The Writer

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I don't know her. Except her name, that is. And that she is on the other side of the globe, speaking a language I know, but living in circumstances I know nothing of, in a culture that is unknown to me. Or was? I don't know that either.

But through her words something seeps through, a familiarity, a connection, a strange sort of camaraderie. Have you been there too? I know what it's like.

Through her words I get a glimpse of her. As though I have climbed into a tap, squeezed through the pipe against the flow of the water, and crawled all the way to its source. I see her. Or rather, I get to see a small window that opens to one corner of her heart.

I do not know her. I do not know what she thinks, what she does, what she wears. But every writer, however cryptic or complex be her writing, leaves a bit of herself in her pages. Like saw dust sprinkled over them. You blow them away when you read, or you see them for what they are. The characters are not her. They are all made up. The author is invisible, no one cares except for the name. But the people in the story point her character out to us. If we are willing to see.

As a reader, you enjoy the book: the story, the plot, the ending, the writing, the characters.

As a writer, you see a little further. You are able to appreciate the tools used, the skills the author has sharpened, her innate talent, her brilliance, her ability to surprise.

As a thinker, sometimes you get to go beyond, much beyond, almost to the other side of the globe. You see her, the person, the mind. As though you are looking out through a foggy glass window. Yes, you see her, vague and fuzzy, you feel her presence.

You realise that the story was not entirely fabricated, it did not come to her one fine morning. It was always there, like a sob deep inside the recesses of her sophisticated mind. It is a metaphor of what she has seen, a thread of a thought, a fear, a desire, a pain, a life. Something I can connect with.

I Google her. For she is no longer a mere name to me. She is someone I know. And if she isn't, if what I have constructed of her isn't true, what does it matter?

She is no longer an unknown. I see her face. I read about her life. She rises in my unworthy eyes. I read about other books she has written. Books I should soon be laying my hands on.


Now reading. The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood.

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You are free to be

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If someone does you wrong, rejoice.
If someone hurts you or breaks your heart, celebrate.
If someone brings your castle of dreams down with a snap of his fingers, be relieved.
If someone clips the wings of your desires, be glad.

Forget the shock and the disbelief and the pain and the feeling of being betrayed - pay no heed to them. They have no existence.

Because now, you are not obliged to perform.
You are now relieved of the pressure to please.
You can ignore them, or get even with them.
You owe them nothing.
You are free.

Just be - and the rest be damned.

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Are you Grumpy and Crooked and Unpleasant?

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Every once in a while we come across middle-aged folk who seem grumpy and crooked (and who soon become grumpy and crooked old-aged folk). They used to irritate me, and I would wonder why they couldn't be a little more civil, a little more cordial. Why couldn't they squeeze out a smile? Was that too much to ask?

I would have thought that they were like that their whole life - grumpy and crooked and unpleasant and cheerless, and totally irritating.
No, scratch that.
I don't think I had ever bothered to think of them at all, once the irritation was past. I would not have considered it worth my time.
But if I had, I would probably have decided that in their childhood they did not play and laugh and howl and scream like the rest of us, they did not love or dream like the rest of us, they did not say idiotic nonsense to make others laugh, like the rest of us. I would have thought that they were always grumpy and unpleasant.

The truth is that, as I see now, they must have been pleasant and kind too, once, in their youth. They must have greeted their acquaintances gaily every morning and enquired after everyone's health. They must have cracked jokes and laughed at themselves. They must have been confident and successful in a lot of things they did. They must have motivated and inspired others with their positive approach towards Life. They must have cracked the skies with their boundless energy and optimism.

But Life, on the other hand, had other plans for them. I sometimes think Life is a mischievous kid, about five or six years old. It loves to push us into a puddle and laugh when we are soaked in mud.

Or perhaps, Life is an adult with its dark and evil humour, very like a human. On the spur of the moment, it must have shoved them into water and left them to drown, until their optimism and attitude were drained out. Until they became a mere shell of their former existence, no longer cheerful, positive or optimistic. Until they were grumpy and crooked and unpleasant. Then Life, for some inexplicable reason, must have pulled them out from the water and left them to live.

Funny how Life teaches us things. Funny how Life changes people.

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You'll never forget today

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Friend, they grow up too soon.
The little children who harassed you
With screams and shouts and cheer-
Soon they'll all be gone.

Friend, they're at that age
Their noisy days behind them,
Ready to flutter from the nest,
They're set to take the stage.

You may miss them someday,
More likely you may not;
And wherever life will take you,
You'll never forget today.

To treat your many illnesses,
Some day, they would return;
They'll laugh when they remember
You had called them a nuisance.

But the way I see it now-
When they outgrow their games
And speak of happy days,
You'd be called 'the Beast'.

Friend, you ruined their day
Because they wanted to play
And you did not like the way
They shattered your peace today.

Your own li'l one will come
Wide-eyed and innocent;
Where are all the kids? he'll say,
There is no one to play...

You spoke of many noisy kids,
Exciting, pesky, unbearable:
I've been waiting to meet them
To play the way they do.

Grandpa, where are they?-
When he looks into your eyes
Eager to make friends,
Will you have a reply?

You had given in to rage
A moment's lapse of judgement
You may regret it later, but
You'll never forget today.


My book of poems is now available on Kindle: Lonely Journeys

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"Lonely Journeys" is on Facebook!

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My new book of poems published on Amazon Kindle, "Lonely Journeys", now has its own Facebook Page.

Click here to Like my Facebook Page "Lonely Journeys"

Click here to find "Lonely Journeys" on Amazon

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Of connoisseurs and creators

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It was so easy to read a book, she said. It was easy to buy or borrow one. It was simplicity itself to enjoy a delightful movie, and talk about it afterwards. It was so cathartic to complain about a bad film, to rip it apart and call the filmmakers names.

It was all so easy - before I tried my hand at Creation. Everyone is born a connoisseur, she said. The baby who purses his lips when offered mashed vegetables, the little girl who frowns at one frock and reaches for another, the book reviewer, the movie lover, the cricket fan, all are connoisseurs. It is so easy to be one because we are born so.

It is so easy to be a connoisseur until we try our hand at Creation.
I suppose that's why God does not criticise us. He knows how hard it is to Create.

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Damsels in Distress

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Why are all the women in our movies projected as damsels in distress whereas the men get to be superheroes?

The poor heroine has to run away from goondas who chase her in the middle of the night (and she runs right into the arms of the hero who of course knew this was going to happen),
... she screams and pleads and cries all the time - except when she is unreasonably angry and shouting at the good-natured, funny, absolutely lovable hero who takes it all in his stride or gives a fitting reply (which all changes the moment she realises what a great, kind, incredibly wonderful guy he is),
... she is easily forced into marriage against her wish (until the hero comes to save her),
... she is bossy and foolish and loud and arrogant at first until the hero turns her into butter (after which she is totally wagging her tail for the rest of the movie),
... she makes foolish mistakes that no one in the world would make (until the hero gently and firmly and mockingly sets her right),
... if by mistake she is a policewoman, she is the most ruthless and unkind and unreasonable one (until of course... ah, you get the drift).

The hero is as super as Superman, as spidey (creepy??) as Spiderman, as bat... err, fantastic as Batman, as magical as Mandrake, as firm as the Phantom, and all that. He is kind to those who need his kindness, and he can survive the most impossible situations with his wit and cleverness and wisdom, beat the strongest villains, walk around effortlessly after getting shot a hundred times, perform all the tricks in the world, and - we're quite okay with it.

Whereas all the heroine can do is flop down and cry when someone says "BOO!". I wish someone would introduce her to Taekwondo and be done with it. Or at least teach her to outrun those overweight goondas. Because if the hero can be fantastic beyond all logic, why can't the heroine?

Very rarely in a few films, the heroine gets the upper hand, but she would inevitably have misunderstood the gentle, kind, well-meaning hero at first and would end up apologising profusely to him.

No wonder we have this feeling somewhere deep inside that women are weak cry-babies, who just want to run away from (and who can be easily made to run away from) trouble (though they can't even run away properly), whereas men are strong beings, who do not know what cowardice means, who always win no matter what the battle is, who are made of something other than flesh and bones. Moreover, when there is a big trouble, like the hero goes bankrupt or losses someone dear or is wrongly put in jail or something, he never tells his wife, because she would freak out (and possibly scream and howl the house down) and he doesn't want her to be upset. Isn't that noble or what? Puts a trifle more pressure on ordinary men to perform, don't you think?

Imagine a movie like Renaissance Man (and many others), in which the woman private says All Men are Dogs and actually gets away with it. No one bothers to knock some sense into her, no one takes it upon himself to snip off the tails of her arrogance, no one thinks it his duty to humiliate the woman until she wriggles on the floor and apologises for uttering those criminal words and promises never to utter another sound again.

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... When the storm returns

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The storm is going away;
I can breathe a while.
The skies are making way
For the storm to leave.

Its deadly arms have lashed
The ground to thousand bits,
It's ghastly, fearsome eyes
Burnt the trees they hit.

I know it isn't over:
I know it's coming my way.
It's only a matter of time
Until the storm returns.

Only a moment's peace,
The relief it will bring,
I'd better start running
Before the storm returns.

The deafening roar of thunder-
Many a nerve has bent;
The storm must have its plunder
Until its rage is spent.

The damage has been done:
I know it's not forever;
But I had better be gone
Before the storm gets here.

My book of poems is now available on Kindle: Lonely Journeys

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