On my lost pages…

‘My Lost pAges’ is about a writer’s lost ages through his pages. It is a postmodern fiction without any conventional form or structure. It has neither a start nor an end. The structure is as of a book that can be read from any page - start to end, reverse or from any pages you wish to start with. Sincerely that is exactly the way that I have read all the books in my life. My favorite writer is Paulo Coelho. To be honest with you, I have not finished reading any of his books except The Alchemist.

I am not a writer in any weird sense, but in this write-up I am imagining myself as a great writer. ‘My Lost Pages’ are the pages this writer, lost from many of his personal notes as well as other works. Hence there are a lot of factual and fictional references.

There is no big thought process or targets while writing it, except the fact that I was writing with a fever of almost a 100 degrees and was unable to go out anywhere else from the room for three days. It was written during those days in the year 2004, in some alien mood that I can’t express now. Till today I’m unsuccessful to get the same mood to frame an extra page to My Lost pAges.

I’m dedicating this work to my family, 18 freaks of M.A Communication, Hexaware friends & that special someone who is my alter ego for past few years in pain and gain, whom I have never met in life but known only through her voice and support.

Cheers,

Cockroach

Page 8

Page: 8

I slept very late yesterday night. My mind was disturbed by the thoughts on a bright-brilliant future. I got a diary from a very reliable friend of my best friend. Poor fellow, he never knew that I have a very interesting habit of wasting my precious time on stories and poems. Vague but vivid ideas are dashing –dancing- in my mind now. The net result of his kind action is that I am losing my sleep for another day. They all call me their best writer. I am not so clear about the idea behind this.

I never cared my readers. A new diary always remained the worst of all temptations. So whenever I get one, I romance with it, make love to it, to produce a new generation of stories or poems. Hence I call her my wife. Now please don’t ask me why I don’t care my readers as long as you see me so possessive about her. I believe that every guy must be a bit selfish in this matter. Well, you are one among those cunning cats. But today I feel that I must speak to you, you being one who spends from your pocket just to waste your valuable time on my stories.

Whatever it is, awards and appreciation from the readers and critics are a must factor for a gentle handsome writer. So sincerely I never tried to correct your mistakes in life. I believe that God created man to do mistakes and learn from the mistakes to be afraid of the mistakes. Moreover I being one of God’s warm and calm creatures strictly believe that it is impossible to correct an individual, his nude naughty ideas and idiotic ethics. I don’t feel it worth talking at this moment. Why can’t we just leave this on him? Otherwise you would probably start thinking of your mistakes and discover yourself one of those mistakes. Then I might lose my job. I never meant to hurt your senses. I have a mild belief that you too have something called self-respect.

We are still living in this world of and for self-respect. A lot of things are happening in front of our closed eyelids. You don’t know that because your retina is yet reluctant to read it and you have a timid tummy, struggling to digest the spicy dish called self-respect. Neither the pancreatic juice nor the bile can help you in this. You have your parents, wife and children to look after. We are simply the Gods on earth. Knowing this fact I believe, nobody should call you wrong. You are the best. You are at least thinking of your family. But here is my friend who is struggling to save others from miseries when his home is on fire. He is good at offering the statues ‘beggar’ to a boy by giving him yet another coin from his pocket. Why can’t he give it to a prostitute who is at least earning from her sweat? Her sweat is sweet…not salty. Now am I trying to give the statues ‘prostitute’ to someone through my words! Of course yes, I am equally bad and insane.

Page 12

Page: 12

There is a giant cauliflower in your head; I don’t think you have ever noticed it. It has to be kept fresh always! So let us not think about all these worldly misconceptions and do predictions like the Gods on earth. Let us remain in the ‘word’ly conceptions and predict the new era of harmony and brotherhood without touching that cauliflower so that it remains fresh and we forget the recipe of the real ‘Gopi Manchurian’. Is that what my readers look for? I am ready to offer you anything because I too have a family to look after. I too have my children screeming for food. Recently I found a Sexy Bens too and I think it suits my ‘writer’ hood!

This time I don’t want to continue alone. I will give you an excellent chance to help me in my new creation. You can tell me all that is in your mind. I will write it for you. Never hide anything from a doctor, advocate and a ‘writer’. A writer too ??? Well, nobody said so! But I am telling you now. I always wrote for my readers according to their choice. Their hardships in life, wife’s suspicion, neighbour’s envy, enemies eagle-eye etc…etc… Now I am thinking why not I try this new style of accepting your ideas and writing it in the way you want for your own read. Buddy…. ‘Time is precious’ somebody said, somebody wrote and somebody made it practical. There you finally found that a writer is the must factor for mankind. I am so happy being one among that peculiar -liar- species. Do you know what I usually do? Wait, I am explaining it in the coming paragraph… don’t care to throw this book now. I will help you in doing that later.

Ok…listen, after getting a subject in my grey matter I can easily go for that Midas touch changing it in any of the three divine forms - the poem, noveeeeeeel or a very very very short story. For intellectuals who have time to study and research about the subject and its source – obviously, my cauliflower - I would like to give a poem. For the second category who have ‘more than enough’ time to spent in reading, in the habit of just reading, just reading for the sake of reading or reading with all the emotions and feelings of a life time in the most compressed form on their faces, I don’t mind writing a novel. And the rest- the short story people- very frankly, I don’t want to explain about them because they are very practical in their principles and they prefer to live their life rather than the life of my heroes and heroines. I need them also for my existence. Generally after getting a punching thought I could give it any of these moulds. But I dared to do it even without such a thought, in my Autobio-poetic-novel-story “My lost pAges”. Only my hands know what I am writing. Now you will also... Thus this paragraph finally ends here leading to another one and I can find that our relation is getting worse. Nothing more nothing less…

Page 98

Page: 98

Some critics - it might be all critics for you - say that I am a poor writer lacking any theme or any specific idea to convey. What can we do about such a lot? What do they know about this poor writer’s idea of handling such a huge bank balance? I love MY READERS. Yet I don’t care about them much. It is a secret between you and me. Let it stay between us. But it is quite thrilling to hear these critics say that they are totally moved my style. They say that I am unique, ‘unique’ like a ‘unicorn’ that failed to exist in this world. I have not yet visited the other world hunting them and so no proof of their existence there either. I am so happy that at least these critics traced them on the white sheets of my book and did my nomenclature in their way.

But, do you know one thing? I admire the critics more than my readers. In some way, they are also my readers… in fact they are the only true readers….no…no…I would rather refer to them as my well wishers. They are more intense in improving me in all aspects. They are a bit tense about my intentions. Hence they often do discover that I am a writer with no bonds to the sense or the tense. The lady who loves you the most alone criticizes you in all ways. All the other ‘your kind of ladies’ might listen to you, may smile at you, may act as if they are so thrilled at you. That is the gentle reason why I like my critics a million times more than my readers.

Now I am thinking of the unicorn…the creature that is as unique as me. The creature that man discovered as the God almighty forgot to do so. Oh! What a mistake? Now the world is not as beautiful as it would have been with unicorns scattered throughout the globe. Their horns would have been costlier than elephant tusks and their skin might have used to create the most comfortable shoes. The skull would have decorated this writing table. It is evident that God is not bad at doing mistakes. The worst mistake he had done so far is that he created men, even worst me - the writer intelligent enough to interrogate him on his mistakes. We are glad to be your children so keen in this task, my Lord. Am I saying the right or wrong?

What are these rights and wrongs? I am still confused about all that is termed as ‘the rights’ and ‘the wrongs’. My right was always been her wrong. That is the key reason for which I love her. Moreover my wrongs were always acceptable as rights for my friends and parents. I am sure that you are also thinking whether I am right or wrong. My eyes saw wrongs, whereas my heart told me that they are rights. Hence I am not at all guilty for anything. On the contrary I feel it my right to talk about the concept of right. I think every wrong action can be treated as the need of time, hence an ideal shade for the history. Today’s right tomorrow’s wrong, my right her wrong, devil’s right God’s wrong. No need to worry lass. Yet, is it right to think about the rights? Is my kind of ‘rights’ are hurting my readers? Anyway I can’t help it. Ok, if that is right, then what is left? Only right is left. Confused! Turn left and/or right. You are right, you ended up right. Am I right? Can I continue to write? All right, let me get in to more complexity!

I meant your life. What can be more complex in your life than ‘your life’? Many thinkers already wasted their life on lives. My mastermind is also looking for the same fate, how ever fatal it is. Recently my diary started whispering to me in a placid mood. She says that I write even before I think and compel her carry all that can be graded as simple stupidity. She tried her level best with the help of her new boy friend, the crazy wind, to fly the papers off. Yet those papers seem a bit kind hearted. They always try to console my soul. They are white neat peace minded. As my dark ink starts flowing on their skin, playing with the letters, putting them in various homes called words, they too get corrupted. Corrupted with ideas, ambitions, dreams, hopes... It is the platform where meanings search the meanings. Life is neither a misery nor a mystery. It is the meaning of my might…your might. It is nothing but the feel of your existence. The time you lose this conscious you are dead, hopelessly dead. So don’t ever give a chance to forget it. Well, if you really want to go for an experiment, do it. But please do share that experience with this poor writer so that I can give it the most sensational touch for my readers. Successfully unsuccessful, that is what I am. The only person who can line a new path is you. Only you can do that magic. Lets make the legendary stupidity.

Page 46

Page: 46

My books are there in every nook and corner of the world. Every home, office, school, kindergarten, butcher shop, temple, bank safe… even a thief’s most trusted carry bag has at least one of my wise Dum works. From the kitchen to the toilet, these holy books are there to shower some blessings. I am so glad that even the waste baskets have them in plenty, especially my girlfriend’s. I treat it as the symbol of her love for me. She says that I am her baby. I wonder whether she discovered my works as the dippers on which her baby shit. But she was always been there for her baby to change the dirtied ones and put new. But do you know, I am still naughty; I still write even on a dipper, so that my girl comes near again and again to change it with love.

Often I feel that she is also unique. I never treated her as an angel from the heavens or someone who can be titled as ‘the queen of my dreams’. I may have all such adjectives for many others, but not for her. They all make me dream about love that I can see only in her eyes…I can hold back only for her…that I never told her….yet! I don’t want a ‘Queen of my Dreams’. I need the real ‘Lady of my Life’. Because of the one I can feel myself real, original and I remain as me forever. She is the one who brings me back from the web of illusions others create for me. When she is around, I can feel her warmth, her breath and her touch. Her touch can do miracles. One kiss can make me mad, mad for her. If I die this moment she would never shed a tear from her eyes because she knows that I hate to see her cry. But she has to die first, that is my choice. I want to give her a sound sleep on my laps till she touches the heaven. Then I would die, one day with those dreams, moments and memories we shared until her last breath, with the satisfaction that she always remained happy as my guide and companion, with a hundred prayers, a thousand red roses and a million kisses that I can dream of to give her in my next birth. My heaven is with her and the human life cycle would give me a better ride to have many births to make her happy again and again. I love her so much; I need her with me every moment…that touch is my strength. Yet I believe that we have to be more practical facing the ups and downs of the strong, strange waves of the ocean called life. Life is the ocean, love is the boat and she is the light. She is unique, ‘The Lady of my Life’.

It is a well-known fact that I am a ‘branded’ flirt. But I am happy that I still maintain my barriers. She is my beauty. I don’t understand why I love you so much, girl! Anyway, I am little bothered about that ‘why’. Do you know why? The day I shall start searching the reason, my world and that word will lose its colour and charm. I may sit here for another century watching its flash, just to realize the fact that it is still hesitant to reach you, remain with you. There is a special room reserved for her in my heart, a special room with the windows facing the classic peaks of Himalayas and the door facing the waves of Arabian Sea.

Page 23

Page: 23

Have you ever heard the ‘Sound of Silence’? Close your eyes, it is in you, it is in your breath. It is the sound with which your heart loves, your mind prays. Only you can feel that. The sound of silence is one source to contact Mr. God. You can reach him anyway you like. It is the power that drives you to the knowledge of the ‘in’s and ‘out’s of your individuality. Once you realize this fact you can attain incarnation, the supreme salvation. Your duty to your fellow beings alone makes you understand your essence and the meaning of your existence, and hence the truth called life. Love, care and respect might be your need but ‘You’ are the need of this universe. Hey, are you getting high on philosophical realities. But this is something that I cannot miss out in this page. I’m sorry, I apologize. I forgot that you are also a God.

There is another fact regarding the race called humans, about the two different sexes, the men and the women? She is brave and brilliant. But she needs his support to show it. He is smart and intelligent. Yet he longs for the support from her. That is the perfect concept of ‘Arthanareeswara’, half man half women. When my father died, my mother still lived taking care of her children with tears flowing from her eyes. But we children always longed for father’s touch. In two days our lives came back to normal shape. But when my mother died, father could not live at all, because the tears kept flooding in his eyes fading his vision. He never showed them a way out. We children felt that mother took his soul also away, leaving that body alone for us to look at. Yes he is a man and man never cries. He faces situations with courage. Now think, whether you want the reality of death should grab your mother or your father first. An unpredictable future always seeks your care and support. Whatever be my future is I shall remain with my mother and father. I need to be with them till their last breath. Even in their sick bed, I may be selfish to sleep on their laps. Neither my father nor my mother is died, yet. I pray that it never happen soon.

My father’s attitude about me is almost the same as that of my girlfriend’s. She shows my book a way to the waste basket and give me a new one. But my father never does that. He doesn’t even read them when I am anywhere near. Later, for my surprise, I get all kind of good remarks from his friends. I am sure that he would have come up with a new look and treatment for the stories by adding adequate spices and appropriate new emotions. He considers me as a legend. But when I am near he knows only my mistakes. I am proud to say that I am his blood and I would probably do the same with my daughter or son. They won’t hate me; they will enjoy their father’s secret pleasure and pride, the same way I’m feeling now. My father is a legend. He fought with the odds and preferred the positives to the negatives. Since childhood he breathed this pray in my mind ‘right choice at the right moment’.

Page 69

Page: 69

Wow! I just found someone who is interested in intruding into my privacy. A silent spectator of my solitude! The culprit is none other than an owl peeping through my window pane. She is sitting on the tree trunk leaning towards my room. But I know the reason for her indecent behaviour. Today morning she found me looking into her nest. She has big-big eyes like that of my girlfriend’s. That was one reason for which I was so curious about her. She doesn’t have any shame at all. Didn’t she notice that I am sitting here wearing nearly nothing? This is my room and this is my freedom. I maintain perfect room for freedom. I never knew that somebody would ever show an interest in my solitude and my body language. I don’t mind you looking me like this. But please don’t tell this to any of my readers, dear… I think you can be my companion. We both have the common language, the language of curiosity. You tilt your head up and down so frequently. My mind is like the hatchery of owl eggs. Once the young ones come out, they starts peeping into the silent features of human nature tilting their head up and down, in the two vibrant view-pots. You become active at night, flies so silent in search of a new prey, at times… judging the realities and mysteries with a heartfelt cry. Do you know that the signature of God is there on your tender wings? I have a huge crush on you honey. Now stop this detective business and come in. I don’t know whether you remember or not, I was your husband in your last birth.

Many people think that I am the man of word. How funny! A word man! They think that I am the new era Wordsworth romancing with the nature and the human nature. Do the words worth a man like me? I can tell you that secret. I know the language of nature. I use to listen to the birds and animals singing for the music of flattering leaves tickled by crazy wind, the water falls flirting with the rocks, the rain drops competing with each other to kiss the soil. I discovered this as the most soothing sound for my nostalgia towards nature. I always enjoy that sereneness that saves my soul from its solitude. I wish I could go back to my childhood, running behind birds and butterflies. I admire the actual admirer of nature, Wordsworth who added appropriate colours to the unspoken moods of a Solitary Reaper and the Daffodils. He knew the value of being alone in a crowd. Have you ever found yourself alone in a crowd? Of course, I did. Such an experience is vital for you to understand your values. In other words enjoy the reality that you are nothing. It will help you to see your ‘self’, judge your ‘self’ and clean your ‘self’…

Solitude is that shell that you created to cover your ‘self’. I do experience that effect. It might be my attitude that makes me think in that manner. But, what I would like to sing is…

My Solitude,

May look so rude,

Call me a fool,

I can be more ‘cool’…

People who crowned themselves in their territory of solitude are not fools. I am glad that I am on a golden throne. As long as I am cool about this, what is your problem in life? Well, you get to read more crap from me on all such days…

Page: 11

Page: 11

Many of the readers buy my books and keep them in their safes so safe that nobody dares to touch and ill-treat them by reading them. They always get the most comfortable seating in the glass cupboards. Unlucky are the ones that ‘happen’ to receive any kind of awards, reviews or controversial remarks. They are always kept in the front, becoming subject to the smart shameless look of spectators. My masterpieces are like me. They are so shy! On special occasions some of them are more privileged to get a little more ‘comfortable’ seating in the guest room, probably on the desk where they can lie down like lords. Some of them will have a journey of dignity from hands to hands tasting the swine and the wine at the dining table or listening to the weird noises produced by the same swine, in the toilet…in its struggle to come out from the human body.

The only disappointment is that nobody cares to look into the inner pages other than the cover. After the entire show, she, the servant who might not have touched a book after her sixth division, may show an interest in them while she take them back to the good old rosewood shelf. The ones that booked the ‘Booker’s’ will be sharing the company of her fetid handkerchief, a tiny mirror piece, a couple lemon slices stolen from the kitchen and the very untidy makeup box, for another few days before it reaches its original status in the shelf. They are ready to suffer all such hardships as long as she does wipe out the dust and her lust in the inner pages while reading. Back in the shelf their position depends completely on how successful they where in creating an impression in her mind. Shall I tell you what happens in the normal case? All those guests who took the effort to carry them all the time and were comfortable in reading the cover page and totally moved by the untouched content will refer them as the cause for their changed life and lifestyle. But for her, they are something worth keeping in her favourite basket, the waste basket. Well, what does she know about a writer’s ‘labour pain’? Illiterate, idiot…Anyway she has nothing much to do in my story. So let us leave her here.

It is raining outside, inside also… I am sitting wet, wet with warm wishes and weird worries. At times I feel that I am doing nothing. I’m losing my sight. I think I’m just unaware of the track of events I wanted to share with you. Dreams got drenched, data got drained. Attitudes are still clashing. Yet their rays are not far reaching. It is not reaching you. I can see you bored; bored of anything and everything that happens to be your bar. I can’t tell you to accept me; neither can I ever make it without your knowledge. I don’t believe in attaining anything by begging or forcing. Do you think that all that you gain through a request or compulsion would stay long? It can’t be celebrated as an achievement either. I’m teaching myself to hate the word ‘acceptance’ as long as I’m not sure of anything. I might be right or wrong. But if I start pointing my mistakes I probably remain in the state called wrong. If you ask me to stop writing for the reason that I don’t know you, please I can’t. By the by, do you know yourself well? If you don’t know yourself, how can you demand an external person like me to understand you and write about you? Of course I can take you to the world of fantasy, a world of dreams. Did you notice your life? You are living two lives - One world for the fantasies and the other for realities. Stay in bed that could be your best choice.

The dream-world and the real-world are closely related but strangely opposing. Fanatical representation of your dreams and ideas can be treated as your dream-world. It is a world of fantasy and fun. Real-world is its miniature version. Dreams reform your reality. Deeds develop it, its direction and the depth. Doing is an art, done is your strength. This adds an aroma to the divinity of the Art of Living. Dream-world shows the creative current in you. Real-world is the balance for your enthusiasm and reasoning power.

The most handsome job of a clever writer is nothing but his capability to maintain some kind of curiosity till the climax. In that case also I’m a poor writer who frankly doesn’t know what to write.

Why do you look so scared? What are you scared of? I can see you from here. I can tell you that you are even worst than me. Think whom you should fear. I know me very well; hence I am scared only of myself. Fear shows lack of self-confidence. Are you still in any dream-world?

I don’t know what I am writing, why I am writing. There is something called reasoning power, which is not meant to create own reasons for anything and everything, but to do analyze the truth with the truth. Everyone has this talent. He...

Madness...Society...Rules and regulations....

Timely food...Acceptance....School students....

Matter of translation.....Don’t believe anyone...

A New Start…

I thought I would stop my book with this page. But you might have noticed by this time that my every single full stop lead to a new start. Still I can’t help ending a sentence without a full stop because my every sentence has a very bad tendency to have an illegal relation with its neighbor, a relation that resulted in major confusions and self-confessions in it. They always want to say something to my readers about my ill interests without the knowledge of my cauliflower.

Page 511

Page 511

I just realized something in life. Words look more handsome than their meanings. The definitions don’t seem to be as complicated as the way it is actually defined. It was then I realized that every definition sought for new definitions. I tried to sort out a new definition for all that was defined to me…

What am I talking….