Thursday, November 19, 2009

Seeing Through-1

What I write mostly is what I had seen or what I wanted to see in place or along with what I had seen. This is a pattern I identified with my writings. I think almost all the writers in the world are addicted to this pattern. Well, who can blind their eyes in a world like India, where everywhere, in every turn of your path, you are sure to confront one or other kind of wonder in front of your eyes, in human beings, or in culture, or in tradition, or in any of the characteristics of the civilization. And which writer can stop herself being taken into writing.

India is a wonder. It is a truth, but at the same time it is a sarcasm, as well. The story I am going to tell you proves it. It is about one of my daily journeys home from the university. I can, each day in these journeys, see stories everywhere. Some sad, some embarrassing, and some heart breaking. In some of those stories, I become a part of , and live in them, but in some others I merely take the role of an observer. The story that I am going to tell you is one among them, which I saw in one of those journeys, and living through all these days as a part of it.

You'd better have a journey through the Himalayas, or the Alps and that would be much better than journeying through the roads of Kerala. That is the condition of the roads here. The private bus I took home, swayed and hurdled through the potholes on the road. The thick dense bushes growing on both sides were painted brown with the dust from the road. Opening of the eyes was difficult. I could barely open my eyes. It was so dusty that if I opened my eyes fully, I might risk my eyesight forever. I thought I would better keep my eyes closed.

I crushed my teeth out of anger. I forgot the name of the minister of roads. I don't know why he can't see what the common folks are enduring each day? I am sure it wouldn't be a distant reality when my fellow beings and me would suffer from chronic pulmonary sicknesses. A majority of Kerala population would, I am sure.

Dust was not the only thing that made me lose my temper. I once, standing in the bus stop, had seen the minister of roads, passing through the same road, in an air conditioned car. I had thought he would be doing something. It was six or seven months now, from that day. See, the road, the dust, everything has worsened.

I had read once in my childhood that the blue colouration of the sky is due to the dust in the sky. The sunlight is scattered from the dust and the colours live in the sunlight disperses and only the blue remains. Perhaps this might be true. If this is true, then, I am sure the largest amount of dust that spreads in the sky would be coming from Kerala, from the roads of this unfortunate place.

The Communists or the United Democratic front, whoever would rule the state, the common people were the sufferers. The communists who speak of class equality and social justice, provide the common class with the worst of all situations in every day life. The other group, the United Democratic Front, who get themselves press on by liberalism and Gandhism, curse the people of the place with confinement to the perverse conditions of human life.

No one talked anything or opened their eyes. Dust. The bus stopped in front of a technical institution, from where I was sure that many girls would get in. I opened my eyes. Surveyed the bus stop, like a common Keralite would always be pleased with. As I had expected, there were many pretty faces there, chattering and chattering among each other, as if the the dust can be settled with words and letters. They seemed not very concerned about the particular problem I was suffering from.

I thought, 'in their verve of youth they might have forgotten what the wise people say about life'.


Searching story

[Formerly published in: WRITINGHOOD.]

say that stories are not reality. They believe that stories simply divert us from the, ruthless and poignant reality. They are right. Then, why are stories made? Do they have any other uses?

Stories, made, will only digress us or lead us away from what we think of where we should be. But a story teller becomes great when that one 'finds out' the stories from his environment, rather than 'makes them up'. The listeners should feel the stories inextricably linked with their five senses and in a later effort should be able to read them from around, clear, living, and pulsating. Never, a cooked up story has life, or even if it has, it will be of poisonous nature.Stories exist. One need the technique to find them and can read. No loss of reality happens in reading them-- for they are found out from the reality in which the reader lives-- but only a transportation. We are transported from one reality to another. Thus, there are realities, and not a single only 'underlined reality' on which life rests like the boats and canoes on the vast waters, vaulting and drowning, stuck on the water, as if 'escape' seems to be the last word to be called sane.

Meeting people and talking to them: is this the apt way to find stories? In front of an inspired writer, or a story teller stories themselves will appear, but when the magnetic moments of inspiration fades, stories run on the contrary, away from the story teller. It is then, the search begins.

For a fruitful search any path is allowed, except the one, which takes one, directly to the point of victory because then, the search becomes meaningless and the lessons, which otherwise one would have experienced, in the wanderings and digressions are never learned. A search is learning. It primarily provides us tools, which we can use in the attainment of victory. A story teller's search also 'only' teaches the one, how to find the story and read.

I too was in such a search, all these weeks from the start of November. But I couldn't reach anywhere in the lessons taught by my search. There are much to learn and I was eager too.

It is difficult to know exactly when your search would end. When it ends, one will simply find oneself in another reality, another world,because once your search equips you, the whole perception changes and thus you emerge in an altogether different world, a different reality. Take putting on a red glass as an example or a magnifying glass. The result is a new reality, a different perception. The search ends and no one knows when, but simply being equipped for gaining victory over the inhibitions, over the prejudices, over the limitations of sight, the one gets transported into another reality; a story teller to his or her success, the long expected, the sacrosanct, the realm of the story.

And I am hopeful about my search too that it will equip me and prepare me for having some new perceptions and new stories in the path I am moving on, and in the world I am living.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...