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.