Arbit (insightful, though)

Twenty five hours is a long time indeed.

It was some three days ago that I earned lavish praise from my cousin and friends. The fuss was about something I happened to write on my blog. Now, I ventured into this blog-o-sphere some fifteen months ago and it is only after 43 posts that I have realized the beauty of a writing experience. The average writing duration nears three posts a month, and sadly, this is the weighted average of all the writings over all this time. And to be very honest, the average marks I give myself in all these posts is somewhere around 65 on the scale of. Surprising, right, that someone like me, a branded narcissist, awards himself such laurels. OK, narcissism, but the decision is to enter the real world, to step out of the world of make-belief, and to see for myself, what weight do my words actually carry. Its time to realize that if people say I write well, I respect their good-will and respond to the same in an honorable and respectable way. Fifteen months is a long time and over the internet space, I have been successful in grafting someone unknown to me into my friend list through this blog. What is good about this experience is my realization that if I own a gift, I need to be special enough, and more than that, worthy enough to contain that gift; if I possess some quality I should have the perseverance and the character to expose the same. This is nothing negative, but a stark cognizance, after the experience of something I feel robbed of.

The whole point of this drama cools down to the fact that Rome was not built in a day (deviation, actually). I will put forth a question: You have been living with a certain quality all these days. You are not unaware of your possession. In fact this is one thing you pride in. But mind you there are limitations on this. You have done nothing to promote this skill, you have done nothing to develop it and you do nothing to polish it. It comes just as it came the first time. Now, the condition is that the ability you possess is basically something in the positive domains of an adjective. I mean, that this quality of yours is not comparative. If you are good at something of this kind, it simply means that you are good in the trade. There may well be many who are better than you, there may even be many who are considered to the best in the trade. My argument is that if you are good at drawing or may be sketching, it definitely means you are good. There may be obvious space for improvement but that does not spoil your party. Over the time, people have relished in your skill, and you have basked in the glory of the same. Now comes my point. You do not have to prove yourself in your own backyard that this is your space; you need not crib about that fact that the neighbor own a bigger space than yours or a better maintained one. Neither can you let it go and allow it to turn into a closet. Possession of something brings delight and the loss of a cherished brings an equal amount and even more of sorrow. Now, You push for it too hard, failing to realize that the skill is unlimited quality wise,and not quantity wise. I mean, you can't see the boundary and cross it. One day, you realize that it was not very enjoyable. People think may be it was not your day. But then you sustain this feeling and before long, you realize may be your backyard is turning into your closet, may be you are losing the skill. How do you feel? Don't post comments saying you feel bad.

Coming back to my blog and my writing, I first wrote something on my own in third standard when I was unable to memorize the essay the tutor had gave us. Since then, and at the encouragement of the teacher, i started writing things on my own. My first account was "Being alone one night" in fourth standard. It was appreciated beyond my expectations. My memory then jumps to eighth standard, when I was chosen to represent my house in the essay writing competition. All before that was inconsequential because I thought the system behind awarding prizes was a flawed one, since the ones who won were the ones who always won (pun intended). I failed at that level and I can't find a reason why. Then came standard ninth, and with it the three pillars of English literature : prose, poetry and drama; then came Sister Lincy and all the principals and the best teachers. All that time was quite a success, both literature and language wise. I happen to come across this workbook and then the first piece of grandiloquent literature at a stretch. I am overawed. I begin resorting to this book for my answers and for my heightened status as the "one who uses bombastic words". I developed a penchant for words and started working on my vocabulary. I started noting news words I used to encounter in the print. I started to search for meanings of words I recollected anywhere and anytime of the day. This was a big boost to my image and confidence as well. I began thinking I could write well. But, come exams and I realized that a writing is not just about weaving a cobweb of words around the reader, but basically about content. I began searching for tips to improve my writing skills. I next get a book with some good tips and certain examples, and I begin using them frequently. I still remember those expressions. Another landmark was my farewell speech as the head boy of the school. I was supposed to deliver a speech and it was expected to the best one by my teachers and friends alike. The eve of the farewell day, I wrote the first lines and my cousin and my sister blasted it off like anything. I was devastated. I could see nothing ahead, I could think of no refuge, i couldn't recollect any book to resort to for help. My wits failed me. Then they came to my rescue. The idea was that they would be dictating the contents and I would be beautifying it with my vocab. The speech, indeed, turned out to be the best, said all.

Kota was not much of a sport, except that it helped me secure a rank in the coveted JEE. The lone incident I remember was the first day when we were asked to write on our ambitions and the only sentence I had written was enough to keep me popular for those two years (not because of the content but the language). The next stage was the October of 2007 when I was asked to write something the hostel magazine that was supposed to be published. I wrote something very different, I wrote on love. I questioned the popular beliefs about love and supported my writing with many quotations. It was again praised. One low of this writing was my sister's comment on the content's originality. Anyway, people said I had matured as a writer. Then, comes a friend of mine into picture who projects his blog. I feel some "spardha" and try to compete for praise. This becomes the start of this blog and then its 43 posts now. Most of them have come in very short intervals, one after the other. Some took me half a month to write, some were forced within periods of 2 hours. Some earned me much applause, a few were debated over. The name has been a subject of curiosity for all the first timers. I don't know if I have been successful, but the idea was to write something that was esoteric and something that required a Promethean daring and effort to be written. I invited many friends to be the co-authors, but disheartened at their lack of interest, i set out alone. I questioned love, writing both my views and the popular beliefs, I questioned blind faith in GOD and the identity of Lucifer. I wrote sonnets about the prevalent paradigms. I tried not to write the very vulgar (read common) ideas like desperation and stuff. I wrote happy things.

But monotony threatened my blog. I got stuck in the love thing. Every other stuff was the same kind. I was getting lost in the desire of earning praise. I was pushing myself too hard for praise, I was churning out articles at a very high frequency, and to add to my woes, they were all forced when some acquaintance wrote something. A false sense of insecurity had crept into my heart, and all I thought was extracting praise. My readers started losing interest due to the increasing monotony and the deteriorating content. I started losing satisfaction. They said that I used too much of mindless decoration of my language, they said everything I wrote smelt the same, they said their friends did not want to read my blog, my friends said the same. I resorted to music and learned to play a guitar. What more, I thought i cud write music and tried my hand at writing lyrics for my songs. The effort clearly did not pay. I was forcing myself into something I was not. I was disheartened to the extent that I thought I would stop writing. I did so. I deleted my blog for a while.

Then came the realization of the aforementioned. I started understanding things and the relevance of literature. I became conscious of the role of literature. I tried to stop myself from forcing anything. I transformed, from trying to being esoteric, I wanted to be as reachable and accessible as I could. I wrote about everyday stuff. I wrote simplicity, I wrote about simplicity. I wrote about my dreams, my feelings, my thoughts of idleness and my experiences. I was no longer concerned about others' opinions. I had realized my true potential. But man can't always remain free from vice. The praise demon still haunts me. My appetite for laurels seems to be insatiable as I forced my thoughts into my cousin's and proposed a combined effort at writing an imaginary love story. The idea garnered praise, I was relieved. We have written seven of those episodes and all have been received with increasing acclaim. The one weak link was again mine, when I tried to force something out of my domains and the result was termed "grotesque".

Its been 25 hrs since I last heard anything about my writing skill or my blog and I am turning impatient. I badly want compliments. Three days since I posted something new and more than twenty-five hours since my blog has been talked of. I am desperate to write something just for the sake of posting it, just for the buzz around it. I was, yet again, forced into forcing myself into writing the eighth episode but I stopped. I have weathered enough to be aware of the guiles of this vice. I am trying to make a virtue out of it. I am trying to develop the character needed for the possession and the containing of something called "LITERARY PROWESS".

But then, literature rolls on and so rolls on the legend of the ESOTERICPROMETHEAN.

Their Story: Episode 6

Two pearls of maidenly grace, after that moment of a brief struggle was all that Karuna had in store for prashant’s apprehensions. The defining act of such anxious times is the precipitous flow of tears and the absence of any precognition for a moment of such a magnitude was too heavy for karuna’s eyelids. Those big, powerful eyes were transformed into sockets of meekness and serenity. Her inability to say anything and the simultaneous need for an answer had been taken care of by those beautiful eyes of hers. The essence of monotony lies in the lack of effort; the departure from normalcy becomes meaningful only if unforced and without a purpose. The smoke in her throat and the mist in her eyes had revolted today. The zenith of this mutiny was her lack of desire to suppress it. Everything was fluorescent. The transcendental tenderness in the atmosphere was very real and tangible.

She was bundled up in her virgin grace, consumed in her efforts to stop the inexorable flow of emotions through her eyes. He was staring at the glistening dots left by her tear drops on her shoes, as she tried to arrange the pleats of her skirt. He had asked a question, the reply was pending. What was she thinking all the while? It was definitely not sadness, it wasn’t joy either. The afternoon sun was hidden somewhere behind the mango tree at the backyard, peering its way past the windows. The pink of her lips had turned to red, and her cheeks into a red apple (only figuratively though). What was he doing all the time? He was nothing thinking anything, just staring at her shoes. Often had he put himself into this condition, the difference being this time he was not alone and the imagination had gone beserk in the form of reality. Who could have thought the girl of his liking would have a propensity of crying at the very first hints of romance? He was unlucky, I thought. My medical friend “burst” laughing at this reaction, may god rest her soul.

More than fear, her reaction generated affection in prashant. All he could think was to comfort her at that point of time. Well, he could not have caressed her; neither could he have jumped straightaway to saying “I LOVE YOU”. Trying times needs tough people. He sat there silently beside her baggage, packing his bundle for the day. She did not move. He was finished with his stuff, and then quietly, without a fuss, compiled her things. What next, he thought. You bet, he didn’t say anything. Walking away was the last thing he could have done. Poor guy, caught in a catch 22 situation. Karuna was not shedding tears anymore and he thought, “Done with your crying, girl? Now make the next move.” This was not some diktat or impatience for arriving at a conclusion, but a clueless, sinless urge. First love is a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity. Prashant was foolish, none would doubt this. Curiosity was absent. Since the day he had understood the chemistry between the sexes he had waited to talk to a girl to win her. He did not want to see her jumping to conclusions, he did not want to force her to jump to conclusions, he did not want to lose her either. An ingenuous admission of naiveté. Karuna was baffled at the terseness in the statements expressing his love by a rather laconic person. Beautiful was an adjective that quite had maintained distance from her, when all the time chirpy and bubbly (partly, due to her shape, I thought) and yeah, peach (or was it something else?) had been attributed to her.

“May it’s time we leave. I can sense the sweeper’s propinquity.” Silence.

“You are not hurt, right. I mean this was an innocent expression of what I felt about you, and it’s been time enough since I have been trying to let this out. Yeah, the happy thing about this “epiphany” is that you are the luckiest to have known it first. Yeah, I have not told anyone else and I do not intend to do so in the near future, you understand….please tell something…see this was not supposed to happen the way it has and I do not want you to give any second thought to what I said….you see, this guilt of watching you differently all the time was too heavy for me and I thought in what better way could I atone for this than by telling you first….you sense how helpless I am in these matters…..you know how seldom I talk to girls of the class and when I decided to, this is what comes out….but I hope you understand that I am not someone bad at heart who wants to trap into this love (shit, did I say something), I mean, infatuation thing. See I am not forcing you to come to any decision, positive or negative, on this matter. In fact I said I do not want you to give any further time to this silly blabber of mine….wont you say anything….yeah, I know I should not have told you this but it was not righteous to carry on with my feelings for you keeping you in black about all this…..I am a bad person….at least tell me this, you won’t say this to anyone else, right?.....why don’t you gather your belongings….umm we can talk on our way back home….it is already time we left…..”

He hadn’t finished on this, and had started packing her things when she got up. Her rose too like an obedient disciple. She wiped her cheeks clean of her tears, with trembling hands, collected her stuff and deposited them in her bag. Before she could say something, prashant had started talking again. “see I did not want to put you into a disarray….you can relax and forget about what I said to you…..yeah just think that I said I don’t find you beautiful (shit, again. Saying something of this kind backfires in critical times as these)…why create a fuss over these inconsequential matters…..”

“Stop, prashant! May be we should get going. I sense the sweeper’s propinquity.” Karuna was blank. The tears had gone but she was still wearing that confounded look. No, this was not the time for her to think about a reply. What, is this guy too early into the realization of his adulthood or have I been too late in realizing things? Ok this attraction is normal but why me….I mean is he really into me…. (Disbelief) yeah that’s what I heard. God, he does not want a reply, happily. Idiot, stop this prattle….I am going madder at this than at what you said about beautiful and stuff…...

Prashant helps her with her bag; a smile ensues on both their faces. “you are alright with the past half an hour, right…..you see…..”. She nods her head shying. He ends on an abrupt stammer, as he watches her hop past him, and just stares at her hair….

“I am gonna buy you a comb this Christmas, Della…”