My laptop is a treasury of incomplete mediocrity: essays, passages and pages worth stalled thoughts/ideas. A few samples.
An excerpt from what once was touted (in my head, of course) as my most definitive work (:P):
“What are you saying, man?” Arjun asked, shaking his head from side to side.
I stayed silent. Sometimes, when I am silent, and the night is still—the trees, the sky, the birds, the insects all noiseless—and the vehicles don’t lumber up the sleepy highway, I hear the hills sing their song. There are no words, just a hushed tune, almost like a lullaby, but not quite.
“You came back all the way to find out about that girl? That maid in the Guest-House?” he asked, still shaking his head.
The spell was broken—the song ended even before it began.
I kicked a stone down the valley, into the dark, a little irritated. I heard a couple of soft thumps, of the stone bouncing down the slope, before a muffled thwack told me it had hit green. With my hands on my hips, I said:
“Look, there are things that you won’t understand”
He took a big swig of his beer (Maharani), and still shaking his head said sarcastically:
“Like what? You are in love with her or something? That it took you seven years to understand it?”
“Something like that” I lied.
“What? You’re joking right?” he asked.
I stayed silent again. My limbs felt loose, my head felt a little light—Maharani might be desi, but it hits you pretty hard. I concentrated hard on the silence, but I knew that was not how it worked: the hills didn’t sing on request, they sang when you least expected it.
“Oye!” he said, and hit me playfully on my head, “You’re lying right? Or you’re plain drunk?”
“I am so not drunk” I said, and took a wild swipe at him, but he dodged it unconvincingly and I added: “And I am not lying”
He threw his bottle down the valley, and ran. And I ran after him, shouting, my beer-bottle in hand: the world was a blurry haze; a full moon shone brightly, flanked by big grey clouds; the mountain-air had a distinct biting cold about it; and tears streamed down my eyes. I laughed and shouted and ran. He laughed too, and like kids left loose in a park, we ran atop the hills and into the town, puffing and panting, but forever laughing …
****
From Twilight 2.0 (yes, it was meant to be continued, but never got down to writing it)
(Oh, a brief introduction: the central character gets addicted to these hallucinatory fruits that he finds in the forest. Visions that follow)
In minutes, I feel strangely content, tranquil. Though substantially darker, everything seems to have acquired a halo about it: the trees, though still unimaginably gargantuan, are a flashing green; the flowers, amongst whom I lie, are no longer soft and pretty, but brutally colourful—even more violent than what they seemed at that first initial sight; the river flows slower, though I am sure it cannot; and the setting Sun is a suspended unreal blood-red bob on the horizon; the horizon is devoid of colour, so empty that it makes the world look as bright as a thousand splendid suns; and everywhere I turn and see, I see her—myself, for in a sense she is I—clad in the simple white sari that she wore so dignifiedly when she walked away, smiling benignly. My heart melts, my eyes shed tears of joy, and my mind, yet, is calm. If this is what being in love is, then I won’t ever get tired of it. I shut my eyes, and she is there. I do not know when I pass onto my dreams and see her there.
Happy new year.
An excerpt from what once was touted (in my head, of course) as my most definitive work (:P):
“What are you saying, man?” Arjun asked, shaking his head from side to side.
I stayed silent. Sometimes, when I am silent, and the night is still—the trees, the sky, the birds, the insects all noiseless—and the vehicles don’t lumber up the sleepy highway, I hear the hills sing their song. There are no words, just a hushed tune, almost like a lullaby, but not quite.
“You came back all the way to find out about that girl? That maid in the Guest-House?” he asked, still shaking his head.
The spell was broken—the song ended even before it began.
I kicked a stone down the valley, into the dark, a little irritated. I heard a couple of soft thumps, of the stone bouncing down the slope, before a muffled thwack told me it had hit green. With my hands on my hips, I said:
“Look, there are things that you won’t understand”
He took a big swig of his beer (Maharani), and still shaking his head said sarcastically:
“Like what? You are in love with her or something? That it took you seven years to understand it?”
“Something like that” I lied.
“What? You’re joking right?” he asked.
I stayed silent again. My limbs felt loose, my head felt a little light—Maharani might be desi, but it hits you pretty hard. I concentrated hard on the silence, but I knew that was not how it worked: the hills didn’t sing on request, they sang when you least expected it.
“Oye!” he said, and hit me playfully on my head, “You’re lying right? Or you’re plain drunk?”
“I am so not drunk” I said, and took a wild swipe at him, but he dodged it unconvincingly and I added: “And I am not lying”
He threw his bottle down the valley, and ran. And I ran after him, shouting, my beer-bottle in hand: the world was a blurry haze; a full moon shone brightly, flanked by big grey clouds; the mountain-air had a distinct biting cold about it; and tears streamed down my eyes. I laughed and shouted and ran. He laughed too, and like kids left loose in a park, we ran atop the hills and into the town, puffing and panting, but forever laughing …
****
From Twilight 2.0 (yes, it was meant to be continued, but never got down to writing it)
(Oh, a brief introduction: the central character gets addicted to these hallucinatory fruits that he finds in the forest. Visions that follow)
In minutes, I feel strangely content, tranquil. Though substantially darker, everything seems to have acquired a halo about it: the trees, though still unimaginably gargantuan, are a flashing green; the flowers, amongst whom I lie, are no longer soft and pretty, but brutally colourful—even more violent than what they seemed at that first initial sight; the river flows slower, though I am sure it cannot; and the setting Sun is a suspended unreal blood-red bob on the horizon; the horizon is devoid of colour, so empty that it makes the world look as bright as a thousand splendid suns; and everywhere I turn and see, I see her—myself, for in a sense she is I—clad in the simple white sari that she wore so dignifiedly when she walked away, smiling benignly. My heart melts, my eyes shed tears of joy, and my mind, yet, is calm. If this is what being in love is, then I won’t ever get tired of it. I shut my eyes, and she is there. I do not know when I pass onto my dreams and see her there.
Happy new year.
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