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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?
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.
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