Somethings : Decoded

Most stories really start from the middle. The beginning is a construct, mostly of a pedestal.
Endings were more real. But, too real to be true.
It was in the middle that the story lay, breathed, danced and sulked.

Plucking petals from daisies, was how she thought growing up would be. Staring up at the ceiling came a close, realistic second. Most people were drawn to her irresistibly, some never really understood the fuss. Few recoiled, in sheer terror of the unseen and unexplored. One or two stayed, they really couldn't help themselves. They had gotten to know her.

Spun with her very own fabric of delicious complexities, vulnerabilities and a loud, loud laugh, she truly hated winter. The winds could chill your bones and suck happiness out of you. There really was little merit in all of it, other than a deep appreciation of what summer would bring. And the daisies.

He swore he found her while reading the horoscope section. Of course, the story never made sense, but she always exclaimed loudly when he said it, and you lost logic in her radiant banter. Her favourite things were cheesecake, Heathcliff, rain, repartees and good posture.

Like most things, the everyday ate up the magic. Even the most special of us, could recreate only so much. We always thought, she had an endless reservoir. But, no one was really paying attention.

It began with little inflections. The eyes stopped crinkling with wickedness, just a smidge- here and there. The madness to the banter seemed almost premeditated, and if you really really heard closely-she rarely spoke in riddles anymore. They didn't really notice.
How could they?
They had painted a portrait of what she was like. No one ever approved of wayward brush strokes.

There was the incident with the boat- he attributed it to sea sickness. He was the first to lose her, and the last to catch on. Familiarity doesn't breed as much contempt as it breeds indifference and loss of attention to details.

I could go on and tell you, how it all really ended.
But, I won't.
You'll take away from it.
As all of us do. Take away from endings. Analyse it/ her dry, project wisdom, hidden lessons and hindsight your way to the start.
People are always picking at endings, desperate to find an a-ha moment ! Always, always struggling to find that one lose thread in the fabric which caused the tear. To use it as a shield against the madness, the next time around.

That's why, I can't tell you.
She wanted the madness, she didn't know it any other way.

Wanderlust

She looked down, staring into the steep, vertical drop . The breeze hurt her eyes, but shutting them was not an option. The city spread out below, like a haphazard map of badly made Lego buildings.

A plane flew past, quite low for a plane. A boeing-747. She had learnt a lot about planes. The trajectory they took in the air, the pollution they could leave in their wake. She happened to notice a young blonde staring out of her plane window. Craning her neck, desperate to capture the visual of the city from her window. A little bit of extraordinary to distract her from her mundane life.

She mused, that maybe their lives were parallel. Hers and the blondes’. In that one instant, that was the only thing, both of them wanted, a little bit of something special and a little bit of rock ‘n’ roll.

People watching, was her favourite pastime.

Her friends thought it was an embarrassing obsession. They said, it was eerie if somebody caught you looking at them, sizing them up. It was an invasion of private space. Maybe that was, what was wrong today- all this Private Space. A person could drown and get lost in all the space. Merging identities and blurred lines was what separated humans from animals. There were times, of course, when she had walked right into trouble- staring at the wrong crowd. And there were times, when staring at other people, was her only connect to sanity. Staring, as they made and un-did their lives. Every word, flex of muscle, eye twitch telling a whole new story. If you’re walking too fast, it could only mean that you’re on adrenalin- happy or otherwise.

She had always thought there were two kinds of people in the world- Those, who lived their lives on adrenalin and those who didn’t.

 It’s those who didn’t, that she learnt to watch out for.

 Those were the ones, whose moves and emotions were well cloaked. Dealing with them was like playing chess blindfolded- you always had to be sure that you weren’t putting your kingdom at stake. This was true across states, across accents. Most motives stayed the same too- you’d think, religion and money were key drivers. She believed, simplistically perhaps, that it was all a larger algorithm of Love and Acceptance. If you had these, you only chased smaller thrills. It’s when you didn’t have these, that you could destroy- yourself and others.

 Her friends thought, she changed base so often because she kept looking for ‘bluer skies’. But, it was a burning curiosity to know who people were. Were they all different, Instagram- filtered versions of each other? Or were they like different characters in different books, tied together only by outer constitution?

The skies ironically stayed the same. They looked the same from the Grand Canyon, from the north tower of the Notre Dame, a tiny village in Cyprus, or even from back home. The view below the skies changed often- sometimes like a Yeats poem come to life, but more often than not it was a hideous art Installation. An almost sardonic comment, on the obscenity of concrete, men are capable of.

The nights were tough, yes. You had to always be on the lookout for predators. She often fantasized about the surge of power she would have felt, had she been a man. There would be no looking over your shoulder, no debate on who looked at you as you and who looked at you as meat. You’d sleep easier- could travel further. This distinction between men and herself is what she wore like a badge of honour. I am not you- but I saw things that you were too busy to look at, things your masculinity obliterated from your view.

During frequent travels, she grew accustomed to recognizing sounds, footsteps, even the change in wind direction could foretell an incoming storm. Storms which she had survived, thanks to the kindness of strangers. Those who’d let her take shelter- they were the ones who didn’t say much. They never faked affection and her go-to trick was, to look out for shifty eyes. If someone had shifty eyes, you stayed away. Far, far away.

There were other valuable things she had picked up.

The world is a shifting image. One day power shifts, and with it so does art and prosperity.

Being a child did not necessarily instil goodness in you.

The game of economy and stock markets was only really made up of people. 

As, was war.

Shaking off the heavy feeling, she rose to leave. Staying to stare was always a delight, but her friends were meeting for brunch. It was a terrace garden and the lady always put out the best stuff.

She rose into the air, flapping her tired wings. Through the corner of her eye, she saw her visiting friend. He did a loop within a loop.

Male ravens could be such show-offs. 

Mon Paris, Summer of 2011.

Photo Credit : Me *smug grin*

It opens at the close.

Beginnings are really, where it all starts.
Everything.  The tone of the future is set in the beginning.  You either spend the rest of your time sorting that out, or wanting to get back to how good it was, back then. Especially, when you were a kid.
You really had it made then, didn’t you, you smarmy faced bugger?
All you did was eat, burp, poop and be adored. A life expectation, we never really let go of.
What else is Greatness, but the desire to be adored, even as you eat, burp and poop? Speaking of, what is love, if not just that?

It is this constant chase, of going back to the beginning that determines everything ! Most relationships are constantly chasing the high of when it was new and fresh. If you were twisted and game-playing in the beginning, then you spend a LOT of time un-doing that good work, but the imprint of beginnings remain till the end.

Similar wisdom, governs books. The tone of any self-respecting novel is rooted in its opening lines. I can usually tell a lot about the author and the book, depending on how it began.

There is Nabokov with, “Lolita, light of my life and fire of my loins.”
We could juxtapose him with ol’ man Woodehouse’s.

 "Jeeves," I said, "may I speak frankly?"
"Certainly, sir."


Who could always be held against , the lyrical poetry of, “ Once upon a Time”.

It’s almost like the author is warning you- this is it. It could be better, it could be so much worse and it could just be a trap. This is why I pay so much premium to the opening lines of my many, now half-written, books. These opening lines are the most honest work of every writer. They are probably the words of organic creative genius- or excellent editing.

Almost several thousand Microsoft Word docs, exist on my desktop. No filing or classification governance has been imposed yet. There is complete and total anarchy amongst the, almost hundred, icons covering my screen. And sometimes, late into the night, I suspect they  plot rebellion.
I have now collated,  for posterity and copyright, the 14 opening lines of my various best sellers. This does qualify for a Novella.
 (Yes, I have lofty dreams and ADD. )

It could have been midnight, but you really couldn’t tell.


Jane’s annoyance at being called Jane is where the trouble started.


His yellow pin lapel and plaid pants screamed Fashion hara-kiri, but it wasn’t really polite, to criticize a dead body’s sartorial choices.


She threw her head back and laughed, drowning out her lovers’ tired snores, and rudely awakening him to self-doubt.


It wasn’t really what the room contained, but the remnants of what it used to.


The way the dinner was laid, forewarned you, of the company being expected.


Twenty minutes of staring at a man, could teach you a lot about his integrity.


Yet, she continued to love and pity him, alternatively, in the same night.


Every morning he furiously rowed - beads of sweat would form on his forehead, trying in vain to compete with the biting cold.


If they had just stopped, for one tiny second- It would all have come to a natural end.


The earth shook beneath her feet and she panicked, who would finish dusting the china table, in case the Jones’s made it alive?


They sat in a circle, it was a social commentary on where life had brought them. It was also, prudent utilisation of the living room space.


If time could stop, it would. But it didn’t. And so, it went on.


The night stretched ahead. Dark and long. He had already eaten the last piece of the pie. There was nothing left to do, but despair.