a word or two about Heart-Bytes which since its inception a few months back has received good readership from across the world. Heart-Bytes has also hosted a few creative writing competitions (online) on an international level . That means that all you people who love to write should definitely check out the monthly competitions. 

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Order Less-Part 1


The sky turned red, the clouds yellow, crows white and clouds black. The green grass no longer green as it was the water that took up that soothing colour. So was the world and everything we call real turning un-real? No, that wasn’t it.

Would it be better this way, would it mean that Satan now wore a white garment? Would it mean that a slithering snake was now the international sign of peace? This morning did all these absurdities and oddities turn less odd and absurd? May be this was the long awaited paradigm shift everyone talked about, the long awaited shift which we all knew but could hardly describe. From Theo-centric to Anthropocentric to Eco-centric and now to the absurd-centric. A time when symbols were no longer symbols, cats still meowed but today, no it bowed. The crows they cawed but today what I heard was the voice of nightingales

I sat on my chair watching the splendour of this order less world. Today if some animal decided to re-work the Genesis I bet Eve would be more respected. She wouldn’t have had to come from a rib for I see no justice when one comes from a bone and ends up just like the ones that come from dust. Today she wouldn’t have been tricked by the evil one with a fruit, in a garden filled with a million other fruits. Today I think those primitive creatures would have struck up a conversation with the beast, turning it a friend and less of a foe. Eliminating evil once and for all to the dismay of good, who was rather jobless and un-needed if his enemy were to be annihilated. I think malice lies not just in the hearts of the wicked but also in the hearts of the righteous in far larger sums. Was Good worth being good in the absence of bad?

Deep down I knew that this was a day of revelations. Not the kind where the tale gets extensively abused by supernatural whores and many-headed dragons. There were no towers of Babylon nor where there going to be any temples of Jerusalem in my revelation. What I saw before my eyes when my love wore no make up was not her wrinkle laden skin nor was it her ugliness that complemented her age, but the fact that she was free; I was free, from the clutches of signs and standards that were to dictate ones existence. Right then, in the haste of the moment I realized the baselessness of good and bad. If such terms did exist I suggest it to be the material for a fairy tale. What existed was something plain, something simple, something so simple that we tend to make it un-naturally complex: Action. Yes there wasn’t anything more to it there were just actions, if it was considered good then may those naive souls remain naïve and if bad well then I remain un-affected as my un-belief has reached un-imaginable heights.

A little girl, I saw playing in the fields. She was happy; yes there was happiness in the absence of good and evil. It was now that I felt truly happy. How loathsome were the ones that for centuries professed about being rewarded with happiness for a lifetime of virtue. If one was to experience happiness I think it should be experienced within this realm. Or else it would be like trying to savour a steaming cup of coffee in a desert. She ran quite as fast as the wind that was grazing my hair, in her hand I saw a truck, not just any trucks but the ones with riffles sticking out of it on all four sides. Where is your doll? I asked. For I had seen her play on all weekends with a worn out doll with blond curly hair which looked rather scary and disturbing to me, but for her I guess that was what her mommy wanted her to play with, dolls for girls, guns for boys-the perfect formula.

I sat there sipping my glass of water. For me I found it amusing yes the change in colours, but the fact was that I couldn’t really digest this long unknowingly awaited shift. I wondered why such changes failed to affect my soul. Was I really that hopeless? Or was it that all hope (if there was any such thing) rested on my hunched time trampled shoulders?

May be I was someone special; my randomness was the one quality that outshined the rest. I felt a feeling I imagine very few feel, like Christ and Buddha. My realizations may be they were to be noted down as proof of my enlightenment. Nobody would find any worth in it, for they believed that the world had not changed a bit, for them the skies were always red, the clouds yellow, crows white and clouds black. I held the key that disguised itself as a revelation to the future of mankind no humankind. I felt empowered.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Greener beyond comprehension


Beneath a cloudless sky a man in grey walked, his feet trying desperately to adapt to the sandy path that stretched for miles and miles merging with the distant horizon. He looked as old as the ruins, a wrinkly gaze. His olive green eyes looked eager to tell a tale, maybe ones of kings and queens, conquests and failures, unfortunately his audience were all dead and gone, their only memories lay in the brick walls that time sought to destroy.

I saw him approach, the road lay empty and so paying no heed to the left or right, he crossed. I stood there, my glass of tea in one hand and the other kept wiping my temples clean of the sweat that formed instantly thanks to the unforgiving heat of the desert. “Are you a seeker?” he asked, undecipherable at first, but on his second attempt I sensed a slight Europeanized accent.

I maintained silence, not knowing what he meant.

I guess now I had turned into his much awaited lone audience.

“They say the grass is greener beyond the mountains.” He pointed east.

“Its war ridden area you point towards wouldn’t say there is any grass there at all.”

“Are you calling The Great a liar?”

Yes a delusional, no just any delusional one that was starved to eccentricity.

“I’ve seen him look over the mountains, his horses where the size of elephants and for him beyond the mountains laid the land of redemption.”

“Are you going there?”

“Yes. The grass is greener. He feared that His horses would turn into asses with so much luxury, the green grass.”

“Oh”

“So where do you come from?”

I pointed.

Our jeep was now fixed. I heard the engine roar back to life and so I decided to go take a look. The old man however remained under the merciless sun, drawing on the sand with his fingers that looked like twigs that were about to snap. I asked him if he needed a ride, but his focus remained un-wavered from the sand. During the remaining two hundred miles that was covered that day I hardly broke the silence. I couldn’t help but wonder what that old man wanted in life. He sure had a good accent, a bit un-original but good enough to pass off at any airport. Was redemption that important? For me such concepts were as real as the carrot that dangled in front of the donkey from the masters stick who sat on top of the poor animal. May be he would get shot down, or one of those missiles that poured down like rain would blow him into a million pieces. He was blinded by faith, I guess. I too felt blind but didn’t know what blinded me. May be he knew just as I knew his secret.

I would ask him if I ever got another chance, not in this life time surely. No, to find the answer I would have to swim in an ocean of sand, six feet under, losing a piece of myself in each motion to arrive at the truth spoken from the lips of a delusional.

**********

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Suitably Warm


The day outside was perfect, inside however the imperfections surfaced. Bright blue skies with crisp clouds loomed over the ones outside begging to be noticed-they went unnoticed as the inhabitants were the perfect mixture of arrogance and ignorance. I stood, digesting the stillness of the air that had occupied the room-my room. Did I invite it over? Or did it shove its way inside, unable to resist all the other elements of gloom in my box of a room.

My liberator’s odour kept getting stronger and stronger, muskier and muskier. It was time to bid adieu to the wonderful world that I found too wonderful for me. If there was a god I would beg him to come show me the splendour of his work which I had failed to notice. No he wouldn’t come, maybe because my liberator was in the vicinity or maybe he wasn’t capable of coming. I think he was lost in an un-ending game of hide and seek, where he was to hide and seek He had hidden himself so well that the hider now forgot where he was, and the seeker, well he was just too naïve.

I patted the emptiness that surrounded me, first on the back, then on the cheek. It smiled, I smiled back.

“Take me”

It continued to smile.

Out in the corridor I could hear agitated footsteps that grew louder and louder in perfect synchronization with the odour. A rap on the door, I turned with no intention of even answering. A more desperate knock which I think was more of knock down the door knock and not a let you know I am waiting knock. A dozen of Is anyone in there’s followed, then the open up’s came and a few moments later I could hear my land lady’s all to familiar curses that always ended with you lunatic.

The one I waited for had now slipped into my room amidst all the confusion outside. I was glad to be in its presence. Its eyes showed greed behind a veil of darkness and void. Its voice was silence and its fragrance intoxicated me. I was now ready. I took out a cigarette (the last one) that was on the dresser and placed it between my lips. It felt good, rejuvenating almost.

“There is a fucking gas leak you lunatic.”

I really don’t know when the stillness of the air was disrupted. Was it when I lit the match or was it when I lit the cigarette? The air around me, impatient to resist any further scorched the skin that clothed me. An inferno broke lose eager to caress me. It was a warm summer’s day outside, but inside-yes it was suitably warm.
                                              
                                                                   *********

Preface of Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray is one of those very few books that I find hard not to re-read. The beauty of the text that comprises the novel is stunning right from the preface till the very last page. And hence I have decided to make this piece of writing my 11th post for Clocks and Crystal Balls. Enjoy!

Preface

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

OSCAR WILDE

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Fragments


Seated in the dim glow of the lone bulb, that had exhausted itself after years of service, his life seemed splendid. In darkness light reveals itself and in fear courage. A blunt courage that had made him act earlier eased its grip; he felt a familiar sense of belonging rise up from within. In an instant the bulb went off, leaving behind darkness to wrap around him.

Twelve years ago in darkness had he lost his only friend, years seemed to fly by. It was a rainy night, thunder and lightning continued their routine disputes. Thunder lost its rage and ripped opened the sky with sound, as lightning cautiously retorted with insults of silence. Fred who happened to be the oldest was not home yet, on his way home he realized he wouldn’t get back to that familiar plot of land. He was dead, a victim of a fight he had nothing to do with. A fight no man could control, with flashes of white and bursts of sound the fight continued. They knew of the incident the next day. Robert had lost his only friend, someone he would never hesitate to talk to. This was in a way the beginning of silence as well as fear in his life. For the next twelve years he stayed out of two things, conversations and darkness.

But this time something had changed, fear ceased its control over him. He felt perfectly safe in the warmth of the night. Time passed, the night grew old and withered away making way to a new dawn. As the sun rose sprinkling drops of light onto everything around it, those eye lids that had rested now opened to see the pleasant light of day. Blurred entities began to take shape slowly. He recognized his room but failed to remember anything else, fragments from his past lingered in his mind. He moved around like a ghost, searched for his wallet, nothing was found. His thoughts he spoke aloud in monologue, hoping for something to come out of it. He was truly a ghost, a kind of ghost that was alive but could be killed.

He felt freedom for the first time in his life. The reset button had been hit; he had the chance to turn the wrongs of his life to right. He was one of those lucky men who won not lotteries but a life itself.

In haste had he gone out to discover a forgotten world, but he failed to discover anything new. As each second passed and as his eyes moved from object to object from person to person somewhere in his mind those images struck a note. His freedom or the strangeness and distance he felt from all that surrounded him seemed to disappear. The world of his past came back to him. The street vendors, the busy college goers, the old, the young, faces and voices began to rush through his mind in frenzy.

“Robert…aye Robert..why no Times?” a voice called out.

Realizing that it was his name, he turned back to find the source of that deep odd voice. It was a man holding up a news paper. Forcing a smile on his face he moved towards him.

“So what made you think you could miss out on a day’s action?” the man said “not once have you forgotten to buy the Times”

Robert still sporting a smile moved close and said “Has the world changed so much. I thought it could wait”

“Ahh….that’s clever..but you ought to be informed, don’t you?”

“Fine let me have it”

The news paper seemed to be same, as he skimmed through the pages while waiting for a cup of coffee. Homicides, suicide, scandals, and occasionally award announcements were reported along side pages that contained the list of all those fortunate people who never had the burden of waking from their fruitless slumber. The restaurant was a dust covered building; the grey walls had literally turned black due to the dust. The coffee came shortly, so did the bill.

Once back on the streets he tried even harder to figure out the ambiguities of his life. How did he lose his life’s memory, the most dreaded yet valued possession he had. That was a question that made his brain overheat and produce a migraine.

Seated at a bus stop was an old gentleman who had the air of a government servant, taking quick glances at his watch every two seconds.

“Do you know the way to the medical shop?” Robert asked as gently as possible
 
The old man drew a quick glance, motioned his head in the forward direction and let out a short undistinguishable murmur.

Getting the hint Robert began in the direction towards the shop, with an irritated mind and an aching head. A few meters and strange faces later he reached a brand new shop with neon lights and huge banners that read “Alpha Medicals” in three different languages.

The drug was handed out quick, in an instant it vanished and the so called relief process began.

Stepping out again into the dust and heat he once again began the lesson of familiarizing taught to him by nature. Almost all of his past had returned to him but one, his job. But that was not to be for very long.

“Hey…where have you been…a lot of people are worried!” said a fair young man who unlike every one else was dressed in a three piece suit on an extremely hot day. 

“Hey” he let out a single syllable not knowing what to say.

“So how come you decide to take a walk when the company has decided to throw you a party?” he asked with a hint of dissatisfaction.

“I was sick.”

“That’s sad. After years of reporting you get a promotion to stay indoors and voila you’re sick” an air of arrogance was now rising.

Minutes past, a few more ‘voilas’ too and some more arrogance came along with some chit chat about this and that of the office. Once all that was out, he moved past Robert with haste and a friendly nod.

He was apparently a journalist, he was the one who defined the views of people on a lot of matters and issues, and however he was the only one that wrote about all ages not knowing his own life in totality, still trying to piece together fragments of his past. These fragments however over time guaranteed him that if time was allowed they would fix themselves. Such knowing brought him relief.

*************************

The next morning, fixing his tie, he prepared himself to come face to face with all those less fortunate souls that had woken this morning, rehearsing each line he would speak to them, each nod, each gesture, ensuring not a millisecond robbed him of that air of familiarity he intended to display.

He had been reset, how he didn’t know, that was the incident that had gotten him over his fear of conversations and darkness. Now in front of mirror stood a new man, Robert last name unknown, journalist, unafraid of darkness and conversations. How these changes were brought out in him, he failed to see. The passing of each second made him less and less concerned. In an hours time he would continue in his share of misfortune, his life.

The clock struck nine, a man in a purple tie, hands free, walked out of that apartment with a new found attitude. His face glowed as a result of some unknown victory.

Reaching the corner of that busy street, Robert stopped, let of a sigh and moved towards the newspaper vendor and said “The Times..I ought to stay informed!”

“Yes…it costs dearly to live in the past” sounded the deep odd voice of a man.

With a smile he parted, with not many memories to his possession but with hope that he could make some more, for the plainness of his existence alarmed and frightened him.

He followed his path, as he was guided by the address on the newspaper. And there it was a three storied building with a board as big as a truck which read
“THE TIMES
            Where the past recreates and the present unfolds”

Reaching the third floor, after being greeted with strange yet familiar faces, his typical day began or so he assumed. It had taken him years to earn a chair and table, however today his freshness never ceased. For on that eventless day, a day which was same as day that had passed for many, he felt new and ready to recreate his past. For it was the first time in history that a man could change not his future but his own past.

The day progressed just the way he thought it would, eventless.

In a day there lies so much to be conquered, so much to be lost and so much to be forgotten as well as remembered. The arms of the clock moved at different speeds for different people, for some it lagged and yet for some it rushed. For a man with a new found identity the arms rushed, they moved so swiftly that Robert cared for nothing but to savor every passing second even as he considered his life as something less fortunate. He envied the dead, the ones that had found peace in an everlasting undisturbed slumber.

Packing his bag, he moved towards the exit, completing the first day of work after his re- birth. The elevator helped him descend, in a couple of moments he found himself standing at an cold empty corner of a nameless street, still not knowing why he stood motionless.

He felt peace.

He stood undisturbed, until a dark silhouette of a woman appeared a few meters away from him.

Time stopped.

Moving towards the last piece of the puzzle, he knew not what to expect. Her dark brown eyes made him move swiftly.

Out of nothingness suddenly appeared a mob of unfortunate souls, busy and in a hurry to get where they were supposed to go. The crowd swallowed them both; Robert couldn’t distinguish one from another. Moving with the crowd he was lost. In a city of millions this was common, if only he could remember that.

Turning a corner, crossing the road, he went into uncharted territory. A little neighborhood which seemed to exist a few decades back, still unchanged with an atmosphere that felt stagnant and unchangeable by its greatest enemy, time.

Dark clouds gathered, cutting off the sun from its usual habit of savoring its last moments before it had to set. Flashes of lightning and eruption of thunder made its presence known. Rain hesitated to wash away the weariness that lay after a hard days work. Thunder and lightning grew louder and brighter. A few windows closed, and the sound of silence was heard except at moments of dispute. With each flash of lightning a scene recreated itself, breaking almost all laws of time and space that made clocks frown, a scene of tragic consequences unfolded.

A young man of twenty, moved forward, running out of breath, in sheer desperation, a young man that had familiarity written all over his face, a face that revealed itself in flashes. He resembled a good deal of Robert’s past, moving forward in panic, reaching no where but his end.

Robert moved to help him yet distance grew between them, time had revealed a lot but time had no second thoughts in stopping him from changing it. The young man motioned forward yet reached no where.

Robert halted, looked up to the sky as the rain had begun pouring down; the young man however faced downwards lying on the ground motionless. He kept his gaze steady at the heavens, the moment in history that had shaped his life had just unfolded before him, he was finally at peace with darkness and conversations, and this was the last piece of the puzzle that had reset his life.

Now at peace with his past, the fragments that had hidden themselves from him began to resurface. In a strange land witnessing the strangest encounter of his life he was no longer lost. He knew perfectly well how to get back.

*************************************













   





Friday, August 12, 2011

The Eclipse of Fantasy


In an ever changing world with people decked up with a million identities and faces there was a man who was not the least different. A man with so many similarities that all his life he went unnoticed, not daring to go against the tides, the average teen, later the average guy in a less than average world with a million other guys. His similarities acted as a camouflage as it did for everyone else. Now looking back to those long lost unused stagnant days of his youth he felt a sense of regret. The strands of hair that remained unmoved by the tests of time now grayed, this was what he regretted. He had forgotten to dye his few surviving strands to say the least hair. Too late to act, he moved nervously to the cubicle he was assigned in his office.

Cubicle No: 11223
Name: Victor J
Employee Id: sA183Zi 

The little piece of paper greeted him every morning reminding him of his name, a name that was given to him that had exactly nothing to do with who he was or where he was from, then what was it for he asked himself a million times including today, still not finding an answer. Papers filled his desk, cost cutting schemes had to be thanked for that, or else these papers covered with dust would lie not on his desk but on his desktop with their constant need to be corrected and rearranged so that their reader, another average guy could get the best of the best when it came to what a celebrity had for lunch. That sad profession was his, he was supposedly a journalist. A journalist that shaped the view of the world regarding matters of great importance and prominence such as what cars Mr. S drove, who he dated, what he had for lunch, how he managed to smoke without turning his teeth yellow etc. etc. That was his sad life.

Going through the latest happenings in the local La La Land, not knowing why he was doing this for a living Victor went through each and every piece of paper that lay at his desk in such mechanical movements that showed his experience better than in his portfolio.

Why he did this was a question he had neither an answer nor an alternative. In simple terms he was a hungry man at least thrice a day everyday and journalism put bread on his table and his bed at times.

The world he lived in was the product of his imagination and experience. His imagination was not imaginative and his experiences in life were just the monotonous days he had lived so far and the days yet to come which also seemed less promising and monotonous. Hence his world was the living definition of boredom and routine. Life presented itself before him as a habit. And he was the last person who would think that life was enjoyable.

Waiting in line for a cup of coffee that tasted like a mix of warm water and bitterness(if that’s a flavor) ideas of quitting sprang up in his mind, even though it was customary to think of such risky  thoughts and eventually discard them with ease. But this time it was different, he didn’t trouble himself to think. He walked out of that office, walked out like a hero walking into the sunset with pride and courage, walking out into a happy ending. He was finally out after paying no heed to

“Sir, you’re leaving? Is everything ok?”

“Hey you this ain’t your daddy s house to go for a walk when you feel like!”

and the strange glances he got from the clerks and people who he had not known all his life. He was now out and the 11 am sun that was seldom seen greeted him out into the open with its scorching heat. The city welcomed him with its dust and noise. The best welcome he got was from within, that congratulated him.

He said to himself in a whisper “Well done”

But such whispers were short lived, naïve and were the outcome of thoughtless deeds. Thoughts of going back soon started to siege his mind from all directions.

Around the corner, by the side of a gray building for almost a kilo meter or more the street was filled with artists, painters of all kind, unrecognized for they failed to gift the world with Mona Lisa’s and David’s but had given less beautiful descriptions of their minds. It was a frenzy of people getting their portraits done, bargaining prices for something that would look “perfect for the living room” stood buyers and sellers. Making his way towards something that had caught his eye, a woman with her large brown eyes looking directly at him Victor pushed forward not realizing a new emerged confidence that had risen silently.
                                                                   *****

Waking up to the same old sound whose duty was to interrupt the dreams that came as a relief were not frowned upon by him, but was just a sad routine that had dictated his life, his day and himself for almost thirty eight years. The buzzing noise of the people who were in a hurry to do all sorts of things and the noise of the traffic which happened to be the regional tune which all inhabitants in one way or the other hummed in the course of a lifetime there.

He was now awake and was facing her, her eyes cold yet unmoved stared at him with hostility, the kind of hostility which over the years he had grown accustomed to. Those large brown eyes were the only ones he knew of that could see deep into himself with frightening clarity, into the depths of his soul, if he had one that is. Neither had enough courage to break the silence, neither knowing what to say let silence do the talking, the accusing, the justifying, the laughing and the weeping, silence took over.
He was late. But with every passing moment he grew less concerned of missing the bus, being late, running through the streets, still not managing to find favor with the arms of the clock, still late, tired and eventually fired.

Neither of them had moved, not one muscle dared twitch. Silence had now finished the dialogue which both of them longed for. Without uttering a syllable they knew of what the other had in mind.

He apologized, she refused apology, he justified, she demanded an apology, with his head hanging low he gave up, now she smiled. Silence transformed itself into something warm, less hostile. He felt comforted in her presence. He felt the warmth of the air that was all around him, an air that was such a stranger to him as well as the remaining 3 million people that occupied the stretch of land by the side of one of the nation’s filthy rivers. Warmth was all that his life looked for, in a blizzard not just of snow what else could one hope for?

Time had passed; the longer arm of the clock had moved so much that it got back to where it had started. An hour had passed, twelve minutes and twenty three seconds to be exact. He got up and moved towards the sink, splashed cold water onto his sleep ridden face, inhaled a deep breath, not looking back put on his coat for the warmth that pampered him earlier had now turned cold, and left the building.

Now on an empty street, empty just because he failed to recognize all of those faces that moved in unison with him, empty because the others had not seen him, empty because he was a stranger in a strange land even though the strange land was the only place he had known all his life. In fact the place was the not the least empty, it was crowded and claustrophobia was a household name and disease.

Turning the corner, steeping over a sleeping dog, he saw it. There it was, there it had always been but there it wouldn’t always be, the lake. It was so old that it had to be named all over again, mainly because the old name made no sense, no meaning, so out of sheer necessity it was named The Lake. He tried desperately why he hadn’t visited it more often.

A glance was not enough, neither were two. He stood there looked at it, felt sorry for it, sort out solutions it needed in his head, cursed all that made it like this and left. That was all he could do and that was all he did.

Returning back to the apartment he left not turning his back he was once again welcomed with those cold eyes. It was true the walls in his apartment did have eyes and ears. But that was not reality; the walls and the sound of silence were just parts of him that were created by him in fantasy. Not reality. The sites he saw and sounds he heard outside his nest and his cubicle were the definition of real, not his job nor the cold eyes and sharp ears that existed within an 8”X11” piece of canvas bordered off from the real world with a fake wooden frame.

These were the last moments of their relationship he decided, she would go off into the world of dragons and ponies and he would enter the land of real, a world that couldn’t be defined at the moment, he would go into the world with neither dragons nor ponies. This were their last seconds of mutual existence, this was the end.

Looking at the clock he knew a day was almost over, time true to its word waited for no man. The portrait was taken down. His mind began to rise up. The dictator of his life seemed lifeless. He began to live. Not in a cubicle nor did he live in a canvas with a stranger, but in a world that with every passing second disappeared, in a world were lakes and rivers were dirty, in a world outside the grasp of imagination, in the world of the real.

                                                                   THE END          
 
   

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Into the void


Darkness around started too slowly but steadily envelope him, as he laid twisting and turning in that box like room, windowless and dark, he felt the insides of him burning and his outside felt the freezing winds from all four directions. His mind was not his anymore the very last of his possessions had been taken away from, taken away from a man who needed it most, from a man whose existence depended on it. But it was not his anymore. The hole in him grew too big, he was naked but his nakedness was not seen. It was clothed with darkness and layers and layers of personalities. Layers that had to be peeled off him like an onion in order for someone to get the slightest chance of knowing him. He was hidden now, hidden far too deep in the jungles of his actions and characters, far too deep far too well, this had worked out for him but now there was a hitch. He had forgotten where he had over the years knowingly and unknowingly hid himself. He genius had deceived himself. He was well hid, well protected from the arrows and blades of reality, he was well too hid.

Time seemed to be his biggest enemy. Time had a nasty way of playing with people and their minds, such games were too expensive for him, he didn’t have much of his mind to spare.

A master was he from childhood at the game of hide and seek, too smart, too unpredictably too fast. The secret was to hide fast, hide close to the seeker and hide in some obvious place, a place so obvious that he wouldn’t be found. That was something he had done with his life too. He hid fast from the rising blades that surrounded him, he hid close but distanced himself, and he hid himself with the most obvious choices. Hiding as a grown up made his life momentarily easier. Every time he felt depressed, gulp. When lonely, gulp. Tired same thing, gulp. It was his perfect and foolproof solution. What he did not know was that hide and seek the game he played left a hole in him, a hole that now controlled him. He hid thinking after all it was a dog eat dog world out there.

All his attempts of filling the hole in him ended with defeat. He knew that the hole in him would never ever let him feel whole again. That was the day he began losing something he had possessed all his life. Something that was his life, something that was his being, something that gave his being a meaning, a meaning and a purpose, he was now turning into a vegetable.

The night he lay down burning inside while freezing outside in that dark box shaped room watched over by phantoms that surrounded and overwhelmed him, he knew that dawn was something that was too expensive for him. As each second went by on that dark night as the arms of the clock kept rushing steadily forward the hole in him grew, darkness grew in him, he was being emptied, he was turning into something, something that was just void. His eyes opened, but his memory didn’t. The hole which he formed in him kept growing; he as a person kept shrinking, diminishing. All he could do was embrace his fate.

As he kept disappearing into the night, in some strange place, a stranger, miles away saw love personify. She held her baby in her hand, eyes sparkling, caressing the tender skin of her infant and smiled. Miles back in that dark box like room he saw something come to life from within, death. He caressed the griping hands of his emptiness that came to empty what was left of him and stared aimlessly into the void. Eyes not sparkling, but rather empty.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Tick Tock



Looking out the window, the pouring rain seemed to be a dream for him. He wasn’t sure whether he was dreaming or not, but was quite sure about one thing; that his name was Robert or something beginning with the letter ‘r’. He was also sure about something he possessed, something not many in the world could ever dream of. No it isn’t a roof above his head nor was it loving parents or good friends, it wasn’t anything of that sort actually. He could time travel, he couldn’t leap from century to century but he could time travel, in a small way, in a convenient way. He was not a slave but master of the clocks; he was the master of himself. Clocks on his command would tick then tock and at times skip the tock and go back to tick. At times they ticked and ticked and tocked with great intensity and swiftness, it was an easy life for him; it was an easy three days.

Only a few moments had seemed to pass thanks to him and still without a movement he gazed at the pouring rain. Little droplets raced down to the end of his glass window, this made him think about the times when he was a still a child. A water droplet was something that fascinated him now and then. As a child he would wet his little palms and watch which one of those droplets that rolled down his arm would reach his elbow first. But that was now a very long tome ago. He was not that quite old but he felt wear and tear of someone twice his age. Maybe all that games he played with arms of the clock had taken its toll after all.  

It was two days ago that he first saw her. He couldn’t remember where, but it was definitely once of those over crowded places that is quite common nowadays. There were a million other people there, a million other people like him, a million other people like her. It was just a couple seconds, his mind tried with all its might to make the clocks stay on the same tick forever but in the end he failed. He managed to delay the tock for some time but his mind failed eventually. Something told him that he would meet her again and that her name was She. That raised his spirits, he and She still had the chance to become a We. That his heart told him, his heart consoled him.

Now it was time to decide. He trusted his heart, he distrusted himself. He had a couple more minutes to spare. He knew she was out there . Anxiety grew, he tried to speed up the ticks and tocks and maybe even make them skip a couple. It had taken its toll and he felt tired, he had to do this just once more, just this once. He turned off the lights, closed his eyes, lay facing the wall, and began to time travel. He began to speed the hands of the clocks; he began to move through it. He began to sleep.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Boredom a faithful companion




It’s quite easy to keep myself busy, most of the time I keep myself busy by being bored. Boredom isn’t so bad after all, that’s what after hours of thought and restlessness I make myself believe.
It all began on the third day of the thunder. As usual I was being kept company by creatures, warlike and even the cutest and cuddliest creatures that the chief of our three person tribe had bought me. The revolution created by the men from the box was quite remarkable, by the way they are the ones that got me the creatures and the portal needed to access it. The portal was quite common these days. Everybody in our town owned one.The bright colours and images of the past and present alike, it showed with precision and a mystic understanding.

The third day of the thunder was the most frightening. The colours in the air ocean kept changing, the drums of the sky too made hearts stop and the village came to a standstill. Not just because of the few hearts that stopped but because at the very moment the wrath of all the Gods of time, from the past and present was heard. The people who heard it thought that they would hear no more other wished to be one of those deaf and helpless people that were brought to the earth. The portals and modern crystal balls lost their power; some turned as bright as the sun and then timidly dimmed into a permanent darkness with a little smoke and fire. Others just refused to come alive.

Panic grew among kids and the elderly alike. It felt as if I was going to be one of those lucky people who would survive the apocalypse and tell others about it some day. I began to feel a strong grip, Boredom a new creature came into view just then. It was something that came not from the portal but from my very living room. It rose up from a deep slumber, and sort to assert its dominance once again now that the creatures from the portal had ceased to exist. I knew I was in deep trouble; its very presence made my mind ache, restlessness fell over me like a warm blanket. My thoughts began to take control of me, it took me back to places I had been to earlier. This new creature showed me my memories unlike the others who showed me fantasies.

It’s been fourteen days, a week in simpler terms. Or is it two, im not sure. The wrath of the air ocean has subsided and there have been rumors that the portals were coming back to life. How true they are im not sure, in the absence of all that dictated my life I found myself. Boredom the creature from the dusty corner of my living room is the worst companion anybody can find. However it made me do something, for the first time in my life. I have written, hence I exist. The first thing I did in my life without the company of those other cheerful and thrilling creatures. Now the portals are locked away, far away. I act and think, Boredom keeps me busy.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Ancient Wonders to Sacred Stones, Action and adventure is near


The sequel to the Seven Ancient Wonders by Australian author Mathew Rielly has lived up to the expectations of the readers once again. Again Jack West Jr. goes on a mission to save the world. The plot of the novel however is not stunning as such. Its just an action packed adventure that is bound to keep the readers occupied. The author has created a stunning and clever character but has failed to give Jack West Jr. the uniqueness he deserves and has in the end ended up with the Australian version of  Hollywood’s very own Indiana Jones.

Mathew Reilly who was born in 1974 is clearly the kind of person who has grown up watching lot action movies, and has added a lot of those elements to his literary works as well. The book is a combination of action, adventure, a lot of archeology and some fictional history. However the whole combination is not quite satisfying as the experience gained by the reader after faithfully reading over six hundred pages is that of a movie. This could be something some readers consider apt for a book; still it fails to make a mark on the reader even though the rush felt while reading could contribute to the whole reading experience.

There is quite a handful of characters in the novel and at times its easy to get them mixed up. Characters are not unique nor are they developed and shown using all the right ways. Bottom line is that they all speak in the same way, from the sixty year old Max Epper to the twelve year old Lilly.

In terms of setting the novel has no particular location; they wander from city to city from mainland China to Dubai the reader travels with Jack West Jr. and his elite team. The quest due to its nature helps Jack make a lot of new enemies which the author uses as a opportunity and at times an excuse to add in action sequences. There is quite a heavy and large body count in terms of violent death (mostly of anonymous soldiers). Yet a good and entertaining picture is painted perfectly.

After five hundred pages most readers might be wondering how Jack West Jr. is going to pull this one off, well he doesn’t. No he doesn’t die, like the books predecessor there a sequel where all your remaining questions will be answers. That’s the catch and a clear cheap marketing trick or it’s just that Reilly’s just got too much to say.

The overall rating of the book goes down quite low due to the fact that it’s a typical one time reader and fails to captivate the minds of the readers like some of the other competing books in the same genre. On the contrary, Mathew Reilly has done a splendid job in producing pure entertainment for his audience provided they have enough time on their hands.


Book details
Author:                Mathew Reilly
Title:                    The Six Sacred Stones
Genre:                 Action/ Thriller Novel
Publisher:            Pan Macmillan
Publication date: 23 October 2007
Prequel:               Seven Ancient Wonders
Sequel:                The Five Greatest Warriors
Pages:                  578

One Ring to rule them all, one book to bind them


                             “One Ring to rule them all
                               One Ring to find them
                               One Ring to bring them all
                               In the darkness bind them”

A perilous quest, fantasy that questions reality in the minds of readers, a wise and courteous wizard, treacherous and wide spread enemies, the noble protagonist; J R Tolkien has figured out the perfect recipe for the perfect book ever written in its genre.
                           
The Fellowship of the Ring is the first book published in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. It gives an account of the quest of Frodo Baggins to destroy the ring created by the Dark Lord Sauron. To fantasy fiction lovers this books says it all, whereas for others it shows the creative brilliance of the author in crafting a novel that is true to itself, unique in every possible way and with a vast breath in its scope and magnitude. The novel begins with a very helpful prologue and sheds light on information a reader should know before stepping into the world of the author.
                            
 It’s the Third Age in Middle Earth and Frodo gets hold of the Ring that was originally created for evil purposes, due the great power of the Ring it even manipulates its bearers minds and corrupts them. Gandalf the Grey a wizard of vast knowledge comes to know that Sauron has send his minions to pursue Frodo and capture the lost Ring in order to rise to power over all Middle Earth. Thus begins Frodo’s quest to Mount Doom the only place where the ring can be destroyed.
                           
In terms of plot structure its quite simple, Frodo starts off on a journey and has to travel through harsh and extensive terrain making hard decisions in order to succeed. But the precision in the details added of a universe that doesn’t exist is bound to make a few jaws drop. Another stunning feature of this novel is that even though published in parts it was originally intended as one huge novel and could be a problem while catering to those less patient readers. The character list is vast, unique and creative.
Tolkien however goes on to describe them all equally and efficiently and at times even going into their lineage and history. Even though Frodo is the most important character in the novel its quite easy to fall in love with Gandalf. Simply because of his playfulness who is quick to temper and quicker when it comes to friendliness and affection.
                            
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring is a must read to all Fantasy buffs and even readers who are new to this genre. The book is escape from reality and has the potential to effortlessly keep you in Tolkiens reality. To anyone who treasures the whole process of reading this classic epic fantasy novel is the perfect Christmas gift
                      

Book Details
Author:                  J R Tolkien
Title:                     The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring         
Genre:                   Fantasy
Publisher:             Ballantine Books
Publication Date: July 24, 1954
Prequel:                 The Hobbit
Sequel:                  The Two Towers
Pages:                   527

The Don among Novels

The devil has got a new name, according to the five New York crime families, and it is Vito Corleone. The don Vito Corleone a friendly man , a just man, a reasonable man, a man that rose to become the head of the Cosa Nostra simply by gaining respect from his fellow Sicilian counterparts. The Godfather one of Mario Puzo’s most celebrated works brings before us the character of Vito Corleone. The author Mario Puzo has created a splendid and distinguished blood saga placed in the 1940s choosing the perfect location, the crime capital - New York. Instantly the reader is taken into the author’s world, and shown the desperate times the Italian migrants have to suffer in the busy metropolis. And there is not a better situation to show what people are willing to do in times of desperation. Since such situation is not fiction it acts as a piece of information with the author’s imagination.

The novel in its purest form fits in the genre of a genuine crime thriller. The author creates an ingenious plot comprising of violence in great detail, strong motives, relationships and emotions and even marvelous notions on society. The poverty suffered by the criminals is depicted. It almost justifies criminal activity and there is a good chance that the reader gets convinced too, at times even when s/he is not totally aware. The full credit goes to the author. It’s a novel that portrays family, power, and even murder having visible links among themselves.

The Godfather is a novel that has used a variety of techniques which combine and work together harmoniously. At one point things and events would be moving in breakneck speed and suddenly it all slows down. The chapter where the don’s youngest son, Michael Corleone murders the Virgil Sollozzo ‘Turk’ (a drug smuggler who wants the don to become part of his business) for attempting to murder Vito Corleone is a good example. The author, in order to slowdown the pace begins to give a little more a description. This makes the scene more dramatic and the right amounts of anxiety creep into the reader.

The idea of a strong bond within families is highlighted in a splendid fashion. This makes a reader admire the criminals rather than despise them. As history stands witness to the fact that the Italian mafia had a hierarchy based on seniority in the family, Mario Puzo highlights it cleverly. Even the most violent and immoral actions of the mafia has glamour coated on the top of it all. Vivid descriptions of speeding Cadillacs and the finest Italian suites used by the family heads make a clear and clever fashion statement. The novel also gives a detailed explanation about all the characters and all the bloodline, and the reason they chose this lifestyle, though most times the reasons are the same. Just like Vito Corleone the other mob members also got into the family job in order to put bread on the table for their families, and in the end get caught in a series of events that seal their fate. But the irony in the novel is that none of these men or their families is ashamed; rather, there is pride and honor.

 The author skillfully gives the readers a few surprises towards the ending. This cannot be called an outstanding feature as it is common feature of good tales. But the way it is depicted is what makes it a classic, a timeless classic. It is very evident that the author has not aimed at creating just an action-packed thriller but has aimed at adding the right amounts of the right elements. From the brutal and violent murders to the areas where emotions come into play, there are identifiable amounts of literary beauty present and this makes Mario Puzo’s ‘Godfather’ a true success.
                                               
                                               

Book Details
Author:                 Mario Puzo
Genre(s):              Crime novel
Publisher:             GP Putnam's Sons, New York 
Publication date:   10 March 1969
Media type:          Print (Hardback & Paperback) & Audio Book
Pages:                  446