Monday, August 13, 2012


There must be some tenacity in each written word some special string that when holding the whole of it together makes it sound just perfect. Something that we cannot deny or obliterate that we cannot carve in or edit out but just obsess about and stalk in written words mercilessly.
That sometimes what is, is barely alive like being fugitives in the land that holds us and running to the island of memories. A place where boulevard of longing adorns pathways just fleeting as if the place, the time that almost never is; is now and would perhaps calm our restlessness. And then we realize it does not, never did. So we can sometimes just refer to it while we write as realists yet everybody around is talking of it holding on the dead albatross.

I remember the smells that surrounded the mornings of our old home there was this something that marked the early beginnings of winter which the old people always knew was around the corner and I looked gaped as they took out the old woolen clothes to set them alive against a strangely beautiful sun. There was something beautiful about those days something comfortable, something that just stared into your eyes asking to be looked at as a thing of beauty.
Words dulcet, readable, random yet moving the chain forward, plain laid, but bewildering in the way that is fragrant of flowers and flawlessness. Like Nobokov's work assuring the reader of his intelligence.

I intend to write about these simple enough things like almost known friends and ordinary days, a family lunch, a coffee and a book for they seem ordinary enough and yet the potential of beauty that these things posses is infinite to write about. That man who is silently disappointed as the one roofed city of his is building multiple high towers on its body who is so calm in his nonchalance that it disturbs and he sometimes just walking by one of them wishes to run away somewhere else and tear apart his memory of a small town that once was his.

And so I often wish to start my book from a simple page one hundred and two where things are settled and the story is just walking along, the characters are set in their habits and while I am not afraid to maneuver the beauty in my words I know that the simplistic sense would never be erased. I wish to write then something that is so easy, so near, so close and strokable that it is almost beyond imagination. To describe the straight line that a man is than the silent labyrinth that he becomes in a Kafkaesque manner.

Almost like the old broken grand father rocking chair of our home and the difficulty of lovers name on lips.

But then something so simple would have to be bartered for a lifetime of slow burning at both ends and a Faustian trade for which your life I cannot let go and mine they say would not be enough.

So, I am left like a man draping words to cover his inadequacies and wishing what I can never be.


Anonymous said...

This was one of your best.
Will stay on my mind for long!

Viyoma said... is always the simplest of the things that inspire to write. Words fail to describe them, but yet one feels the urge to express. Need to communicate in words - what is exactly being felt at a given point- have comes across such a feeling- many times.

Loved reading this post..