Give me a paperback novel and I will give you freedom!
I don’t exactly remember when was the first time I picked up a Ruskin Bond instead of a soft toy. I faintly recall that it was one of those late 90’s evening, soaked up in solitude and playful curiosity. A green colored hardcover, grabbed by my ultra curious 6 year old hands from my mother’s book shelf.It had words and sentences that I could merely even pronounce, let alone even understanding them. But there were pictures, many pictures between boring text. Once, I was even scolded by my mother for drawing over the pictorial maps and illustrations. But that had not stopped me from seeing the great Akbar and his Mughal empire in palatial articulations, Mohenjo Daro’s pride running through the brick made staircases and veins of the old Indus and the Ganges flowing over the yellowing paper. I had colored their story with crayons . By the time, I grew up to be wise enough to read those boring texts, the green colored book with the Indian map drawn on it’s cover had gone to the eternal vacuum of lost items. Later, I realised that my first book of expeditions of magic and history was none other then the Discovery of India written by the first Indian Prime Minister ,Pt. Jawaharlal Nehru in the form of letters to his daughter Indira Priyadarshini. How history repeats itself is funny, the book that was bought by my mother had eventually opened the world of words to her daughter!
Today,I am 21 and haven’t read enough books to recreate a memory of such depth.But in my musky theatre of recent memories, I know that the fictional town of Kalimpong smells like the vapours of Teesta river that I saw while going to Darjeeling and the hands of orangedrink lemondrink uncle gropping my soul is almost a reality out of the fiction that I had read years ago. These immersing feelings of surreal experiences from my recent readings exist but are rare and ephemeral.Most of the time, the little nuances of the story is not imprinted in the memory as it used to be once.
Nowadays, reading stories have become a kind of competition against my own soul, a tussle between desires and distorted reality. All that echoes shouting in my mind are intended towards , how fast can I finish this book so that I can jump onto the next one in the list? Or let’s just pile up the reading list and dream about the future days when I will get enough time to read them. And sometimes it’s the fear of consuming all my favourite stories before time and then to be left with apparently no replacements for the vacant shelf. While sometimes it’s just the mere orgasmic ecstasy of searching and buying the last copy of a book from the book fair, to never read them but to decorate it as a memento of luck,patience and perseverance. May be, I just like the idea of books in my room, filling my lonely nights and mornings with a hope that someday I will soak in the rides made by Kafkas, Murakamis and Coelhos.
I don’t have any specific dreams in life. But to have a dream to be well read and wise, does that even count as a dream?
Someday from now, I will be looking at the glorious past Of trees and sky, painted upon the rippling canvas. To remind me of the greeds we pursued for the sky scrappers and the thermal riders. While failing to adjust the silicaceous frame, of 15 × 10 green and blue eternally glared upon by the rays of man made horrors
Dear society, You may drink your beers of feast for today. You can chain her in your cubicle of satanic sadism, rotten monotony and grey scale, but only for today Pin her wings to the base of crowd rush, but only for today Tie her beak to the vertical bars of competition, but only for today. You may take the inglorious nap of victory, but only for today. By the time your nap ends, your secret pleasure would be gone to her home forever. Miles ahead to the home of freedom and unopened desires. Leaving you with the momentos of few feathers, to remind you of her unbroken rainbow in the monochrome world!
When it rains, my neighbours turn into their most fertile colour. I often talk to their newly formed flesh. Somedays, I gossip about the sparrow who borrowed my uncovered branch and on other days I forecast about the views from the empty height. They do find me a little weird, but that’s okay. They do listen to me, I guess. Sometimes they pass me some of their guests. Often those brave birdies take shelter in my empty rooms. But most of the time, they overshadow my existence.But last day I saw a girl along the street, sipping her coffee and writing one or two snippet about our colony in her diary. She looked happy. I thought that my neighours might have filled her empty heart with their lushious smile. But she pointed towards my naked arms and captured the lonely monsoon form of me.And for the first time I found a friend in the monsoon, solitary soul but happy like me.Maybe we were the weirdos in the horizon, as they said.
A part of me is sinking for I have seen the worst of the most beautiful land.
A part of me is sighing for not being touched by the cold hands of wrath.
Oh, the supreme power!
Where is the middle ground between the blessed and the cursed?
P.S.: There is a small piece of land in the southern part of Indian Subcontinent. The God’s Own Country as called by many, but to me it is the beautiful home of malayalam and bittersweet nostalgias. A home where I could never spend my life more than the expiration date of classical summer vacations. My heart has been overwhelmed with the amount of devastation that has occured to one of the most developed state of India. It is not surprising, considering our pathetic way of ignoring the various environmental policies while rising into another city of global technologies. But today, it is not the day to complain or find faults in the works of past. Today, what matters is to pray and to help every breathing entity in recovering from one of the largest man made disasters.
Meanwhile, I am sharing this link where you can check all the accurate facts and reality and do the needful if you feel to do so.