I cannot write stories. I can write essays even, but not stories. At least not stories that would make for a decent read. I haven't attempted to write a story many times but when I have, I usually get stuck somewhere and then that's that. Several people have told me that when you write stories, you need to write about things from your life and experiences. Stories that have happened to you. And then add little fictional elements to make for a good read. 'How would the reader relate to your story if even you can't relate to it?' Sounds fine. But what about fantasy? And crime fiction? Incredible stories set at far off places with things that you can never imagine the author to have gone through, happening in them? I'm pretty sure Kafka never turned into a “monstrous vermin” during his lifetime. I understand adding things, incidents and little elements from your life to your stories. I'm sure that happens inevitably anyway. But I don't agree that that is the only way to write fiction. I'm still trying to figure out what the other way to write fiction is though. But when I do write a decent story, I hope it won't just be a piece from my life.



On personal news, well, there is none.
Except, my 22nd birthday is coming up in a few days. I don't know how I feel about it. I'm never one to complain about getting older, but 21 just has a better ring to it than 22, doesn't it? Also, I don't want any more 'non-materialistic' friends alright!

I want temporary, fake friends who give me nice gifts wrapped in pretty wrapping paper for no goddamn reason! 

What! At least around the birthdays. Hyuk hyuk hyuk :)

Sometimes you are at some place, terribly inspired and under the impression that if you write something just then you're going to whip up the best shit you've ever written. The sun, the sand, one of the your most favourite people sitting across the table, a constantly breaking heart, the best apple shake you ever had...the setting's perfect. And then you start to write a poem. But it doesn't turn out quite the way you would've liked. In face, it doesn't turn out at all. This happens to me all the time. Sitting at my favourite shack in Gokarna at the most peaceful time to be there (2 days before season started) with my closest friend, all I could write was the shbby outline of a poem. It never came to anything. The moment was gone. So I'm posting it as it is.

Waves crashing against rock reminds me of the fond sound of pails of water being thrown onto cement porches.Weed crackling in the mouths of foreign men. The smell clings to my skin. I touch my face, ear lobe, hands. I feel it all - the sand, grit, residues of sweat beads, salt and already re-surfacing hair roots. A dog with an infected eye sits nuzzled at my foot. He looks at me with one gruesome, bloody, pus-filled eye, the sadness in the other more gruesome. I turn away. Sadness is not on the agenda this time. I sip on my apple shake, exchange awkward smiles with the bearded artist always drawing at the next table. We are two estranged lovers. Behind him, at a distance, a boat sailing is a blemish I could rub away.

Life, the Universe and Unemployment

Uma Joshi ye ye ye
my mother, she told me a 60 years ago

there came an old man knocking at the door

with an ooh, aah, i want some pa

the pa is sweet, i want some meat

the meat is rough (?), i want to go by bus

the bus is full, i want to go by bull

the bull is fat, i want my money back

the money is green, i want some jelly beans
the jelly beans are red, i want to go to bed,

the bed is white, i want to say good night.

Believe it or not, this post has a point. But first,
Last night, I was thinking about the 80s. And then I thought my hair kind of looked like my dad's hair in the 80s for a while. I contemplated wearing shiny bell-bottoms and giant glasses-that-cover-half-my-face while I ride a bike indoors with my head banging in strange ways. But then, I had to discard the idea because I don't have shiny bell-bottoms (must add to birthday wishlist), giant glasses-that-cover-half-my-face, a bike, the knowledge of how to ride a bike, indoors that can accommodate bike-riding, the ability to shake my head in more than 3 ways and thankfully, the hair. I swear, my dad looked like a farmer going to the disco back then. Psychotic!

 
But, back to 'Uma Joshi. It's one of the most popular rhymes/games you play as a child brought up in India during the 80s. Uma Joshi's mother here reminded me of something. Or wait. Is Uma Joshi the mother? So misleading. Anyway, presuming that Uma Joshi is the mother, she and the old man who came knocking at her door 60 years ago reminded me of something. Lately, I've been unemployed. It was great at first, but then it became a drag, and then it became painful and now it's just unemployment. There is just one thing to be said about unemployment. It is EVIL. It makes you stop doing nice things like believing in yourself and start doing unnecessary things like whining all the time. And soon enough, among all the nothingness and frustration and fury and low self-respect and a gigantic zit, you spit out the one decent poem you've written in 2.5 months before you go crying to your blog about all of it. I've lost count of how many stupid minutes a day I spend complaining about my boredom and futility. I'm like the old man who came knocking at Uma Joshi's door 60 years ago. Every day of my life I keep asking for this and that and that and that and something better than that. And then one day, I will say goodnight and go to sleep unhappily after complaining about the colour of my bedspread. We all are. But, your life be yours. The Universe has requested me to shut up now, and I plan to oblige.


Random question: If I write Do-Do would you read it as 'dodo'?   .

The bench

I was playing once. Not winning, but playing. Playing soothed the sores left by the bench and gave me candy every night. I played the paper, highlighted by sun rays and happy members of the alphabet dancing to the sound of every scratch. But now, the books leak bad things. Words of faith and pep talks sound like dry leaves being crushed under angry feet. My pride has gone shopping, for some ink and some new balls may be. I suppose half-time isn't over yet.

I love the spunky new do for my blog! Because blue sky, green grass and dandelions are all beautiful.