I need my pen

Do you remember your first fountain pen? Or your favorite one?
That feeling of being old enough to own a pen.
Moving on from Nataraj & Faber Castell.
Truly jumping into the world of words.

That was a time when paper did not come cheap.
Blank papers from old notebooks became new notebook – Rough Copy 🙂
This copy had papers of all shapes and sizes. All colors and tints.
Square boxes of maths notebook. And three lines of Literature notebook.
A souvenir, a gift, from last year to this – jumbled up, yet so simple.

Words
The cure to boredom is curiosity

All the thoughts in my head. And all the thoughts in yours.
Will be ink one day. And paper and pen.
And then, at last, I will write us a poem.
And a love song, maybe.

Sometimes my mind is like a dangerous storm.
And my heart is thrown away in all directions.
I need to look beyond the eye of this storm.
I need to write it all down. I need my pen – The one that is lost now.

Vice

Turmoil caused by a blackened heart
He was busy fighting an inexplicable opponent
One who never showed up
One who has never appeared before. And never will.

There was a whisper. Like a cold breeze.
Brushing past his shoulder. Down his neck.
It tells the signs of a new age, colored by the vagaries of past.
Frozen in time. Unaltered. Unwavering.

All of his vices.
All together. And all at once.
An incomplete purpose.
A broken trust.
A failed faith.

Does this lie within his comprehension?
Or somewhere beyond.
He must move towards the unsettling consequence.
Burning out with regrets.

He cannot go back now.
We cannot go back now.
The turmoil within us will stalk us.
To the end of space and time.
And the opponent will have the last laugh.

Fahrenheit 451 🔥

A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, his eyes wobble in his head. He was a victim of concussion.

When it was all over he felt like a man who had been thrown from a cliff, whirled in a centrifuge and spat out over a waterfall that fell and fell into emptiness and emptiness and never – quite – touched – bottom – never – never – quite – no not quite – touched – bottom … and you fell so fast you didn’t touch the sides either … never … quite … touched … anything.

The thunder faded.

The music died.

A House for Mr Biswas

“To have lived and died as one had been born, unnecessary and unaccommodated”

A story set up in the colonial era, of an Indian family settled in Trinidad. Parents who only want their children to become what they aspire to be. Children, who continue being children, running in the green fields, getting flogged for a misdeed, on-and-off relationship with education. And gradually children becoming parents and continuing to play their role in the setup.

A dream of most middle-class families at that time – Getting a pukka house of their own. This is the main theme of this story. The main theme of the life of Mr. Biswas – moving from place to place, house to house, dreaming of one day when he can sit back and relax in a house of his own.

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A web of memories

A good memory is like a gush of fresh air that feels smooth and pleasant against your skin, completely engulfs you in a blanket of thoughts and you find yourself smiling at the very touch of it.

But when a bad memory visits you, it doesn’t visit you alone. It brings with it all the interconnected memories that creep up your mind and pull you down. You keep trying to escape from this quicksand, but the more you move, the more you inch towards drowning.

What is it about bad memories that make them so powerful? I had been thinking a lot about this. Opening my arms and mind to all the memories that visit me – Experiencing them, studying them. Can we cut emotions out of these visits? Can I invoke my emotions when a happy memory visits, while behaving like a spectator sitting in a farm house, watching cars running across the newly built highway when it’s turning for a bad memory.

When I say ‘good’ or ‘bad’, it’s all about perspective. A memory which could have been haunting you some time back, suddenly transforms into something good, which you embrace whole-heartedly. Thereby meaning that memory in itself is not good or bad. It is just a reminiscence of a time gone by, child of random circumstances. It is not real. A ghost from the past which has settled in your subconscious and refuses to budge. It is how we decide to face these memories when they momentarily jump to your conscious, that makes them good or bad.

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