Foreword

I'm ashamed to admit that my next three posts would be based on the real incidents. I couldn't have been inspired to write by the sufferings of my dear friends, but writing is irresistible when something is real and also painful. At some parts, you may think, I'm exaggerating greatly, but no. I am dumb and cannot go creative even to extend a single letter to what I knew or have experienced. I am writing here without their knowledge. I hope they'll never come to know about it and feel more depressed of being used for my writing pleasure.

Talk

Nasir comes back home thinking how he must teach the value of money and also of time to his brother-Nadir. It is not exactly his first attempt to do that.

"Today I shall speak to him. I am his only brother. Then who else will teach him, if not me? I am not worried about the money. Money is nothing when it's compared to Nadir. I hate money, but I'll save it for its vileness. Otherwise, I knew how it would strangle the poor lives and empty stomachs. In the days, when I was not financially as comfortable as I am now, I lost the money I saved for Nadir's Ist semester examination fee. Then I felt like, some unknown force, possibly the power of money punched me in the stomach. I scolded myself for a month and suffered badly for my recklessness. I could have asked Abba, but that wouldn't be gentlemanly because I already promised Abba that I would take care of Nadir from the day I start earning. I borrowed the money from my colleague and paid him back in the next month. But after that, I tried to avoid him and always felt ashamed of talking to him. My only concern is Nadir shall not feel these bad things and yet he shall learn how the world works in the easiest way possible...."

Contemplating thus, Nasir rings the door bell. A minute later, Nadir opens the door carefully tucking his mobile between his left ear and the left shoulder. After wishing Nasir with a smile, he goes on talking to his friends planning his weekend schedule.

Nasir, after he gets refreshed sets out for the kitchen, picking up some brinjals, onions and some mirchi which is almost dry from the basket stand in the corner and is constantly thinking of how to start the talk. Nadir hangs up the phone finalising the meeting place be Runway-9.

Nasir after cleaning the brinjals, keeps one under the knife of the vegetable cutter.

Runway-9? Isn't that a place for rich brats to beat their doldrums?

He cuts the green stem at its head.

I shall tell him that I cannot afford to spend money on these luxuries. Even if I can, I'm not willing to.

Two careful cuts to make it in four.

It would be too harsh to say things like that. These young people are too sensitive when they are taught sense.

He holds all the four pieces together, to cut them across. The first cut.

But What if he laughs at me calling me a counting machine?

Nadir shouts into the kitchen, "Bhaiyya, less chilli, last time it was too hot.. Do you need any help?"

Whatever, I shall tell him today. OK. I'll tell him as gently as possible. But why am I afraid to speak to my own brother?

Antoher cut and the knife goes over his ring finger letting the way for the blood that eagerly streams out and he cries an Ouch! Nadir goes into kitchen in a jump and runs here and there for cotton, when he finds his brother's finger is cut. He goes on like that till he finds it, not even listening to his brother who is actually telling him where it is. He wipes off the blood that is already out and uses it as stopper for his brother to hold. He takes over the kitchen for the day and orders Nasir to relax.

Nasir relaxes himself stretching his body on the bed that laid on the floor.

Nadir loves me as dearly as I love him. I am happy, my finger is cut. Actually I can cut it everyday, if such a love will be expressed by him. He is the sweetest kid I've seen. Haven't you seen how he was running -like crazy when he saw the blood? And here I am, counting every penny he spends and ready to lecture him at every opportunity. He is very young to understand this. He still needs time. On Sundays of our childhood, after lunch, we had to sit in the veranda and study for an hour before we were allowed to play. We had to keep watch for each other while my parents would take a nap inside. On a Sunday like that, Nadir just stopped reading and started looking into the air. To keep my watch, I asked him what he was doing. I am sure nobody can guess what he said. He said he can see something in the air. Later he corrected that he can see and distinguish hydrogen from oxygen if only he was a bit more attentive while taking his chemistry lessons. He said he can see some Ameba-like random structures sometimes merging with and sometimes breaking off from the other similar structures. First I didn't believe him. As he persuaded me to try myself, I tried but couldn't find anything. Now I believe him, he might have had really seen all that he described. He couldn't have lied to me. Based on this, can't he ... he who can see the things in the general crowd's nothingness, learn these lessons of life quickly? Do I really still need to teach him everything like sciences and mathematics? May be it is needed because I shall not always stick to pleasing and spoiling him. My only wish is in his being the best of the world with as less hardships as possible. May be I shall excuse this time and postpone this talk for some other time. Or may be I could do it only now.. otherwise I would keep finding excuses to avoid this dreadful talk...

Nasir eats, sleeps and wakes up with the same thought 'whether to talk or not to talk' for two days and suffers from a fever. Nadir gets surprised trying to relate the finger-cut and the fever..

Surprise

I was at the foot of the mountain called "Social Relations" which is bright on one side and dark on the other. I started from the brighter side with so much shyness and fear of strangers. My mother says one of my teachers, scared of my reclusiveness advised her to consult a doctor for a check-up if I was mentally healthy. As I climbed up the mountain through rocks of shyness, feelings of unworthiness, I could only make those three or four friends.

But surprisingly, when I reached the peak, everybody I spoke to had become my friend. I lived like 'The wanted" for most of my friends. There it wasn't all bright but I enjoyed all those hues of nature. I don't know why I didn't stay there in that heaven. I had become squeamish and choosy in the matter of relations. I started hating people for trivial things though my intention was to love them. Only recently, I understood that I was making my return journey through darker side of the mountain.

I try but cannot keep to myself by my nature and wouldn't even get along with people. Here in this darkness, when someone offers a hand of friendship, I step back for the fear that my finicky mind would certainly wrong that beautiful hand someday if not today. Sruthi surprised me with a pretty note for the friendship day. I was shocked as I never expected one from any of my colleagues and certainly not from Sruthi. To you it may seem nothing of importance, but it was a shock to me. If I have myself as an acquaintance, I wouldn't have dared to meddle with such an inconstant mind. For now, I replied her only with "Thanks" and haven't advanced further.

This can't be a story!

Nashi has been reading Romeo and Juliet ever since Chichikov brought it for her. Every time I ask(beg is a better word) her to finish that and give it to me, she would divert me so cleverly reading few lines out of the book and telling me how beautifully things are exaggerated. She must have told me about Romeo's description of Rosaline for some twenty times. Now I don't think I'll enjoy this part when I read it myself.

Recently, when I asked her how far she read, she has suddenly become excited and told me "It can't be a story. It must have happened to Shakespeare himself or otherwise to someone very close to him." I was surprised for usually we hear people saying "This can't be true!" if they don't see a possible mapping to the society they live in or they would say "This must be based on a real incident" if they can see a close mapping. But the way Nashi declined to accept that it is a story made me laugh.

She tells me "For someone who haven't read it, the sketches of Romeo and Juliet will be quite deviated from the real ones. They are very natural. They think just like you and me. If their love is considered true and great, ours shall be no less to them."

I mused over this for some time and got to this reasoning. R & J's love is great because love gets its honor only after death.

Aftermath

Seems like somebody is angry with me because I am as happy as before. Now I am more happy because they are angry with me. How much I was troubled with his indifference! His being angry is at least better and comforting. But I have to admit that I am constantly feeling guilty for being so proudly expressive at the cost of a rare friendship. May be, I wouldn't have expressed my love, if only I knew that it would be considered so big a crime.

My well-wishers, thank you for the concern, but don't talk of who deserves what. That hurts me more. I'm not in teens to find solace in the lies you tell.

Other Stories

The Meek One

Again a clash of young and old, of wanna-be-idealists and self-preserving monarchs, of dreams and the reality, of passions and the experience, of excitement and complacency. Story of a couple, an young wife, full of morals and a proud husband, revenging himself on the society as a pawn broker. It is written in the husband's voice. He makes a complicated and yet beautiful love story out of his wife's murder. Yes.. I call it a murder though she commits suicide. He killed her with his silence and with his magnanimity caring her even after she attempts to kill him.

The husband is a mad man(I call him so). He loves his wife but never does he express that. Still he claims that she has to understand him without any explanation. But how is that possible? For her, he is just a stranger. Then how is she to know that he loves her but doesn't show it for that is his nature? She apparently thinks that he doesn't love her. Anybody in her place would do the same.

I tell you, silence is terrific than the terror itself. One's heart keeps swinging like a pendulum with wild imagination and mostly one would make it swing towards the terror just to get used to it if in case.. So the terror is felt even before it actually starts. It gets worse, when hope glimpses from the far end. One runs quickly to the end where hope is seen just now. But on reaching there, it fades away like a star that sometimes disappears. One would scorn oneself for running there with impossible hopes and marches back with gloomy face. An oath will be taken not to repeat it. Again hope will be seen from the corner of the eye and one tries to avoid looking at it. But very soon one runs off there unable to stand against the power of hope. It just repeats itself till the actual terror comes on stage. This wild running is just impossible to bear unless you are bound by some strong reason.

The husband leaves her like that in dead silence thinking that he is actually giving her time to understand him by herself without his having explain or express anything. Irritated by this, she revolts back insulting him. She gets some gossip from his enemy and calls him a coward in the face. He still keeps quiet though he can defend himself for he thinks she has to know it by herself without any explanation (Fool?) One day she tries to shoot him when he is (pretends to be) sleeping but gives up doubting that he is just pretending. Even after this, he still goes on with his silent mission of love. She gets used to living like a dead. She falls sick and he takes care of her very well but continuing his silence.

One day our hero suddenly realises that he is losing her for nothing and everything will be settled perfect if only he talks. Seized by the moment, he expresses his love to her. She gets taken aback with 'stern amazement' by his love even after she tried to kill him and she couldn't bear this truth that he loves her like that. She takes all the guilt upon herself for she couldn't understand his silence and his attention towards her. Unable to bear her husband's generosity, she kills herself.

Dream Of A Ridiculous Man

I won't write anything about this story because I am afraid I would misguide you from what is necessary blabbering some nonsense . I beg you all to read this by yourselves. It is very much necessary. It relieves you from the suffering even at least while you are reading it. Solution to the universal problem is so simple. We can practice it together. We can be happy again and we will not need to love the suffering. After reading this, I told myself that I shall I replace all the 'hate's in my hatred poem with 'love'. I can't change it on the go, but as I try loving less of myself and more of my fellow-beings, I will replace each 'hate'. Then someday, there will be a beautiful poem of love, with love in each line and in each one. :)

Most Unfortunate Incident

Hilarious. Dostoevsky never gave me a chance to bring back the severe expression which is generally used here for the public etiquette. I kept guffawing inside and covered it with suppressed smiles just to keep those manners.

This is the story of an young General (higher official in some department) who brags about the humanness to his old friends/colleagues (Please mind that, here the adjective is by the age :P). He defines 'humanness' as one's well behaviour with his subordinates and servants. His friends who had been once young and boiled their blood in the same way for social problems will just laugh at him saying that one cannot keep the humanness. But our hero is not to give in so easily and sets out to show them with an example by attending his servant's (whose salary is only 10 roubles) wedding uninvited. He thinks of complimenting the couple and then having a cup of drink only after the pressing requests to do so and then to talk about the present problems of Russia and to leave after that immediately. He expects that they would feel gratified by his presence and pass on the information that such and such General had come for his wedding to his grandchildren.

Unfortunately in the present case, nothing of the sort happens. The servant gets bewildered on seeing His Excellency. Though the servant is obedient, the General faces difficulty in finding the trace of life in his eyes. The General keeps feeling that nobody there likes him and are laughing at him for some reason. Many times, he feels an urge to take leave but doesn't for he thinks that is improper. He is offered two bottles of vodka and then wedding dinner with much pressing by the groom's mother. But somehow, he offends a man, who happens to be a contributor to 'The Brand', a magazine. Later, the contributor to The Brand insults the General calling him 'Retrograde' for the umbrage he took. At this point, the General bursts out and almost comes to crying. He jumps off from his seat and sets out to leave. But he drops on the floor by the first step and falls asleep.

Now Dostoevsky completely changes his view of things from the General to the servant. The servant is a poor wretch and is often laughed at by his colleagues to have bath at least once in a month. On a fine day, a retired officer calls him, to offer his daughter with a dowry of 400 roubles and a wooden house for the good his father had done him when he was alive. His would be father-in-law also tells him that his daughter has seven devils in her and it is his responsibility to beat her and drive them away. Though he knows that he can neither handle a father-in-law like him nor a wife who has devils in her, he accepts the marriage for the 400 roubles, he is badly in need of.

When he is counting kopecks for the wedding expenses, here is His Excellency like a bolt. He already spent for those two bottles of fine vodka, His Excellency drank. Now the General is on the floor sleeping like a baby. The Servant gives up his bridal bed to His Excellency even after many reproaches from his bride and her mother. The groom's mother nurses the General like her own son till the next morning as he suffers from diarrhea. When he wakes up in the morning and recollects all that happened, he flushes himself out with shame. He finally agrees with his old friends (again 'old' is by the age) that one cannot keep the humanness.

This is for everybody with a variance in levels. Specially, rachhabanda daggara rechhi poyi rachha chese valla kosam. ;)

Good News: Himalaya Book Centre has finally got Dostoevsky on the shelves, unfortunately all I read.

Bad News: Today is 1st of July. Chichikov is singing.. "June pote... July gaali.."

The Reading Effect

Till now, most of what I have written here is trash, just nothing but decorated trash. You see, it was not my mistake alone but mainly the bad influence of the good books I read. Every time, I was amused with anything I read, I tried to chisel my writing in the same way. I tried to imitate every fine curve I came across. I chiseled it so badly for all those fineries, soon it was all broken in its meaning and effect. There was nothing left but words.

Here comes the help from my recently read two stories(Poor Folk & White Nights). These stories influenced me to enjoy what I read but not to get influenced and move away from my objective. Never it is explicitly said in these stories but I understood everything as if it is all written out clearly. This idea was constantly nagging my mind apart from the story and it's characters. By the end, I felt like I certainly could write something worth, something original, something I feel, if only I put half the effort I take in decorations to capture my own absurd thoughts. It is as simple as talking to yourself if only your are not ashamed of what you think. Never it has happened before. All the books I read implicitly made me feel low for their unattainable richness and that I can be no where near to being a writer.

I can write, what I'll never dare to say for my useless pride. I can ask all those questions I held back out of fear. If I write for someone else, I can show that I'm with them and I know what they are going through. I will not do it to help anybody but for myself because I love to wander there in those mysterious thoughts of man. I love to sit with him in that corner and watch his tears as they roll down. I love to make fun of him when he mis-handles things out of excited happiness. And I would love to unfold his secrets when he is being shrewd. I just like to sit and watch him in detail. Man is such an amazing creation. One can never be contented in studying 'The Man'. Now I am confidant that I can write volumes as I study him through.

Along with these stories, I've got some feedback from my friends.

Ravi says my blog is the worst of its kind. He even questions me why I elaborate so much on my negative side. He says that I am not even half bad of what I presented myself here as. For this, I don't know whether to scorn or smile. Doesn't he really understand me? Or is he right in saying that I'm trying to be someone else? Even Chichikov says that I only remember and write about the fights we had and will forget about the good moments to be cherished. With their suggestion, I shall write less about my insanity and shall not scare away my blog's first time visitors.

Faint Heart

I didn't like this story. It is a rare case study.

Vasya and Arkady are friends and have been sharing the same apartment from 5 years. One day Vasya proposes a lady without any hope for he treats himself much lower to what he actually is and sees her much above to where she belongs. When he is about to be crumpled himself away like a discarded paper, she accepts him with delight and Vasya's weak heart just couldn't hold this happiness and comes back to his room in full fright.

Arkady makes fun of him, asking if he has killed anybody. When he gets to know what actually is happened, he is too happy for his friend and dances with him for a little celebration. Suddenly Arkady worries that Vasya would be leaving him soon. Vasya tells him that he too will be living with them. The contended Arkady asks him that he wants to see her amd know by himself whether he would like her or not. Vasya promptly accepts as if he was just waiting for any reason that would bring him to her.

Arkady likes her and she too likes him and consoles him that she is not going to take his friend away and they three would be living together like one. While they are returning from her home, Arkady is too happy for his friend is getting married to such a fine lady. He congratulates Vasya telling him how they have to arrange everything for the wedding and also for the future. He appoints himself as the best man for Vasya.

Arkady, in his excitement, even describes how they three would be living together in every detail. Then Vasya gets gloomy and is somewhat angry with his friend. At this point, I quite mis-guessed the reason for Vasya's depression. I thought Vasya is just uncomfortable for his friend's over excitement. It's that, he is uncomfortable to load his friend's affection to his already over loaded weak heart. Back in the room. he keeps writing with a pen without ink and goes on lamenting that he is being sent to army away from his friend and fiance.

Isn't it really foolish even to think that somebody gets mad out of happiness and gratitude for love? Leave that point, but what is it? Can there be such love and affection among men? I always think that men are incapable of trusting anybody. They always do leave place for doubt in their mind. And men can never completely show their affection. See, I too get irritated with display of emotions for little nothings but I really wanted to say 'Presto! Turn him to a girl.' with Chichikov many times.

White Nights

Story of a lonely dreamer, who befriends random people at Nevsky Prospekt even without talking to them. He even makes friends with streets and buildings of St. Petersburg. He counts himself 'A type' and explains 'A type' as an eccentric dreamer who dreams of having friendship with a particular writer and to play The Hero in a certain play. Mostly, he dreams of himself with a lady sometimes in the abandoned garden of an ancestral house and sometimes in the balcony of a ball room.

One night, he sees Nastenka sobbing by the river. But even before he tries to go near her, she walks away as if she doesn't need any escort. Our dreamer wishes one drunkard would chase her so that he can fight with him and show this reason as licence to have her friendship. To his luck, it happens exactly so. Before parting, he pleads her to come the next night for he is so much in need of a friend. She accepts telling him not to think of her in any other way for she accepted so quickly and she is doing that for her own sake and not for him and on a pre-condition that he shall not fall in love with her.

I can clearly guess how it would end, but it is sweet to read and feel for those passionate characters. Each page deserves a kiss.

Poor Folk Contd.

Varenka sends her copy book when her benefactor, Makar asks about her past. In that, she writes about how she gets irritated when her neighbour cum tutor, Provsky treats her a child even when she is fifteen. One day, she stealthily goes to his library when he is away. She explains her actions this way..

Why should he care for my friendship and affection? He was a learned man and I so stupid. -I knew nothing and had read nothing, not a single book. I stood looking enviously at the shelves groaning under the weight of all those books. I felt vexed, resentful, and strangely frenzied. I decided to read them all and at once, from the first to the last as quickly as possible. Probably, my idea was that, having learned what he knew, I should be more worthy of his friendship.

It is actually my idea. I haven't read it before. It is my own feeling. Does it always holds true that two can never think alike? I exactly thought like Varenka, but it never came to my mind that I shall capture this feeling so beautifully in words. I am no artist. This is the precise reason, I read the books you read. But Huck and Hell are real coincidence.

Dostoevsky, you are my darling. How well you know a woman's heart! Pages of this book are pearls to me. Each one is precious in its own way. I liked the way Varenka and Makar argue about the books they read.

Poor Folk

This is the first of the six stories and it is said to be the first novel that Dostoevsky ever attempted to write. For this he even got praised by the critics and was complimented with exclamations such as "A new Gogol has arisen."

The story is a communication between two people through sometimes long and sometimes short letters. These two people are distantly related to each other, and one lives under the support of the other. They live next to each other. The man chooses a kitchen partition of a lodge as his room for two reasons, his poverty and for the reason, he can see the window of the room his friend lives in from there.

They can even possibly be lovers, but I am not sure of that. It is only my guess. See, If I am sure of what I say, I am afraid, either of them can possibly spring up and say, "Did I ever mention that in my letters?" But from the pure happiness, the man feels when his beneficiary accepts his request to raise the window curtain so that he can get a glimpse of her now and then, I felt a feasibility of love happening. Mind you, I admit, I have no knowledge, where to mark those lines of love on the scale of emotions.

More than love, they talk about how badly one must have to live in poverty. The man often talks about the smell of the poor. Even when the place is tidy, you can smell that smell. It goes strong, the poorer you become. It is not just the place, even the people smell unbearable. He talks of how one has to give up privacy and adjust to the noise of friends and neighbors' shouting and how you are forced to share even the much awaited last piece of bread.

When he talks, he doesn't make you feel pity for his poverty but for the way he tries to stand up proud in those filthy conditions. If you had never been poor, you wouldn't want to read it for he talks so much you don't understand or you would read it out of curiosity to see the world you have never seen. Even if you were poor, you wouldn't want to read it for it reminds the past you want to leave back or you would read it to rejoice the memories and to cry for yourself and your friends who shared those tiniest pleasures of the world with you.

I have read only six letters. There is even a possibility that I have misunderstood everything what Dostoevsky wanted to say. So listen to me but don't expect you would feel the same when you read the story.

Adding to my happy little things

I have got the collection of Dostoevsky's six short stories at unbelievable price (Rs.95/-) With my excitement, even if the shopkeeper would have charged me Rs 500/-, I would have been happily ready to pay for that.

You must have got to know by this time that I am a psycho. I wouldn't let you have the happiness of reading it, for I would write the summary and my comments here as I read through the book.

It's only a wisp of straw

I am a fool. I called you blind. Now I realised it is me who is blind. I couldn't even make out a straw wisp from tree trunk. I lived in my own dreams nurturing a folly. Forgive me for my rudeness, which was the outcome of my misunderstanding of our relation. I thank you for the suggestion "To ignore and move on".

Nashi, I need a hug. I am coming to you. Then you can laugh at me and take your revenge for the nasty things I said. Don't say you don't want to, because that pains me more. Praveen, you too can laugh at me and have yourself satisfied. Yes, Yes, I still believe in the balance held by the magic man. My guardian, I stopped the clock. You can call me anytime. I'll tell you how to decorate my coffin.

I am going to the prison, I am fated to. I am not unhappy. Even if I am, I am happy to be unhappy. I relish in the misfortunes of others. Sometimes I disintegrate myself to the point I treat myself a rival, a someone-else. Today, I am enjoying when doom falls on my special rival.

Waiting

When my mood swung back to singing, I've confessed my feelings brushing away the lessons I learnt from the experience of rejection. You see, it was not an easy thing. One foot ahead and the next backwards. Sometimes, I surprise myself. I didn't know that I can be so timid. I remember, I even prayed at that moment. But to whom? I cannot recall. I felt very weak in the limbs and arms. It was not physical weakness but looked like my action nerves are broken. I felt drowsy and laid on the sofa. I took rest for few minutes and suddenly woke up telling myself 'It shall be done now or never". I would again begin from the beginning but by the time shovel was ready, I would feel weak and fall asleep. After so many failed attempts, I have done it closing my eyes and accumulating all the courage at one place for a second.

PS: I cannot guess in which mood I would write my next post. Whatever it is, it will be thunderous and I may not even want to write about today. That is why, I scribbled this to re-read whenever I'm vainly proud of myself.

Sighing

Nenu paadutunnanu..
Padaale leni ee paatani.
Prema lothulloki jaarina koddee..
Ningini antinanta aanandamga.

Love is such an itchy business. I keep scraping myself till the skin is cut and blood is out. Though it heals soon with a stitch to forget everything, injects a disgusting impression with the poisoned lance. See me through, I'm like a patient badly stitched all over and running in and out of ICU. I'm irritating to myself for hoping the ambiance will change back to 'Singing'

I know, you are sure laughing at my analogy. Enough. I haven't written it for your entertainment. I will kill you, if I see you laughing.

Singing

Nenu paadutunnanu..
Padaale leni ee paatani.
Prema lothulloki jaarina koddee..
Ningini antinanta aanandamga.

Translation:
Hey! Do you listen? I am singing
the wordless song of love.
But the anomaly here is the more I slide into the perilous depths of love,
the high I fly in the merry clouds and the joyful I sing.

Freedom from Freedom

I always had done things in my own way crushing the hopes of my dear ones. "I" am the only most important one to me. Though I generally hate myself, there is that unabated and probably extending love for myself deep within. It has grown up like a mountain and now I am not able to perceive anything beyond me. It has become a block that broke the transparency between you and me. I need a guide for sometimes I doubt my little rascal for the highs and lows it takes me to. Enough of the play! I'm tired and need some rest. So I seek that guide who would probably set the child in me to its discipline. But then it pains me to prefer the guide to my rascal, who is no one but me. I am suffering from narcissism. I know my disease but not the medication except that utter humiliation I shall be put into. This is the problem of having excessive freedom but I am scared to give up my freedom, which had come so easy from my family. That is why, I keep postponing the task of relinquishing my freedom to an uncertain amount of time. This time, vexed with me, somebody set the clock for me. A month from today! Probably, I am going to be a puppet. See, what a fool am I? I thought of making you my puppets and you turned me one even before I am on my job.

A month to live, as I want to. I'll be freaky and will be doing things one on another, for I don't have much time to waste on the formalities. I am in hurry and please run along with me if you care a piece of me.

Con Game

Why this fistful of heart never gets ashamed of it's mischief? It's a rascal. Though I order it not to move about for it is sick and bruised, it would slip through quietly limping on the sly. It tells me bunch of extrapolations and exaggerations of truth and would force me to believe them till I give in. Finally, I give in for I, myself can't do otherwise. Yes, I'll be happy but soon I see you all from no-where. I see Hamlet in each of you. I see Santhi, Rakesh, Praveen, Cnu, Sowmya and even Anna. I am scared to see you sighing at me in rage "Frailty, thy name is woman!" I hide my face and would hurriedly look for that little rascal who put me to this humiliation. But it is not again in it's place. I mumble to it peeping through myself "I plead you to come forward. I am not here to punish you. This time, I beg you to play your tricks and tell me all your sweet and absurd stories to save me from this moment of disparage. Please do stand by me.. my sweet little thing. I lack the courage, of which you have plentiful." But it leaves me to my misery without an answer.

Drowning...

I keep up my insanity irritating the people around for no reason as if I have a long-lasting grudge on them to be unloaded. Every time I do something to them, I suffer acutely, but then.. they too would suffer and that is a sheer pleasure to me and it would even out-balance my suffering. I love to see them notice that I am not just nothing, but could inflict them in the worst way and spoil their day if I want. I know, I am falling down morally but I don't care, if it can give me the pleasure of suffering.

In-spite of all this, life has suddenly become interesting and I curiously watch it every moment with my chin in the hands. I think, I am dangerously in hope. Perhaps, I'm hoping on this hope like that Dostoevsky's drowning man clutched at a straw thinking it to be the branch of a tree. :)

Deceived

Chichikov is annoyingly chuckling at my disposition. How could I be tricked so easy? Till now, I only found myself with such a degree of variance in temperaments. Here the point is.. I never hide it and consider it a defect in me, which I cannot correct very quickly. I need to hit myself and practice for the evenness in my countenance. May be, because of that, I'm impressed with the people of orderly demeanor. Guess! Somebody, who impressed me like that, made me blush with his miens. Though his airs were apt for the location, I'm hurt. I think, I am deceived of his placidity.

PS: If it seems, it is you, don't ask me for the confirmation.

Fair picture of my wedding dream :P

Thanks to GRT Wedding Mall advertising department.

Boo Radley

Boo Radley is leaving for US office. Everybody thought I would miss him. Not a bit. I am actually happy. Stop there.. I don't have anything against him. I never wanted him to go out. But now when he is leaving, I found a comfort. Comfort that I don't need to drop my eyes and break my neck bone when I pass by him. How would I forget the invalid look he gave me when I went to his cocoon to give him chocolates on Dostoevsky's birthday? He took me to a bug in his code rising his right brow an inch. Then I convinced myself that he was surprised and confused and didn't know what to do, so he put some random expression on his face. Of course, I didn't believe what I told myself. I found out yesterday, at his farewell lunch that it is not because of his reserved nature but he is too proud of his intelligence and of having differential treatment for his length and breadth of knowledge(Ram's invariable expression for LP) and he thinks invalids like me are no equal to him and talking to us is disgracing. When he was asked to talk about his colleagues, he gave poppins only to Ram and Rakesh. This is my another problem. When my colleagues tell me that they love talking only to Ram and Rakesh, my impulsive reaction is to hate them. I know, everybody has their own likes and dislikes and it is no concern of me but still this 'only' lacerates me like an insult by spitting on the face. By the way, Intelligence turns me on too. I too like Rakesh and Ram but not only for their smartness, for they treat people alike, not exactly alike.. but at-least one wouldn't be hit on one's self-respect. I am going awry, let me come back. I extremely hate LP, may be out of jealousy for his knowledge and the special treatment he gets. Specially now, I curse him to find a fly in his food when he is dead tired. Then let him eat his intelligence. Let him drink his dollars and pride. I cynically wish for that. He helped me. So what? I am not happy to have his share of knowledge that comes with such a torture.

PS: Notes From Underground is too distressing for unhappy souls like me otherwise it is a good one and you could laugh it through. I kept turning to the cover page to believe this was the same Dostoevsky, who made Kolyas, Mityas and Myshkins.

Inspiration is at home

I have many things to write, but nothing is in full shape. I observed, if I keep waiting for everything to take its complete form, I will loose them for new things. So I start here showing them in pieces.

At first, I believed in Santhi's comment and thought I really could write well. My thoughts even went far to take GRE and get taught by Chitra Divakaruni at Houston. But then very soon, I belittle myself reading some very young people at 18 and 19. I understood my excitement is just like.. when my mother tells everybody that she will let me be a doctor and then I would say jumping 'Yeah! I'll be a doctor' without knowing what it takes to be a doctor.

There is so much fight about the translations of Russian books. Some people like Constance Garnette and some like Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. There is one guy who disliked a book of a particular translation but that has become his favorite when he read the other translation. Can there be really so much difference?? From this, rose my another fancy, to learn Russian! Believe me, I learnt the Cyrillic script. I liked the vowel 'Yah' which is the mirror image of R. But there is no going further unless you have a proper teacher.

I am hating my job and the people here. Specially Anil. It is mean of me to mention names. But I want him to see this. I want him to hate me and I want him never talk to me. I feel like shouting at everybody that I'm sick with them and I'm leaving for something better, probably to be a librarian. (Again I don't know what qualification is expected of a librarian..) But how would I pay for the house? I think, I won't earn much as librarian. I hate nanna for arresting my career to this earning job. I remember, two years ago, I told somebody that my present job is the best suitable job for me. I remember, I enjoyed it very much till Kiran was here. But then, could your lead effect your work that much? Isn't it a weariness of your own and who's_your_lead is just an excuse? Why am I prejudiced to hate anybody taking Kiran's place?

Hell with Kafka! Not only the first impressions are unreliable as he says. Impression is a possible-lie in itself. One can never be the same all his life. Man is weak of his character. He can neither be good nor bad for a long time. May be I'm thinking so, because I'm myself a weak person as a thief thinks everybody else are thieves at least once in their lives. Let me be like that thief. Having impressions is more infectious than love. It drives you through expectations, irritations, disappointments and ends in misery. Many times, impressions are transient and diluted with prejudices. Better not to have them. From now on, I'll try to meet everybody(even Anil) as I am meeting them for the first time only with facts and not with impressions.

I have got a strange dream. There is a writer, probably a future writer who considers everybody stupid, materialistic, un-lovable and of filthy character and considers himself an alien, not belonging to this world of puppetry. He thinks he cannot write well if he has to deal with and constantly be disturbed by these puppets. He leaves to the forests only to find the quality of his writing is degraded. He thinks, it is because of his inner fear for the wild and he is disturbed by the chirping of birds. He goes to the mountains but no luck. It has become much worse. He stops writing and goes in search of the reason why he is not able to write better. He finds a sign board on which he felt reading 'Inspiration is at home'. He strokes his head a little, and talks to himself.

How did I forget that I cannot write about trees, mountains and of birds for I don't know their language. It is my people I can love or hate and write about. I can write so much when that woman at the end of street takes out a coin but doesn't give it directly to the beggar but gives it to her kid to give it to the beggar. I can portray her either as a teacher of kindness or as a divinely drunken woman. I have the power to play with my characters.. but not here when I am myself in thirst of inspiration. I shall go back..to my home, to where I belong. I shall live among my puppets. I shall become the great puppeteer of these puppets.

There ends my dream. I think, you must have guessed who he is. I drivelled too much into my dream, and now I forgot what else I want to write about.

Old Women's Network

This was the first time I had ever celebrated Holi. It was very fun. Specially, I loved taking revenge on Harpreet. If only I knew, it would be like this, I would have joined Bhavani and Sujana in the Hostel 5 years ago and have had some practice. Though it was tough to get rid of those pink patches later, the trouble was nothing compared to the time we had. After an hour of violent holy celebration at parking place, I cleaned myself and changed the dress. I was well prepared for the evening.

Nashi called me as I invited her home in the morning. I almost forgot about that until she called me as it was not fixed but was only a vague plan. We planned to meet at Panjagutta. I left at once and went to Odyssey for Anna Karenina, Classic Library Edition. as Kafka's America is finished. A few days before, I made a call to Odyssey to find out if they have the CL edition. It feels good to read in those well bound books in brown covers. That anonymous receiver of my phone call said, they had it in Jubilee Hills branch and he would follow me up when they get it from there. That was a week ago. But I haven't received any call. I have checked it myself. They don't have it. I tried for any of Dostoevsky's and found none. "What! Not even one? Vikrampuri Odyssey is much better than this. They have at least few of Dostoevsky's. They play good music too. The boys at the counter were also obedient and not like this fellow whose is giving me nasty looks every time I squeeze my nose.." I thought.

I went to Himalaya Book Centre. Nashi joined me after sometime. I searched for AK, CL edition. They also don't have it. Then I instantly changed my plan of reading AK and wanted to read Notes from the Underground. But pity me! They also don't have Dostoevsky. Nashi consoled me saying that they might have arranged the books with first name and searched for 'F'. Nashi went to a lady who looked like who knows where everything is and asked for Dostoevsky. After many requests to repeat the spelling, she ran away somewhere completely unmindful of our presence. So we did her work and searched in the catalogue for Dostoevsky with both first and last names. He is nowhere to be found. I hate them all not for only not having Dostoevsky but upon that for having each book of Robin Sharma, John Grey and Sidney Sheldon and so like..

We went back to literature shelf in the corner with disappointment. Then I convinced myself, why do I care if the cover is brown or blue until the letters are always black on white? I picked up an Indian edition of AK and went for a last stroll along the book shelf.

Then Nashi took me little farther from the guy who was browsing at our shelf. She asked me "How is he? Did you like him?"

"What!?" I asked her to repeat though I have heard it clearly.

This is the effect after my mother had a private talk with her. She tried to talk it over, but I refused to listen to anything in this matter. Later, she sent me a very lengthy mail, must have spent at least 2 hours to compose that. But I cruelly left it half-read. That time, I told her that anybody who could appreciate Dostoevsky is fine for me just to escape further counselling. Now I found out, she took it seriously!

She hurried me asking "Tell me, If he is OK for you, I would talk to him.. Quick baby! He would leave."

I said "But he is not looking for Dostoevsky!"

She replied "That I will find out. See, he is there and I think he will mostly pick up Tolstoy first and know about Dostoevsky and appreciate him like you did".

"That's very less probable! he is not even picking up Tolstoy. Let's get out from here before you make me embarrassed." I sighed at her.

We took 49M and got down at Patny. Then she asked me something I am afraid of what she would ask me someday. Because two of my close friends have already caught me at it. I am happy for she asked me that. Of course, friends are the real mind spoilers at it, but I longed to be happily spoiled.

PS: Title means a network which spreads secrets and personal status of a concerned person to the whole world. (ade telugulo.. Gaali vaartha antaaru kadaa..) With this network, Nashi and me hoped for a day when everybody knows Dostoevsky better than Chetan Bhagath.

Ruined in reformation

Dostoevsky, Do you know that you have ruined me? If I keep believing in your reasoning, I'll loose my esteem and soon I'll loose myself too. Though you make fun of Madame Khoklakov, I'm like her, so many uncertainties, so much self-hatred but highly pompous. How aptly you made her say -The more I love humanity in general, the less I like man in particular. That's exactly the case with me. Kindness is not a service, Kindness is not a peace-maker, Kindness is a weakness. Don't we have to consider whether the other person is worth the kindness we are going to shower?? Without this kindness of yours, I atleast would have loved myself, but because of you, I feel trapped.. like a little mouse. Do you think with this kind of people, peace is possible? I say it's impossible even if you can make the Sun rise in the west. I hate you right now at this moment for making me take all the guilt upon me for you said.. everyone’s guilt before all and for all..

It's love again that pulls me here!

Ages ago, there had been a spark of love or something that was deliberately considered love. And it was put off as soon as it started out. Now, after many years, if he falls in love with somebody or somebody falls in love with him just before my eyes, am I supposed to feel jealous? May be 'yes' for a noble girl. But I prefer being myself to being noble. (It's my vanity to give statements like this. I know, it wasn't good when one is reforming oneself. But still, please excuse me this time. Let me have it for giving strength to the speech.)

Far from jealousy, I am happy for the two and wouldn't even care if they kiss each other before me. I would even like to let my present lover (just a fancy!) to fall in love with other women if they are of some matter (like a mother for a son I'd examine them first, I don't know why. but just now, I thought I have the right to do so). May be it's not quite true of my being magnanimous like this. But I would like to be like that. It feels good though it's painful.

I talk in disorder for I am very happy to be reading Dostoevsky(B.K) again. My jealous-less feelings are all generated from him for he described in such a detail what monstrous disasters, jealousy could bring and how good you can count yourself if you keep it away. Believe me, I would not have felt jealous about the former one, even if I haven't started reading it. I taught myself at least few things like this, without my teachers, without my parents and without reading books. See, I am such an egoist, you give me a moment, I start talking about myself. Let me take you back to the new love that sprouts.

I tell you one thing, may be it's place is not here, but still I tell you otherwise I may forget. I terribly pity them for I am secretly scared that it won't work out and is not worth trying. I don't want it be so. But against my wish, that's what is going to happen. I keep getting premonitions for few things and they certainly become true.

To you, only to you, a small note. You both are my dear friends. I can't see you becoming painful to each other for it pains me too to take sides even for a short time.

On the brim

Something must have instilled the hesitancy between the two friends, to which they were not used to before. Though they were hiding it from each other under pretense, they only could sense it. So they wanted to be done with this affair as early as possible, not to delay it until they are completely entangled in the game of love, and mainly to save their precious friendship that was built over years. They talked incoherently and wept together for the imperfections of the human soul. They both didn't like it to be that way. Still some stupid sensuality held them guilty. They gave instructions to each other to revert to be simple friends without much hurting.

The gentleman being well disciplined whipped himself not to do, what he was not suggested to do. The lady, who was though as disciplined as her mate was, couldn't come out of this emotional whirlwind because of a selfish hope. Fools, Empty heads! All women are so. How much ever they get offended, they continue to wag their tails and lick the boots of their masters (Ladies, these opinions are not mine, but of a sufferer). At first, even I didn't see any offense in this affair. These women are much complicated than the Life itself. (Sounding like Bertie??) But now I understood what it was. I'll tell you later, how it was shown to me.

When they re-discussed about their emotional status, the man was upset for she was not yet recovered. He was irritated and angry with her for loving him, but still composed and explained her why he was against this. He said,

Dear, I am not prepared to have another wound, at least one that comes from you. Please believe me, I really love you. More than anyone. But this love is not what you are now expecting from me. Remember Esmeralda! Like the fingers of the same hand. Like brother and sister. That's how I would love ourselves.

To this she replied,

Well, my dear friend, do you know what you are doing all the while to restrict me and yourself from causing wounds to each other? You are not being like my friend and my fellow finger as you promised but purposefully ignoring and hurting me so that I could hate you. But I saw your struggle. I saw how much you hurt yourself when you are hurting me. I saw everything. Now I started loving you more. Not as you are fearing about. But with a typical human heart, I love you for the similarity of the pain we are suffering like brother and sister.

His reply was this,

Friend, I used to be proud of you and boast of it to others. How we used to sit together and share things over. Even when we shout at each other and swear not to reconcile again, I know, it was not true. How peaceful I used to feel when you were with me! But now, I am too worried to speak anything. I should check if it would effect your feelings before speaking anything. Believe me, I am even scared to hold your hand which was just nothing for me before. I am somehow feeling guilty for all this though I am not for sure guilty. My friend, be kind and be like my good friend. Care me, but as if you don't care me (This phrase is stolen from my friends) Be angry with me when you are hurt not with pain but with real anger. Hate me for the stupid things I do. Then I would come back and ask you to forgive me. I love to do it. May be, that's why, I used to tease you. Do you know, now I want you to tell me about your crush and how you are mad about him as you used to tell me, then I want to discuss with you if he is OK for you or not. I am dreaming for something like that to happen. Don't analyze too much of my words. Many things are beautiful, when you perceive them with simple heart.

She replied,

Dear, I want to let you free, from my love, from the origin-less guiltiness you are experiencing and myself too. Till now, I didn't understand how our friendship could be a block. I considered it as an advantage, because it isn't formed to serve the purpose of something else but built by us with pure intentions. And we both knew it. Thrashing my hopes on you, you are expecting me to think of somebody else. Isn't a delicate way of rejection? Genius you are.. (Did you get it now? This is the offense I talked about earlier.) Forget it. Forget it forever like nothing happened. Let's weep together once for all and forget it. I like this friendship of ours as much as you do. I am also proud of it. I want to hold it higher in my life not in reach of its impurities. If something dirty has already stuck to it, let us clean it. No trace shall be left. No trace, anywhere. Let's freeze it in our simple hearts.

Now, the authoress of this story has nothing to continue, but feels happy to let their friendship overtake everything else. She is not sure if she is really happy with this ending or still pities her characters.

Scruple

Yesterday, how strictly I thought of not writing anything about pain, heart-breaks and so like, but today I couldn't control myself from talking about it again. I am such a variable and infidel with my own beliefs. It is exactly the same behaviour that is hurting me more. If it is concerned with others, I will know what is right and I stubbornly do it. Then, why I am not able to do it with myself? and why I am giving allowances of unreasonable desires? And later, how well, my conscience is reasoning those unreasonable temptations till I believe those lies. I think, I am not just one within me..probably two. One, extremely zealous about life, ready to embrace however it is and one, who scorns oneself each moment with fussy conscience. I shall throw out either of them otherwise life is hell-like.

PS: Later in detail.

Engagement of deception

I am just like you, a bit talkative, emotional, honest, intelligent [I think so ;) ] and sometimes over-confident. Then why me when I am no different from anybody? Why am I deprived of cherishing those days of youth. Why is it all filled with that person who promised me the moon but gave me up for a good-looking and dowry bringing rich lady. I couldn't convince myself that it is only because of money. I can't make him accountable for such an unforgivable sin. Isn't it unforgivable?? I looked at him so high and never would be able to imagine him otherwise. May be , not so high, because he started lying to me from few months, even when it is unnecessary. May be, he is testing if he could successfully bully me. Even after all this, I had a hope, a feeble one, that he is just faking but actually the person he presented to me along with his propositions.

After I heard of his engagement with that rich lady, I am shattered. There was nobody at home except my little sister, to whom I shall behold the stature of an ideal inspiration. So I busied her to watch her favorite show and locked myself in my room. I thought I should better talk to some of my friends. It was too late. But who looks at the clock to disturb a friend? I know beforehand what they would say. I know how typical their consolations would be.. But still would want to listen from them. All of them said the same thing but in their own style that he doesn't deserve me and that I shall be happy to have ridden of him at last. I suspect they are happy for what happened. They reminded me of their prophecies that we weren't a match. I talked to them as if I believed all they said.

I laid on my bed and remembered the days when we played as innocent kids but with a favoritism towards each other. I knew him by birth. Everybody was jealous of us, because we help each other and nobody else. I remembered when somebody made a mountain of suspicion out of our closeness with each other. I was badly insulted but was happy somehow. I stupidly enjoyed each moment my parents positively remarked about him and wouldn't talk to him for a day or two if it was a negative remark. It wasn't that I was angry with him for what he did, but I felt he should behave properly like a gentleman when my parents were around. I didn't know why I got that notion. Later on, when he proposed to me, I realized, though I never talked to myself regarding this wish, this was what I always waited for. Then everything was clear to me and I understood myself. I don't regret for missing the state of being in love and then day-dreaming for the day of proposal. Whatever happened to me is exactly the way I wanted.

I came back from my reveries because, after that nothing happened to amuse me. It was a skill of few to make you feel guilty before you ask them for an explanation. He got that. I was never happy with him again. But I tried to find happiness in the misery of my state. I believed in my love unknowing that it would thrash me someday like this. They say.. Time heals the wound. But I can't even bear this unreasonable wound till that time comes. It is painful and scorching.

Un-Happy New Year 2009

The most insufferable woman in my life makes me really mad, everybody around me are looking down on me for my nasty behavior. I cut my hair too short and fought with her using some cheap weapons of the kitchen with serious intentions of a murder. I felt like a Raskolnikov.

I am almost bankrupt. badly waiting for the salary day. No prospect to recover before three months.

I hate to go home not just for the problem 1, but everyone at home is behaving exactly in the way that irritates me. And also, they are stupidly after me for that one 'Yes', which would add 100 more things to this list.

Long weekend is OK, but this long weekend is too long to be OK.

PS: There are few more to be listed but I think they are insignificant and I could get over them easily.

Kostanzhoglo

Here is a very small and impressive piece of Kostanzhoglo's speech to Chichikov when the latter requests his advice on estate management.

If a carpenter handles his axe well, I am ready to stand and watch him for two hours, such a cheering effect does work produce upon me. But if you can also see with what object all this is being done, how everything about you is multiplying and increasing, bearing increase and income- Well, I cannot express what takes place in your spirit then. And it is not because your money is increasing —money is nothing in itself— but because all this is the work of your own hands, because you see that you are the source of it all; that you are the creator, and that from you, as from some magician, good and abundance are showered upon all. Now, where else will you find me such another enjoyment?