I guess, sometimes, acceptance of facts and bending over to take a bow only serve to make one humbler, and wiser. I will try to find out if that's true. And I will try to swallow my pride in the meantime. I assume I stopped writing, for some time, because I found it hard to digest criticism in the guise it was dished out to me. Someone even went ahead and said that it was a cheap publicity gimmick to increase the dwindling number of readers. Gimmicks for a damn blog? What next? I do not even know how to respond to such a vile comment. So I will refrain from retaliating.
The Writing. Someone said it was too inane, others found it lacking quality, while the majority just stopped giving a damn. I decided to give it all a break. And I had meant it to be for good. Perhaps I was foolish and, yes, naive. But maybe I have realized that none of that should stop me from doing something I like much more than a lot of other important things. At the same time it dawned that while writing, it is very important to be honest in depicting the emotions we talk about. I am going to search for that honesty. Give it a try again. Strive for the benchmark. I hope for the best.
In case you didn't understand this, do not worry. You probably were never meant to :)
He felt the ink of her name, gradually moving his fingertips over the word and smoothening out the rough edges of the letters. They shifted uneasily in their slumber, not wanting to be disturbed. However, he continued stroking them, just like he would have petted his cat. This time they purred in approval. He smiled and let the reverie take reign of his senses.
He tried to imagine what she would have been like in a different life. In another universe. Perhaps he believed that if he could feel her soul through her name, he would be able to rid himself of all the preconditioning that had accumulated like soot over his instincts. In this parallel universe, he would be one with her, with none of the inhibitions camouflaging his affections. His passion would not be mellowed or reserved, but pure and unbridled. She would be his consort and he her lord, he thought, giving an almost divine touch to his itinerant feelings. Surprising himself with his own eccentricities, he began to whisper to her name, half excepting it to come alive any moment and begin telling its tale.
For a second, the alphabets did not feel right. They were dead and callous. How could they tell him about her lively past? How could they talk of her ravishing beauty, or her vivacity for that matter? The color of the ink did nothing to help matters. It was jet black. So offensively monotonous. He hesitated in feeling them, as if the pristine beauty of her name had somehow been corrupted by writing it down. Then his curiosity got the better of him and he relapsed into the daydream.
He called out to the well formed shapes gracing the ruled pages, just like a tantrik mumbling his incantations. Slowly, he saw them shed their shyness. One by one, they started jiggling their toes, shaking off the dirt that had accumulated over the decades. They blinked in surprise when they saw who had summoned them. Then they chuckled with delight at the prospect of the sacrilege they would incite. Finally they gathered round and began.
Did her hair curl cheerfully over her forehead? Is that what the k told him? “Did the illimitable love in her eyes show so conspicuously even then?” he asked an a matter-of-factly. And her lips? What about those lips? Did they convey an unfulfilled longing? Or were they much too innocent to give away any telling signs? Her lissome figure? Had it only accentuated with age? What about her bosom? Was it just as comfortable as it seemed now? The s preferred to keep quiet this time. Each time he asked them the questions, they giggled mischievously, never giving away too much. They were aware of the repercussions their answers. Eventually, he got tired of the game, accusing the name of cheating on him. Akanksha just shrugged off and went into hiding in the pages. Realizing the ramifications of his misdemeanor, he called out to Akanksha, cajoling, pleading, and even begging. But it had already vowed to never again tell him the story of its bearer.
He looked at those letters again, now as lifeless as the dust that had once again settled on them. He looked at them wistfully, hoping they would someday complete their tale.
“Ritwick”, he heard his mother call out. He hastily shut the covers of her journal and slid it back into place, as if it had never been touched. As if its confines had never been defiled.
The Writing. Someone said it was too inane, others found it lacking quality, while the majority just stopped giving a damn. I decided to give it all a break. And I had meant it to be for good. Perhaps I was foolish and, yes, naive. But maybe I have realized that none of that should stop me from doing something I like much more than a lot of other important things. At the same time it dawned that while writing, it is very important to be honest in depicting the emotions we talk about. I am going to search for that honesty. Give it a try again. Strive for the benchmark. I hope for the best.
In case you didn't understand this, do not worry. You probably were never meant to :)
He felt the ink of her name, gradually moving his fingertips over the word and smoothening out the rough edges of the letters. They shifted uneasily in their slumber, not wanting to be disturbed. However, he continued stroking them, just like he would have petted his cat. This time they purred in approval. He smiled and let the reverie take reign of his senses.
He tried to imagine what she would have been like in a different life. In another universe. Perhaps he believed that if he could feel her soul through her name, he would be able to rid himself of all the preconditioning that had accumulated like soot over his instincts. In this parallel universe, he would be one with her, with none of the inhibitions camouflaging his affections. His passion would not be mellowed or reserved, but pure and unbridled. She would be his consort and he her lord, he thought, giving an almost divine touch to his itinerant feelings. Surprising himself with his own eccentricities, he began to whisper to her name, half excepting it to come alive any moment and begin telling its tale.
For a second, the alphabets did not feel right. They were dead and callous. How could they tell him about her lively past? How could they talk of her ravishing beauty, or her vivacity for that matter? The color of the ink did nothing to help matters. It was jet black. So offensively monotonous. He hesitated in feeling them, as if the pristine beauty of her name had somehow been corrupted by writing it down. Then his curiosity got the better of him and he relapsed into the daydream.
He called out to the well formed shapes gracing the ruled pages, just like a tantrik mumbling his incantations. Slowly, he saw them shed their shyness. One by one, they started jiggling their toes, shaking off the dirt that had accumulated over the decades. They blinked in surprise when they saw who had summoned them. Then they chuckled with delight at the prospect of the sacrilege they would incite. Finally they gathered round and began.
Did her hair curl cheerfully over her forehead? Is that what the k told him? “Did the illimitable love in her eyes show so conspicuously even then?” he asked an a matter-of-factly. And her lips? What about those lips? Did they convey an unfulfilled longing? Or were they much too innocent to give away any telling signs? Her lissome figure? Had it only accentuated with age? What about her bosom? Was it just as comfortable as it seemed now? The s preferred to keep quiet this time. Each time he asked them the questions, they giggled mischievously, never giving away too much. They were aware of the repercussions their answers. Eventually, he got tired of the game, accusing the name of cheating on him. Akanksha just shrugged off and went into hiding in the pages. Realizing the ramifications of his misdemeanor, he called out to Akanksha, cajoling, pleading, and even begging. But it had already vowed to never again tell him the story of its bearer.
He looked at those letters again, now as lifeless as the dust that had once again settled on them. He looked at them wistfully, hoping they would someday complete their tale.
“Ritwick”, he heard his mother call out. He hastily shut the covers of her journal and slid it back into place, as if it had never been touched. As if its confines had never been defiled.
I've read this before, as you know. And it is well written.
ReplyDeleteA bit complex, though. Might just stop it from making it to the final list. I hope it doesn't.
good to find that you are back to writing. was rather surprised at your decision to stop, in the first place but each to his or her own choice, so to speak. i am happy that you have managed to "swallow [your]pride"....most people fail to defeat 'THE EGO'.... and realized that one should never gve up on what connects with one's inner self.hopefully your search for honesty would give you a better perspective of your 'self' and 'life'. good luck!
ReplyDeleteP.S. not all "stopped giving a damn" about your words. some have usually appreciated what you wrote :)so don't forget to take them into consideraton for the majority. they may be just a handful in number but may be genuine and honest in their response....may be your search for honesty would make to understand and value honesty [when you see it] beyond numbers.
Thank you. Perhaps it was the same honesty you talk about that made me reconsider the decision.
ReplyDelete