The Tale of Everend

Her eyes grew large as he said the words she was waiting to hear; once upon a time…

She knew what was to come. She had heard this one a million times. Each time, the story was the same, and yet so different. She had so many memories, and she didn’t know how Papa did it; her favourite parts never changed; and still, there was so much new detail in every retelling. Papa had a way with words, and his stories had so much more life that her little crayon men had ever had. Each time the story started, she held her breath, letting it out in little gasps that punctuated the many wondrous events in Everend.

It was a beautiful place, was Everend! She liked it better than all the other places he made up or borrowed, including Peter Pan’s Neverland. She got Peter; he didn’t grow up, neither had she. But then, she couldn’t imagine running away from home to play Injuns and Pirates for eternity. And it wasn’t that she wasn’t bloodthirsty enough! With a wooden sword in her hands, she had made the boys scream like little girls! But running away from Papa had never crossed her mind! 

And yes, Everend was the best!

Oh, but Sir Dunnohoo was in trouble! His horse had the runs, and a runny horse doth not gallop!

She burst out into peals of laughter! That line always got her, especially the way Papa said it. A runny horse doth not gallop! Sir Dunnohoo was a scream, and she loved the way he blustered through the advantage. The real hero was of course the heroine! Everend was her kind of place, where the heroine was always the hero, and the knights were in distress because of their runny horses!

For a while, she rested into that soft glow that came so often with these precious moments. She could see the animated expressions on Papa’s face, his eyes widening in horror as he described the troubled knight’s climb up 542 stairs. Papa didn’t like stairs, and while she gladly skipped over them, she made a moue of dismay at Sir Dunnohoo’s plight. Papa then flailed his arms around, describing the knight’s exhausted triumph at the top of the stairs, and his confusion on seeing the princess he had come to rescue skip past him! Ah, the princess! She sat up, riveted, waiting for the delightful narrative of her favourite character!

Princess Li’lness, the only heroine to ever have an apostrophe in her name (she remembered the day she found out what an apostrophe was in grammar class; how much she had laughed, much to her teacher’s disapproval); Li’lness was the perfect princess. She wore pink, and kicked bad men on their shins with her dainty, pointy shoes. Her best friend was an ogre… oh, Papa was coming to the place were Sir Dunnohoo would hang his helmet on the ogre’s nose!

Sir Dunnohoo saw the pretty princess looking at him, and decided to turn on all his charm.

Papa stopped here, as he usually did, to smooth his hair down and lick his thumbs before shaping up his eyebrows. She went eww, which of course sent him into another round of spit and polish! She playfully punched his arm, which finally got him to continue with his narrative.

He yanked off his helmet, taking care not to let the chin strap mess up the moment, and in a carefree manner, tossed it onto the nearest hooked object… Ohgoaaargh’s nose! (Ohgoaaargh’s dad saw him and started with ‘oh god’, which halfway turned to aaargh; yes, that’s him in that photo with the bitten-off nose!)

Her eyes widened, her hand stifling her giggles as Papa hammed his way through the utter chaos that followed, his hands becoming ogre claws and his voice becoming that of a strangled squeaky knight. Oh, this was the best part ever!

But soon, things got more serious. It was not all laughter and games in Everend, and this is where Papa got inventive. Depending on what he had been reading and what was on his mind, Everend faced a slew of inventive hazards. Today, the evil witch was going to choke on a poisoned orangeberry (a little orange with freckles and lots of personality!) To make matters worse, the worker gnomes were going on strike because someone gifted them a mirror—now, why would someone do that—and they didn’t like their own faces! Everend’s economy was collapsing, and soon would come a time when Everend would be sold to Walt Disney who would just turn it into another theme park! There were so many to save (the evil witch had to be saved too; after all, she was essential for fairy tales and shouldn’t be bumped off!) and it was up to the brave princess to do it all!

She gasped, sighed, and laughed her way through the princess’s brave antics (her favourite part was the orangeberry ending up in Walt Disney’s potpourri and causing a sneeze-a-thon, especially amongst all the grown men in cartoon character suits who worked for Walt Disney!) At last, the story came to a satisfying ending, with Princess Li’lness putting Sir Dunnohoo to sleep and going into the hall to join her Papa for a post-dinner drink.

She clapped heartily, and got up to hug her Papa. She hadn’t heard the story in years, and today, she had begged Papa to do it, with bell and whistles, for her son. Barely a year old, her son listened with rapt attention for all of two minutes, before nodding off. But Papa had gone on, for his little daughter. As she hugged his frail frame, she wondered if she would ever get to hear about Everend again. After Papa was gone, what would happen to Princess Li’lness and Sir Dunnohoo. She held on, squeezing him tighter as she teared up. She could see Everend’s biggest enemy coming closer with every year, and there was nothing she could do. As her Papa held her, she could sense him smile, comforting her as only her Papa could. He patted her head gently as his mellow voice sang out the little rhyme he had always hummed to her as she fell asleep… 

Everend, oh Everend

Sleep tight, you’re safe tonight

All’s well, and everything’s right

I can’t help but wonder

Everend, will you ever end…

Think Write

To die will be an awfully big adventure

Fly away, Wendy bird, fly away  

How terrible it is, to be bound in this way

Our choices and our perception define us, limit us

No, I do not agree

I can make it possible, anything possible

What about… No, we’re not going there

God, my head’s such a mess

I was simple enough when I was born

Then, life happened

Halfway through and so much left to do

I have to build a totem pole

The sheer joy of working with your hands

Wet mud, wood shavings, paper

Writing… always writing

Trying to find ways to keep the flame alive

Nothing else matters, nothing else will stop me

You can get used to just about anything

But does it make sense to live this way

When the next big adventure is death

Writing in Character

I think the toughest thing a writer needs to do is to write as another person. It is a well-known fact that most writers trying out a first-person narrative for the first time always stumble into an autobiographical character. Always. It is the easiest thing to do, and not having to worry about the character’s tone, conviction, or consistency leaves the field wide open to concentrate on other stuff like plots and tale twists.

But then, if you’re a self-respecting writer with pretensions, or a successful one who has to write a second book with a different voice, or both, you’re stuck! Because you come upon that dreadfully unempathetic exercise of writing a narrative that belongs to a completely fictitious character. Most writers descend to more desperate tricks now. Their better halves, alter egos, close friends and family, all become foils that this narrating character wears. In these familiar shadows, the writer plunges his character’s tale, hoping that his view of his significant others is deep enough to make for a consistent character.

So far, so good. But there are only so many significant others. And so many more tales. And some tales need some really twisted characters to narrate, the type who wouldn’t feature in a self-respecting author’s friends-and-family calling group. Not unless said character had come to life, clawing his way up through a metaphorical grave to become rotting-flesh-and-trailing-blood, come to this world to wreak his revenge on an uncaring author. No wait. That idea has already been done. And we’re not talking about that kind of stuff here anyway. So, where was I? Twisted characters, yes!

So you need this borderline psychotic character, with an anticipatory insanity plea if you ever saw one, working his way (or her way, if that’s your kink) through an ever-deteriorating perspective, downward spiraling all the way to unnamable acts of despicable horror. Which friend or family member are you going to base this one on? Right!

This is where the writer enters the true unknown. Complete creation. Become someone and speak as him (or her, yes, I haven’t forgotten you). Live a life as you figure out how your character would feel in so-and-so circumstances and how your character would react. Making that difficult choice between a gas-powered chainsaw or a double-edged axe. What does your character really feel like hefting while giving way to all that incredibly raw angst?

Tough call. That’s what separates the big boys from the little ones, the contenders from the pretenders, the writers from the wannabes. Live your characters through in your head and you will tell a tale worthy of them. Or you might as well give your unfortunate psychotic a letter opener. A plastic one. With a lace-decorated handle. She wouldn’t be able to handle anything else. (Or he wouldn’t, sure! Everyone has an opinion!)

Cogito Ergo Finito

On Whimsy

It has been a while since I’ve succumbed to the seductive call of my oldest and most faithful mistress. She calls every once in a while, as persistent as a wooing adolescent with cratered cheeks and the eternal-hope springing breast. She has much more grace though, and her technique is more akin to that of an erudite and accomplished Madame. Her whispered words used to send a hot flush up my cheeks. She paints images no decent man should ever see. She used to croon to me, teasing me, taunting me. She still does, the words always the same.

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

Memories come back. Memories of deliciously irresponsible escapes from the ennui of everyday eventuality. Memories of breathlessly reckless acts that derailed the careful plans of years and their predictable tomorrows. Memories of her, always whispering, always leading me on a merry chase away from everything else, away from everyone else.

Whimsy. She always comes back. It doesn’t matter where I am, what I do, or how settled in my groove (rut!) I am. She always has a spiel, and it is always intoxicatingly intriguing and attractive. She does not try to reason, though. Never! She advocates against it! She does not promise happy tomorrows for everafter or even a moment’s gratification that is somehow worth a lifetime. There is nothing guaranteed but the act of indulging in her, in Whimsy. Everything that follows is delightful chaos.

The clock ticks and as grey flecks my hair and crows sinks their claws around my eyes, her trips become more poignant. It is more difficult now to just give in. it is more difficult now to turn her away. As my age nears her immortal appearance, our relationship matures. Her words are the same, but they make me smile now and not blush. Her tricks are still clever and completely unanticipated. But they make me applaud at the illusion; I’m a spectator, not a victim. I’m an outsider, not one of her lovers anymore. And still, when she leans forward, her wanton perfume filling me up with the lust to live outside the boundaries of what is acceptable and right, when she brushes those lips against my reluctant ears and whispers…

Do you have it in you, love, to take the plunge all over again into the intoxicating waters of whimsy?

I wonder. I can’t help but wonder.

Cogito Ergo Finito

Poetic License Revoked

Many a time I’ve found myself at a complete loss

With a piece of prose labeled delectable and divine

Critics ooh and aah even as the writer weaves up a mystery

In a piece that is neither a whodunit nor a what’s-the-corpse-wearing

Nay, the convolutedness of the prose goes deeper than that

Its devious machinations are a plot unto themselves

The goal of its damning complexity seems merely to perplex

And belittle the reader perspiring his way to sophistication

Every twisted metaphor contrives meanings profound and obscure

Or it might not be a metaphor even, just delusions of authorship all along

A roaring lion in pink pyjamas set the fondue on fire on a nocturnal jaunt

See what I just did?

With a bit more finesse and bare-faced pretension

I could have passed that piece of twaddle as literature

Just like I toss aside meter and rhythm

And call this assortment of rambling raving rants

Poetry

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Wordscapist

I do not exist
I was who I was told I was
I was who I was expected to be
I was… Was I?
No!
I am who I want to be
I am a myth, a story, a ghost
I am flux that can be shaped anyhow
I am me, I am you, I am anyone
Words capture the form
Fleeting though it is
In these ephemeral scapes
I exist
I am
The Wordscapist
Everything you say is true… somewhere. How artful your truth is (no, there are no lies) and what you make of it determines how real your wordscapes are.

You shape your reality; consciously, through actions, and unconsciously, through means you do not realise, far less understand. There are some though, who know more, do more, say more. They use words. They weave reality with words. Wordsmiths.

It is part gift and part rigour. It is half discovered and half tutored. It must be absorbed and harnessed. Somewhere between the lore of magic and the abstractions of sub-atomic resonance, lies the art of weaving wordscapes. It is a powerful art, one that binds and one that destroys. And yet, it is not infinite. Its boundaries define it as much as they limit it.

There is one who can weave beyond these boundaries… the Wordscapist.

Reaching the pinnacle is a journey, a tale of becoming, realising. Power comes in reasonably, and at times frustratingly, small increments. He didn’t have that luxury. Power came as a tornado, brought on by insanity and sheer chance, sweeping him up and throwing him into a melee of warmongers. A con artiste suddenly found himself the genuine article and then had to live up to the reputation. The world would have to wait while the one man with the power to destroy it waged a personal war to save himself.

It is a world made of words. The written, the spoken, and even the thought… all words, little bits that define reality. It is a world that you and I live in, today, now. It is all going to change soon. Buckle up. Hang on. And yes, careful what you say. Everything you say is true… becomes true… somewhere.
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Death of a Story

Someone has to die for it to be a good story. But what if I do not want to kill anyone. What if the characters I create are not meant to be sacrificed at the altar of the story’s supposed greatness. What’s the way out?

Why not kill the story itself? Let me build this story’s end within itself. Let’s brew a murder that will achieve sweet fulfilment in the very inevitability of every story’s destiny; the end.

For every murder, there has to be a plot. So does every story need one. In this strange pun, let’s weave in the swirls and twirls of the happenings that will lead to this story’s end. Let’s cook up a character who walks the pages, and slips between folds, who hides behind serifs, and seduces ellipses effortlessly. Let’s write up a character who is beyond the power of the author, of words, of the story itself. Let him be a shadow that needs no wall, no light, no being… just pure essence. Let him be the beginning of the end.

Feel the story quaver already? What next? For the plot to be executed, there has to be a motive. Why would the character want to do the story in? Perhaps the story plans to knock him off. Perhaps there’s glory and power in bringing down the world that limits him and threatens to knock him off with a heavy exclamation. Perhaps the character is a sequel killer, lurking in the twists of many a story, responsible in secret for many an untimely finale. No. Our character goes beyond such petty clichés. His motive is art in itself. The sheer poetic justice of doing unto the doer what is due to him. Doesn’t make sense? Wait, dear reader. The end will reveal more than the inevitable chalk outline.

The story does not give in so easily. It resorts to its most dastardly trick, the twisted tale. It ushers in a series of events that cripples the character, challenges his very essence. It changes the rules, gives birth to deadly new predators, and even shatters the fourth wall. As the debris comes crashing down, I shudder at the implication. Has my perfect murderer been mowed down by the sheer scale of events, by the complete disintegration of the world around him?

I realize I’m not alone in my horrified fascination. The story watches too, gasping at the damage it has wreaked on itself in its hunger to root out its doom. I quell my distaste at sharing a moment with my adversary as I wait for the dust to settle. It eventually does. I see a chasm has opened up. And on the edge is a pair of hands that hang on doggedly. A powerful heave of metaphorical shoulders reveals my character hoisting himself up. Wiping streaks of tattered sub-plots from his grim visage, he pulls out a board, and plugs it in right over the chasm. PLOT HOLE, the board announces. The story and I gasp, horror and wonder melded together in one sound. The story overreached and laid itself open in its quest to vanquish its hunter. Alas! Its end was written within itself. And right then and there, everything vanishes into the void. Not even a measly Fin remains.

I burst into applause, that quickly peters out. I see him standing in front of the void. He is not done cleaning up the mess. The story is done with. The author remains. No, I cannot...
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Fight

There is hope, they say. Things will change. For the better. Hang in there. Wait. Have faith.

Listen carefully, and you can hear the clang of empty words, the whisper of inanity, the snicker of well-meaning nothingness.

There is hope…

For every you that is battered, there’s a you that fight backs. For every you that falls, there is a you who struggles back up. For every you that breaks down and cries, there is a you who lets out a defiant scream and carries on.

What’s keeping you going? Hope? Faith? Momentum?

It doesn’t matter. Find peace in the exhaustion brought on by the end of the day, and greet the beginning of the next day for the bloody struggle it might well be. All that matters is that you’re still fighting. If you fall tomorrow, you will be remembered for the fight. For your defiance. For your spirit. . Because, it was a good fight.

Redemption? There is none. There might be a bonus for you, as much controlled by chance as anything else. If there is Someone watching and He or She has a plan, it’s too damn ineffable for you to figure out what to do to get it right. Don’t weaken yourself with hope. You will only crane your neck to catch sight of wisps, setting yourself up for the next sucker punch.

There is hope… Sure, hiding in a box filled with the nastiest company this side of Harlem. Things will change… You bet they will. For the better… Definitely. Someone will benefit, even if it is only the undertaker.
What is definite is that there is a fight on. You’re not lucky enough to be a spectator. You’re one of the bloodied pieces of meat swinging it out in the ring. So glove up, brace yourself, and let loose. Irrespective of the outcome, know that I’ll be cheering for you. Somewhere in between my bouts.Cogito Ergo Finito

Grolshynch Bluesowen

Grolshynch Bluesowen was a name spoken in a pristine moment of insanity. Names have power. So does insanity. It was inevitable that Grolshynch became a real person, warping into reality with no attempt at coherence. And with a name like that, he was a frightful person. A sad, frightful person. Why sad, you ask? Read on.

With a snarl for a whisper and sheer terror in the most benign looks, there was nothing salvageable in his character or redeemable in his nature. Grolshynch was one of nature’s bad guys. He had never hurt a soul or carried off a woman. But he did not need to. His destiny was to be the villain, the monster, the beast. He came into being like an action figure, with a clichéd profile sketch sealing his existence.

What did he look like, this Grolshynch? Did he have bloodshot eyes with the fires of hell glowing in them? Did his diabolic smile reveal sharp canines that seemed to grow even as you watched? Nothing of the sort. Grolshynch didn’t have an appearance. The man that spawned him had not bothered with visuals, merely a name and an intent. Grolshynch lurked so well that you would never catch sight of him. And if you did, what you would see was anyone’s guess. But it would be sure to stop your heart. Imagine, a sight that went with a name and personality such as that, springing at you out of the shadows.

What did Grolshynch do? When he was not lurking, that is. Say, on a Sunday morning. Did he read the newspaper on the pot? How did like his eggs?

Do you really want to know? Do you care? Wouldn’t that spoil it for you? Giving a Caliban like him a life, human traits. How could you justify the delicious terror that you would otherwise feel when you whispered his name? Let’s say he used an ultra-soft toothbrush because he had sensitive gums. Wouldn’t that just destroy the entire concept of Grolshynch forever and ever? Would you rather not have his shoving a rusty wicked-looking pick into his void-like mouth to dislodge that shard of rotting bone left over from his last meal, a meal you would rather not imagine?

What’s this rambling piece about? Who is Grolshynch Bluesowen? Grolshynch is a monster, more precisely, a social monster. With a personality that is a perfect match for society’s picture of a nightmare and origins lost in the mists of a twisted man’s insanity, he never did stand a choice.

By the way, he likes to read the Times on the pot. Especially when he has white bread the previous night. It constipates him. Meat, you ask? No way! Grolshynch is vegan. He can barely stand the whiff of milk, leave alone meat. So he doesn’t like eggs, any which way. And despite his sensitive gums, he has quite a neat set of teeth with regular canines. And once you get past his inevitable exterior, he’s quite a nice guy, actually.

What was that, you want to add him on Facebook?Cogito Ergo Finito

Flirting with Insanity

An experimental piece, written just to see if I can simulate paranoia. It's still too coherent. I'll give it another shot some time later.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m playing with words. I’m delaying the inevitable. I cannot dally. I must make haste. I must escape. I cannot. But still, I must try. Like a terrified hare, I will terrify myself to death as I streak through the jungle with the predator right behind me. But I will not be caught alive!

I am a seasoned sprinter. I dash for obscurity, I race towards anonymity. I make a mark and scrub violently to erase it. I cannot be caught in the act or the aftermath. I must not be located. I cannot be locked up. That would be the end of me. Run, I scream to myself!

I look around desperately, for cues, for messages, for signs. Never for help though. Every hand that reaches out seeks to grasp, clutch. They are all in it. They whisper, conspire, coordinate so that they can creep up on me. I won’t let them. I’ll be gone. Ha!

I have the jitters. I twitch incessantly as I drum my fingers and chew my nails to ragged bits. I clasp and clutch my fingers, trying to calm myself down. My breath is reduced to whoops and gasps. I haven’t even started the race yet, and still, adrenaline fills up my veins, stoking my body, preparing it.

I toss baggage out. Everything that cannot be carried must go. Everyone who will slow me down must be left behind. Chunks of objects, memories, and relationships go hurtling through my window as the room becomes bare. All that remains is what will accompany me on the run.

They are here. Time’s up! I dive out, landing hard. Blood trickles through abused skin, skin that stings as sweat starts pouring freely. Trivialities. I race through narrow alleys, my shoulders ramming into strangers, bits and pieces of outlying identity knocked off in the chaos.

My stomach knots itself up as my lungs scream for air. My legs are on fire as they pound the path, my hands reaching out for anything that will support, that will help me hold on and lunge forward. I can feel them. The chase is on. There isn’t much time now.

The beginning was the end. The end is beginning. I’m out of time. They are here. They will have me soon. I’ve been running forever. I can run only for so long. I only hope they do not disappoint me. I have been preparing for this all my life. I stop. I turn around, half tottering. I can hear them. A moment away. Their stench fills up my nostrils. I clench my fists. The running is done. It is time for the last stand.

I brace myself, take a deep breath, and launch myself at them with a scream! Moments later, it is over. The end. Peace.

Cogito Ergo Finito

I remember, You forgot

A random piece of verse, built on the title, which I believe is the name of a Persian poem and an Iranian game as well... That's what a dear Persian friend of mine tells me, at least. The words rang a bell, and the words flowed. The rest is a blog post...

It was a game at first
Hide and seek one day
Tag on another
We ran and we gasped
We laughed and we screamed
Life had stopped awhile
To watch us play
Our innocence freezing it
For a sliver of eternity
I remember, you forgot
Life moved on
And so did innocence
Games became more serious
As laughter trickled away
We went our separate ways
We passed each other
I turned back
You turned back
We missed each other
I remember, you forgot
We became characters
From demented sitcoms
You in a corporate comedy
Me in an angst-ridden drama
We played them for a bit
And then exchanged roles
We moved cities
We moved lives
We met, we said good bye
I remember, you forgot
Somewhere between midnight and dawn
I sit and write these words
I know tomorrow won’t be different
I know nothing will change
You will live your life
And I will live mine
We might meet, we will part
Nothing will change
Except for a promise that fades away
I remember, you forgot
Cogito Ergo Finito

Changeling

You came into this world, a whisper between life and death. They celebrated your birth as you wailed at what lay before you.


The faerie watched... chuckling at your misery, at the irony of the delight surrounding your tears.


But that knowledge faded till it became just a queasy knot in your gut. You got caught in the feasts and the orgies. You lost yourself in the glamours and the lies. You forgot.
Try and remember. Realise. Know.


Changeling, you are but a visitor. Little more than a knave. This life holds no challenges you cannot surmount and death hides no surprises you will uncover. You will fool yourself with rainbows and optimism, but know that both lie... Colours sprinkled by rays and rain do not point to pots of gold. Dreams spun with hopes and mad wishes do not make a life.


When the fey one holding your cards smiles, you soar. But the faerie are capricious. With every frown, they bring about storms. They laugh in wicked abandon as they see the havoc they wreak. They titter and nudge each other in anticipation as you stagger into the the next rabbit hole. Not long before you plunge yet again... deeper. Soon, you will fall again... harder. You are bailed out, wrung out, and hung out to dry. And then... it starts again. The game goes on.


Your life has been pledged as tithe to Them. The miracle that was your birth will be paid for with your life. Your fate will become a game, a spinning coin, a rolling die. And you yourself, a mere pawn, a toy that amuses and enthralls Them. When They tire, They will cast you away. Just as you came in, a wistful whisper, you will pass on to the next world. There will be tears at your passing, but this time they will not be yours. The mourning will mask your smile of relief as you escape this fey game, this tortuous illusion.


You are but a changeling. This life is just a debt. Live it off. In time, in this world or the next, you will have paid for your keep and the fey will let you go. They'll break the die and melt the coin. They'll free the pawn that circles the board endlessly. And then, you will walk free. You will discover what life can be. Away from the faerie. Away from illusions. Pure life. Pure being.


Changeling... Believe. You will live. Some day. For a moment. For eternity.



Cogito Ergo Finito

Threes

Things come in threes. So they say. Well, writer alter ego of mine says so.

Trouble comes in threes they say
The first one, a toothless hag called Misfortune
The second one, a child named Confusion
And the last one was the deadliest of all
A seductress by name Panic
She brewed it all up
And served up a hot plate full of trouble

They come in threes. It’s the perfect predatory strategy. If you’re reasonably strong, the first one will just shock you. You are still on your feet. The second one will land a sucker punch that will shake you through and through. And then you’re set up. Staggering on your feet, your eyes barely focusing, you don’t even see the last one coming. The third one is always… always… a knockout.
With the first, you lose innocence.
With the second, you lose faith.
With the third, you lose hope.
And then, it’s over.
They’ve won, hands down. But then, it was three against one. You did a good job of hanging in there. You might even have put up a fight. But when they come in threes, what chance do you have?

Cogito Ergo Finito

The Write Way

All of us are good at one thing. There are some who are blessed in different ways. But there is one thing that we really enjoy doing. We might not be the best, or even amongst the best. But then the superlative is a relative concept. What matters is that there is that one thing that gives you joy. And that one thing is what you live for, what you breathe for, what defines your very purpose in life.

Some of you might have no clue what I’m talking about. Never mind. You won’t understand this one. Move on.

I write. Words are my lifeblood and the rattle of keys or the scratch of pen on paper is my breath. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. When I’m ecstatic, I struggle to find the right words. And when I’m heartbroken, I discover that I can’t write at all.

I write. I used to at least. And now, I try. This year seems to have been a bad one for words. They have dried up. There seems to be a veritable drought in the wordscapes. But then, I’m not much good at anything else. And so I continue to try. And try. Till I reach a point where I can write. Or…

After much effort and frustration, I decide to write about the block. Attack the demon head on. Maybe that would thwart its evil eye. Maybe that would bring back the words. And so here goes another attempt at breaking the famine. Let the words come.

…

Silence. Paralysing silence. Not a word comes forth. My hands shake in anticipation and I hold my breath as I wait. But my fingers don’t fly across the keyboard. They barely move. My mind doesn’t buzz with thoughts that can scarcely wait to leap on to the screen. There is nothing. And all I can do is report in numb desolation on this morbid phenomenon.

I try again. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have done this all my life. I can write. I can write about anything. I can write as anyone. I can express the pits and the peaks of human emotion. Of course I can write! Day after day, year after year, I have honed the person I was to become a writer; one who writes. I discarded all else as frivolous and superfluous. All I wanted was to write. All that mattered were the words. If there is one thing I can do, that is writing!

I look back at what I’ve written now. I struggled through some of these words. At other times, indignation and fury lent wings to my fingers. I seem to have achieved a few words, meagre yet substantial. Incoherent, disjointed, disturbing. But still words. I have written.

I write. That’s what I do. That’s what I am. And I will continue trying, spewing words out, till I find the old rhythm. Because, in that rhythm lies the heartbeat of my very existence. And till then, all wordscapes will see are these anguished outpourings, these desperate attempts at what used to be. Perhaps I will find a new way of being. But it will be a new way of writing. Because that is what being is for me. Nothing else will do.
Cogito Ergo Sum

Blaze of Glory?

As Mastersmith Silvus used to say, “… always set the context. You never know what form words will take if you do not set the context. Words are like a dragon. Till you have forged the reigns and the whip, do not set the dragon loose. Or you just might burn for your sins!” At that, he would burst out into booming laughter. He was a strange one. Things he found funny could well send a sheaf of shivers down your spine. But then, he was right. Context is indeed important, and I shall provide it.

I actually quoted myself! Can’t tell you how kicked I am at that!

Well, the point is that this exercise is a little strange, and without context, it will seem like I have indeed gone over the fine line between insanity and eccentricity that I have been staggering along this past decade. So here goes the context.

Like most of us do, I went through the standard rebel phase. And during those abrasive, reckless and glorious years, Bon Jovi’s ‘Blaze of Glory’ was one of my anthems.

Yes.

I know.

Well, I just listened to the song after a long time (as in listened properly, letting the lyrics sink in), and had a rather strange dialogue running in my head. I thought I’d just write it out. I’ve written out the song by verse, as it plays, and followed up the verses with my meandering rumination.

---

I wake up in the morning
And I raise my weary head
I got an old coat for a pillow
And the earth was last night’s bed
I don’t know where I’m going
Only God knows where I’ve been
I’m a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind

I wake up in the morning and I raise my weary head. I’ve got two pillows for a pillow (and a resultant crick in the neck), and two stuffed mattresses for a bed (I’m not a bed-bed person). I know I’m going to work. And I vaguely remember having been to a party last night. I’m not the devil but am still on the run. I’m inherently restless and move cities every year. I can manage an air-pistol but have never handled a six gun. And I’m a li’l too robust to be a candle in the wind, no matter how much I’ve fluttered and threatened to go out.

When you’re brought into this world
They say you’re born in sin
Well at least they gave me something
I didn’t have to steal or have to win
Well they tell me that I’m wanted
Yeah I’m a wanted man
I’m colt in your stable
I’m what Cain was to Abel
Mister, catch me if you can

I was born a Hindu, and then lost my religion (along with my faith). So sin doesn’t work as a concept for me. Mom and Dad have been great, and I got the start I needed to make it in life. Head-hunters from recruitment agencies tell me I’m wanted, but then corporate desire never turned me on. I’ve never been a horse (or been on a horse either). I did write an entry about burying my (figurative alter-ego) brother but then he was more Cainish. I am not very good at running and you probably will catch me if you tried (though why you would want to, I have no clue!)

(chorus)
I’m going down in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I’m going down in a blaze of glory
Lord I never drew first
But I drew first blood
I’m no one’s son
Call me young gun

I’m not going down, yet. I’m just 27 and hope to make it through another 27, at least. I’m not up for the grabs, but I’m ok with telling you the truth, if it’s any of your business. I reiterate, I’m not going down. I’ve never been involved in a shootout. And though I have been in a couple of fights, I never struck the first blow. My dad would be offended if I said I was no one’s son. And I’m not really very young or much of a gun.

You ask about my conscience
And I offer you my soul
You ask if I’ll grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if I’ll grow old
You ask me if I known love
And what it’s like to sing songs in the rain
Well, I’ve seen love come
And I’ve seen it shot down
I’ve seen it die in vain

I do have a conscience. And in the absence of religion or the divine being as a guiding light, my conscience is all that keeps me from becoming a monster. I’m not too convinced about the soul concept. I don’t know about wise, but there are days when I definitely feel pretty old. I’ve known love, yes. And I’ve lost love too. But then, love has a habit of coming back, just when you give up on it. And that faith (or hope) has kept me going with pockets of redemption every now and then to fuel it a bit further.

(chorus repeat)

Having refuted the statements, I maintain stoic silence through the second rendition of the chorus.

Each night I go to bed
I pray the lord my soul to keep
No I ain’t looking for forgiveness
But before I’m six foot deep
Lord, i got to ask a favor
And Ill hope you’ll understand
Cos I’ve lived life to the fullest
Let the boy die like a man
Staring down the bullet
Let me make my final stand

I go to bed most nights. Sometimes, it’s morning by the time I crash. I don’t talk much to God, or even overtly acknowledge His (or Her) presence. I have asked for forgiveness when I have wronged people. And I’d like to be buried at sea when I die (and hopefully, a few leagues down and not just six feet deep). I’ve never seen the point in asking Him favours. I have indeed lived life to the fullest (when I could), and done the best I could at other times. I have been a man for some time (I was a boy before, for those who’re considering the possibility of a sex-change), and don’t have grandiose notions of dying to prove my ‘manhood’. I think it’s a biological fact that should be accepted and let be. And I hope like I hell I don’t get shot. I’ve heard it can be really painful, especially if the bullet hits the bone.

(chorus repeat)

One last time. I am not going down. I am not violent. I am not (very) young. And I don’t like the thought of being called a gun. Period.

---

What is the point? Well… I wish I could go back 10 years to my rebelling self and tell him to take it easy. I wish I could ask him to choose another anthem, even if it was a Bon Jovi one (my current favourite is ‘Someday I’ll be Saturday Night’). I wish I could tell him that life will turn out to be a bit boring with no shootouts and posses chasing him; but it would be peaceful enough with double-mattresses and other nice things to prop it up. It’s not the blaze of glory at the end that’s so important, but the comforting flame that will keep him going all his life… all my life. He didn’t know it back then. I’m glad I do, now.
Cogito Ergo Vivum

She

Disclaimer: There are men who have never bothered to ponder, and there are others who claim to be masters of the female race, cognisant of their every whim and vagary. The writer does not try to even acknowledge these poor men in his musings below.

Every once in a while, every man sits down to ruminate on that one fantastic concept that he just can’t get his mind around. She. She is a part of his life from his life to his death. The roles vary, as do the relationships. He sees different sides to Her, and wonders time and again; how, why, what. The questions plague him and the answers rarely appear unless She chooses to enlighten him. And even then, it need not make sense. And more often than not, even then, it does not make sense.

This whimsical creature called She has touched me in so many ways, right from my infancy to my recently concluded Premature Midlife Crisis. There has been unconditional love, silent acceptance, infinite patience, enduring amity and breathtaking passion. There also has been heartless cruelty, illogical eccentricity, infuriating obstinacy, mind-numbing inanity and inexplicable bewilderment. I have felt these emotions otherwise too, but it is She who has shown me what it is to really feel any and all of these feelings.

At times by chance, at times by choice; there are so many ways She has been part of my life. She has been my mother, my sister, my friend and my lover. She has made me, broken me and rebuilt me a hundred times. She has abandoned me to my end and yet been there for me through times when no man could have helped.

I haven’t been passive through all that She has done. I have played my part in this dance. I have loved Her, been fascinated by Her, lost my head in insane wrath, lusted for Her and been there for Her. And at times, I have even given up on Her. I have claimed to have figured Her out. I have even fooled myself into believing I’m stronger than Her and need to take care of Her. She has walked out on my childish assumptions and She has smiled and tolerated me through my foolishness. She has indulged my need to be the man in the equation, as long as it suited Her. She has also shot me down for daring to think of Her as an equal, when She was so much more than I could ever imagine.

The years passed and I grew. I did not understand any better. But I did understand that I would never understand. I did understand that understanding is not what I needed. There are things that cannot be taught and cannot be learnt. There are things that are. Like She told me once, the only answer she has to my why is because. And slowly, many miles later, I see what She meant. There is no why. There is only because.

There have been scars. There has been ugliness. But what has endured is the beauty She left in my life. She moulded me into the man I am. She taught me what it is to love. I learnt from Her what complete surrender was. And I realise now that there is no other way to be. No matter how many times She has let me go and I have fallen, I can curl up in my shell for only so long. With a mixture of amused bewilderment and poignant fatalism, I concede that the next time She reaches out to me, I will take Her hand again. And I can only hope She doesn’t let go this time. Because I have walked with Her. And nothing else will do.
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Song of Life

Sing me a song of life. Let there be a lilting note of childish joy. Build it up to the boisterous interlude of youth. Play it softly, weaving in the melody of wistful reminiscing, mellowed with age. Give in now to the strains of unrequited love. Over and over again, nurture the tune into an overture of existence, and breathe out the words that sing about life and all there is to it.

Sing me a song of life. Play long enough, and you will see a dance start. Little dust motes pick up the rhythm and sway around, borne by bright beams. Look closer and you can see forms of the faerie, twirling in gay abandon to the music. Oblivious to the emotions that have built up every note of that harmony, they are only possessed with the beat and the cadence that lifts them up. Their very being seems to thrum with the orchestral symphony of your life. And yet, they are strangers to the joy that runs in your veins or the pain that throbs with every heartbeat.

Sing me a song of life. Feed the music with your lifeblood, and watch others cavort around, carried away by the sheer beauty of it all. There might come a time when you stare with the morbid fascination brought on by the precious last moments as your essence drains away. And there are others who will streak themselves with the brilliant crimson, two steps away from the next masquerade.

Sing me a song of life. But watch carefully and you will see the cuts and the lies. The crimson congeals too soon and the crescendo seems to be composed of anguished cries. Note that the languor of those who frolic is of those who have been fed well. A bit closer and you see lips pucker in anticipation and the tongue running across white, sharp teeth. The prey might writhe in agony but the predators will be too busy applauding the killing stroke. Life ends as abruptly as it begins... and there is always a celebration to mark the event.

Sing me a song of life. Let it be real and let it be alive. Let it defy the end and stretch out to the heavens. Throw back your head and scream out your passion in a poignant requiem to all you are and will be. Let there be no watchers. And let the dancers be consumed in the fire that strokes the melody of your life.

Sing me a song of life. But let it be life at its purest and truest. Let it be a rhapsody that embraces all that hearken to its seductive notes, forever. Let it go on and on. Cos there is no other tune I'd rather lend my ear to.

Sing me a song of life...
Cogito Ergo Finito

The Secret of Wordscapes...

There are no lies. Everything exists somewhere. Know that every breath you take changes the world around you. Every word skews it. You are the maker of the world around you. You are the wordsmith that shapes it.

Imagine. A chance encounter with a stranger. Eyes meet and the scape starts. You speak and with every word, you start weaving a new pattern. Truth or lie has little to do with this game where the beauty of what you weave defines how real it is. Bold strokes and subtle tugs bring out an incredible texture to the interaction. The dance goes on as both of you create a whole new scape of possibilities, your own private universe.

Stop. What rot! How can you just make a mere conversation seem like something magical? It's just another day and just another person. What difference does any of it make? Who even remembers chance encounters like these? Who even bothers talking to strangers unless you want something out of them?

Shush! Watch what bitter little creatures fly forth from your lips, birthed in your vitriolic cynicism. Deformed, grinning imps that scurry forth to do mischief; bringing more misery and chaos to a world that has already had enough. You have the choice of picking your angel to carry every word you speak. Let it be a gentle creature full of hope and joy and not a dark brooding form rising from the depths of hell.

Now that li'l internal dialogue has been wrapped up, let's move on with the scape. Weaving scapes; the art of creating or modifying reality using words; is a talent that does not come easily to most of us. Most of us are limited by reality, as we perceive it. Obsessed with the implications of our perception and how absolute we deem it, we are crippled by the belief that this is all there is. Nothing more is possible.

Close your eyes and make a wish. Put everything you have into that wish. Don't mince any words. Describe your wish to the fullest. Put every ounce of eloquence you have in you into that wish. Let go and pour forth all the passion you can dredge up into that one thought. And then, let it fly. Watch the li'l wordscape come to life. Become the wordscapist!Cogito Ergo Finito

Flutterby...

Somewhere in a far-off exotic land, a butterfly flutters by. Borne on the drafts of a light breeze, it flits at random till it comes across a a slightly persistent current of air. It realises that it is drifting down a path it did not intend taking. Its fluttering becomes persistent and it manages to struggle out of the presumptuous nudging it was being subjected to. But something happens. In its indignant flutterings, it has managed to push the current slightly off-course. A flutter has been created that was about to go a very long way.

Now wind currents tend to be very rowdy. They jostle each other with even more impunity than they would nudge an unsuspecting butterfly. The slightly off-course current of air, fresh from a rather unsettling encounter with a spirited butterfly staggered into one of his pals. A climatic game of dominoes was set in motion with the nudge being passed on as pushes and shoves with dizzy winds careening all over the place. The nudge was going places indeed with staggering off-course currents travelling for hundreds of miles before rocking another fellow current off-course.

Somewhere above bleached white beaches and incredibly blue seas and below a white hot sun, something was brewing in the air. Like the ominous grumble in the ponderous belly of a gourmand post repast, there was a tight restlessness in the air. It was a Mexican standoff between an unnaturally hot day and the hangover from a freezing night. Something was going to give.

Into this tension-loaded atmosphere blunders a drunk li'l current, reeling from a shove that started thousands of miles away. In an instant, instant mayhem was cut loose. Belligerent winds from the land and the sea and the very skies plunged into the fray. It was a free for all and every Johnny Breezer in the neighbourhood worth his whiff came blowing away. Round and round they went, chasing each other's tails. And right then and there, a monster was born!

Little currents and big winds were all drawn together in the tight, crushing embrace of this newborn fury. Bending over itself in the agony of its violent birth, the twister soars to the skies. Alas, it is tied to the earth where it was born. It twists and turns with a passion that becomes dark and destructive. It yanks and pulls at anything holding it down, scooping up water and boats and fish, regardless of volume or size. Dragging its crippled tail across the seas, it staggers on to land. Things, against all expectations, turn a lot worse.

Sheer chaos and destruction breaks loose. The tornado jumps and skips, trying to reach that elusive momentum that will let it escape. But its very form prevents it from doing anything but rip and rent the very fabric of the land it rakes. In an instant, trees are uprooted, buildings razed, ruminating cows displaced over miles and vehicles tossed around in a calvinistic rage. And suddenly, it's over.

Sunlight breaks through the the monster's shadow and dazed mortals stagger over ruins. Life has changed forever for many. And it all started in a day's time, originating with an innocent flutter. A flutterby happened...
Cogito Ergo Finito

On the joy of writing...

Let's start with a story. The story of a child lost in books; in a dream world of fairies and dashing heroes and dark, dastardly villains who somehow were always considerate enough to let world be saved and had the good grace to come to spectacular and satisfying ends. The child grew up to move on to bildungsromans of simple people being transformed into larger than life legends. Next in line were tales of ethical dilemmas and conundrums that had deep existential implications. These stories defined the child's life. There came a time when the child's hunger for stories could no longer be fuelled by what had already been written... ever. The child wanted stories that had not yet been written. The child began to write.

This could be the story of any author. There comes a time in the life of every author when he or she starts searching for a story that has not yet been written. The story takes birth and grows in their mind. And there comes a time when the author has to sit down and put the story down on paper. The story has to be told. And that is when the child becomes an author. And that is how stories get told. Stories that will be read by children tomorrow, thus fuelling more authors and more stories. There are people who turn their nose up at the non-storytellers; those who are unable to come up with stories of their own.


I say there is no such thing. Everyone has at least one story to tell. Sometimes that story is saved for the tiny ears of a grandchild decades after the story comes to life. Sometimes the story comes to life in magnificent dreamscapes, only to be shattered every morning by a rude alarm bell and reality. Sometimes the story takes on an ugly reality in the form of lies and make-believe. But there is always a story. Everyone has their story. What is this post about anyways? This post is about that story; your story! Write it down. You owe it to yourself and more importantly, to the story. So what if you never publish it and make money off it? So what if no one ever gets to read it. So what if even you wince as you read it. The point is that the story got told. The point is that you set it free. And who knows where the story might go from there? It just might light a spark in a child's mind; a spark that will lead to another story. And therein, your story will find it's purpose. In the end, it's all about stories.


Cogito Ergo Finito