A Call Answered (Micro-Fiction)

That evening, she had resorted to an old friend for company. Her friend wore the colour of sparkling gold – alacritous bubbles effervescing within her – and lay in a glass with a long stem and a slim bowl. Somehow, unlike always, her friend couldn’t comfort her. Instead, her mind seemed to go into unrest with the painful reminder that even though her feelings were being understood by millions through her book, she was still lonely. The see through French windows in her house allowed her the sight of her garden, which invited her outside to drown these destructive feelings of hers. She relented to the invitation. A long walk and six steps in the warmth of the farewell bidding sun helped clear her mind. Given time, sand settles in water and the solution becomes clear to the eyes. Thoughts worked the same way with her sobriety vanquisher, and she felt able enough to make a decision. Her recent intakes also gifted her courage. She released her constant company from the confines of her pocket and dialed a number so etched into her memory, she hadn’t bothered to save it. Her Bluetooth earpiece crackled to life with a couple of beeps and then poured into her ears an unfamiliar song, which sounded like a melancholic melody with vocals that wanted to bury a resurfacing pain. Just as the song touched a higher note to vent out greater despair, the call was answered. Her hands went numb as the magnitude of the situation sunk in. The earpiece stayed silent… For a while!

_______________________________________________

The maps of his project and their rendering had been the latest occupants of his weary mind. He wished to think of things more relaxing, but being a project-in-charge meant giving up on certain luxuries like sustained peace of mind. He was glad to get home and wanted to feel happy to be back with his wife, but some long gone feeling was being a roadblock to it. He craved for a hug of understanding, and right now it wouldn’t suffice to just be with a faithful, dutiful, beautiful partner. He looked into her eyes and searched for a sense of compassion, but in vain. He did receive a smile though, that meant to say that the eyes complementing the smile were delighted to see him back and that tea was waiting for him. Before he could say yes to the tea, a five-inch-diagonal rectangle lit up within his pocket and Carl Orff’s complaint to lady luck began ringing with an increasing volume. He brought out the source of the sound into his hands and looked at the screen. The number displayed on the screen was way more than just familiar. It had the face of compassion. It promised what he hungered for – understanding. He looked at his wife with eyes that mixed confusion with surprise, and then walked determinedly to the verandah, with the lit rectangle in his hand. He swiped his finger over the screen and the ringing stopped. When he brought the speaker end to his ear, the rectangle was no more lit. He waited for the speaker to gift that unforgotten voice to his thirsty ears, but it stayed silent… For a while!

_______________________________________________

(I had written this long back and I admit to this being a mediocre, lacklustre piece. I really could have done better. This was just an attempt to push through my old nemesis – the writer’s block!)

Advertisements

Unfulfilled Dreams (Sonnet)

Cheering on the night, I am,
That fulfil its journey will
And I be tormented less
By memories that seem to kill.

Days don’t greet well either
For the memories that stay,
Like my unfulfilled dreams,
Are not partial to any time of day.

A downpour outside the window,
Mirrors the goings on inside
And every breath of misty air
Hazes what’s left of watered sight.

A desperation for the dreamed-of company, and a hopeless endeavour
Enshrines the numbness in me, albeit, with visions of a dark Forever.

Home, At Last… (Micro-Fiction)

After a long enervating day, my muscles wish to relegate into dormancy. I want them to hold on for a few more minutes, till I reach home – home, where I can be myself, where my socks can allow half their bodies to bask outside their shoe homes, where my sweat dried shirt can relax itself upon the cushioned chair facing a wall for no reason, where now familiar ants can gorge upon the remains of a chocolate bar that I shared with a beautiful soul as we walked through fading memories last night, where the kitchen sees its inventory refresh just once every month and where the basin-tap runs water for a long while, before a sleep-deprived face in the mirror rushes out of realisation and brings the flow to rest. However, uninviting my home may seem, it is the only place that does not roll its eyes on encountering what I really am within. So, once again, when my muscles ask me to rest for a while and break my journey, I call for them to prod on against the fatigue and just help me reach home, so I can relax in comfort with no fear of judgement. Tonight, it seems that the slumber in my bed would last much longer than usual. Try as much, I can’t help but go gentle into that good night…

Does documenting thoughts change their course? – A Thought(s) Experiment

This is going to be an absolutely random piece. I’m just going to write whatever pops up into my mind, as I type away. The post could progress into a rant, or it could develop into something profound – I really have no idea which direction the post would go.

Well, this could be one way of documenting what all goes on in my mind. I have a doubt, though. It would be practically impossible to record every thought that goes on inside. So, would writing down my thoughts change the thought process itself? Would I think in a different way if I were not noting down my thoughts on paper? I know this could be a bit difficult to explain. Allow me to give you an example and open the door to what I’m thinking right now.

Let us consider a simple situation where my mind starts thinking Thought-A. I start noting it down as soon as it starts. Keep in mind that the mind is a beast with no reins. Before I have finished writing, the mind has transited through Thoughts – B, C and D. By the time, I am done documenting Thought – A, my mind is on Thought – E. So then, I write about Thought – E, skipping a few steps.

Now, my mind would start a new trajectory of thought starting from Thought – E, which would probably move in a different direction than the one that started from Thought – A. (Is all of this becoming a bit too convoluted?) But, if I hadn’t spent time writing, I would probably have resided on Thought-B a bit longer, and then, drift into a different direction from there. This means that if I wasn’t writing, I may never have reached to Thought – E, which brings me to my question – Am I actually documenting my thoughts, or am I polluting the natural progress of my thoughts by attempting to document them, and thus, passing off something altogether different as that what goes on inside my mind?

I need to break off from this thought process right away, before it turns into something that bores the shit out of you. I apologise for the language my mind chooses to use when it is in documentation mode. On a slightly related note, would it be really possible for a person to record his own thoughts, ever? A few ideas that I can quickly conjure up to tackle the practical problems are the use of shorthand & mind maps, audio recording your thoughts etc. The basic question still stays though, and I don’t think a definitive answer can be given to it, i.e. will documenting one’s own thoughts change the progression of thoughts itself? How sure can one be that he is not manipulating his thoughts by documenting what seems to be a part of what he is actually thinking?

I should maybe stop writing here. I also need to think of a title for this post now. If you have read up to here, I can safely assume that your weekly quota of wading through nonsense is now over. If you feel the whole idea of this post was something that you would love to think over, then you can thank me by sending me a box of cookies, or by offering to write my research paper for me. However, if you thought there was something meaningful coming out of the whole thing, you probably now have learnt a lesson on how to deal with disappointment. So, in effect, you are either leaving with a strange thought or a much needed life lesson! So, this post should do some good to humanity.

I’ll shut up now, seriously.

 

I Don’t Dream Of You Every Night

If I claim to dream of you every night,
I’ll have to admit to shameless lying.
If I promise you all fears away,
To echo a hero is what I’m trying.

If every breath we shared was perfect,
Then perfection has countable flaws.
You’re not my perennial subject on canvas,
For else is what the mind often draws.

Retreating from all usual ideas of amour
I seem to portray myself as insecure.
But, there is one absolute certainty I have –
If you’re unhappy, a restless heart I have…

Animal Farm – A Review

This review is written with the intention of keeping it absolutely spoiler-free and hence, I have avoided names, characters and absolutely anything at all about what is part of the story. I believe, it’s best if you start the book knowing nothing about the plot or the basis of the story – at least, that’s how I like to read books. This is because I feel the best introduction of the story and the characters for any book is when the author himself brings them to life.

18053448
Cover of the book

Coming to the matter at hand, Animal Farm turns out to be the best satire I have ever read, and I include newspaper articles which are known for their metaphorical wit. The greatness of the book, I believe, is in the depth of the story, the true-to-meaning symbolism and the effort of the author (George Orwell) to create the characters that fit so beautifully into the stereotypical pawns, citizens and rulers in a political system. The story does a great (this adjective is an understatement) job of mimicking the Russian Revolution, not only in following the basic plot, but also marking its important events as well as bringing out the characters who were responsible for and active in the revolution – Marx, Stalin, Trotsky to name a few.

The simplicity of the plot and the language, however in no way reflects that the writer had an easy job completing this marvellous piece of literature. The whole book is a metaphor on a revolution and the subsequent political scenario – a perfect political allegory. However, the whole book is built up of innumerable (not literally of course) sub-metaphors that stand clearly for symbols of the political system, mocking them so subtly, not in words, but the way they creep into your thoughts. The number of times I could relate the happenings in the book to political happenings I have heard about in newspapers was so great, that the relevance of the book is undoubtedly apt even for today, and I’m sure it’d stay for centuries to come. The human mind is after all a slave when it comes to power.

The entire story is written in such lucid language, that at times, I felt the book was purposefully made simple, to ensure that the complexity of language or the literature does not act as an obstacle to the intention of the writer – that is, to let his message seep right into the minds of the readers.

Frankly, I like to rate the books I read in terms of how many times I have uttered the f-word per page, and let me assure you, this book stands high on that scale. I have no doubt that the thoughts this book bore in my mind will keep pulsing for a very long time. I’ll keep coming back to the book as a recourse to whenever I fall into the trap of believing in the absolute power of ideologies and lose the sense of reality.

George Orwell
The hero behind Animal Farm

Thank you very much, Eric Arthur Blair, or as you liked to be called, George Orwell.