I read yesterday in the newspaper that the monsoon will be sooner this year, probably by the end of May but today it seems like they are already here. I love this atmosphere, the thunder, the clouds, the pale blue color that surrounds and the nearing smell of rainy dust in the wind. I’m going to stay back and enjoy the moment all by myself.
It is 5:32 pm in the evening, sitting in the office wondering about the rest of the day, I could barely think of anything productive to do. Though I am left with huge lists of how-to-be-creative, things-I-want-to-do and the-bucket-lists, I am suffocating to choose one among a million things I can do creatively today. So I thought to sit and feel light for while as I write this in my journal.
An hour ago, I visited a poetry installation event happening close to my place. I have been to many events of exhibitions and installations, but I was specifically curious about this one since, it’s poetry and how is it even possible to bring forth poetry into concrete images or 3-Ds as effective as how it is while read? But to my surprise, as I was walking through and standing near each one of the installations as the poem was recited aloud through huge speakers overpowering every sound passed through the ears, it took me to some world, perhaps to the Arab man’s grave who was hanging ,right in front of my eyes, upside down showered in nails, to every doors knocking and asking for the address of the woman who left all her identities somewhere along her past to feel free of one place as her home, to the mask that laid there paralyzed of every emotion I could only imagine in the world of wars, or to the man whom I probably heard weeping on a heap of salt.
I was mesmerized.
The world definitely needs more poetry now than ever before. I’m going to read more poetry for the feel to sustain.
There is no backstory but just the fact that, among all the writers I have ever been fascinated by, Ruskin will and shall always be mine.
Here is a snippet for aspiring writers from Rusty’s book ‘Landour Days’, the book I have been reading over and over again for years now. Don’t ask why!
Make sure you can spell. If you can put a sentence together, that’s even better.
Writing is not simply about words. Are you observant? Can you tell the difference between a sparrow and a sparrow-hawk?
Are you interested in anyone other than yourself? Writing about oneself has its limitations.
Are you prepared to wait years, maybe a lifetime, or recognition? If you want instant recognition, become a model.
If you’re convinced that you are an unrecognized genius, remember this: everyone else feels the same way.
Writer’s block. Everyone asks me about this. What do you do when stuck? That’s easy. Just make sure that waste-paper basket is within throwing distance.
And finally, remember Red Smith’s immortal words: ‘Writing is very easy. All you have to do is sit in front of the typewriter til little drops of blood appear on your forehead.’
Good day folks,
Reading wasn’t a thing for me. I remember reading ‘Balyakaalasakhi’ by Vaikom Muhammed Basheer when I was 14 years old for a reading competition in school. Though the competition had 12 other books in the list, I preferred to read ‘Baalyakaalasakhi’ over and over again because I was in love with it. I made Suhara my friend and Majeed my brother. Even when this book had a great influence on me as a first-time reader, it never encouraged me to read more. It never made me curious for more.
I forgot about reading.
Later when I was 17 and stuck in a place where I never thought I would feel so lonely, my brother called me to talk about a book he was reading at the time.
That was the beginning.
I remember walking through Mangalore streets looking for second-hand copies of ‘Shiva Trilogy’. I remember seeing a little boy selling books in bulk and then I, buying ‘Immortals of Meluha’ and ‘Secret of Nagas’ ( the third ‘Oath of Vayuputras’ wasn’t out then) for just 200Rs after a healthy bargaining.
That was yet again the beginning of my journey as a reader. At first, it wasn’t the book that inspired me to read more, but the feeling of having a companion to depend on whenever I felt like losing.
Ever since then, I have got this or that many reasons to hold on to a book always and depend on it. Still, books were the least topics I dealt with while blogging. I never wrote much about the books I read or anything related to it.
Now it’s been a year since I have written anything to maintain my blog. And It went dead.
Recently I was having this urge to sit and write something. Well, I write every day but this time something to put out into the world. I was not impressed by the idea of going back to the methods and blog routines I used to do earlier. I needed a fresh start. I wanted to try something new, exciting and challenging.
After so much of looking for motivations and brainstorming, finally, I have decided to write about what I best enjoy and cannot afford procrastinating or feeling like quitting thing. It’s reading.
I go to the library, book stalls and bulk book sellings on the streets. I buy books, borrow books and have even stolen some from people who still have no idea where their books vanish later when they show it to me. I dream about books, I think about books, I talk about books.. and I think its high time that I write about books.
So here it is. Book Blog, finally.
Though this blog will be mostly about books, I will be sometimes sharing about my travels too ’cause I gotta book always traveling with me’, so why not?
There will be Tags such as TBR (to be read), Book Hauls, Book Reviews, Monthly Wrap Up and Special Posts.
I hope my effort reaches to people who need them at times.
It was the night I found myself dead under a pile of dusty books.
I neither remember walking out from my body nor from my room where I went to sleep with a book I was supposed to finish that night. But I was out in some other form they called a soul or may be a ghost.
I flowed into the room, that night, like a wind. I saw myself lying there on the floor and a hundred or so books on me like I died making love with them, suffocated to death while a literary orgasm.
All I could see of me was the sparkle of surprise in my eyes that was yet to vanish in the course of scientific decomposition. I wondered, what was I reading then? I barely remember!
I sure was reading something that took my sleep for days. I must have died of eating nothing or may be dehydration.
I sure was reading something that blew my mind. I must have died of shock or stroke or may be a heart attack.
What if I was killed? Did someone break in? Too much. No.
What If I was killed? Did a brutal murderer, an antagonist walked out from any pages of the book?
“Fiction reveals the truth that reality obscures,” I remember reading this.
I then sure was reading something of a thriller. I sure have found who killed who and now he wanted the witness to die too. Yes, Yes. He killed me too for knowing too much as a reader.
Yes, Yes. I saw him murdering the old woman on page 91 and he found I was the sole witness at page 131, I looked for help flipping through pages between 140 and 159 and before I could reach page 162 where the charming hero waited for me to find him with all the evidence for the arrest, I was killed.
It was the night I found myself dead under a pile of dusty books. Continue reading “The Night I Found Myself Dead “