Monday, March 21, 2011


Find me here, find me there
The world is too big to scan
When you find me, you would hear
That, it was all part of a plan!

Sunday, March 13, 2011

ENNUI - On Present

I'm having a funny phase in my writing life. I'm at my creative best when it comes to wits, observations and conversational humour, but I'm facing a difficult time sitting and completing my novel. The reason, that I feel to be responsible behind this is the fact that while writing the novel, I'm lacking attention - not from my side but from the other side. I'm not sharing what I'm writing with anyone even though I desperately want to share, just because I want to complete it first, since I would not be doing justice to my creation or to my readers' eagerness by sharing just a small portion with them. I'm facing a writer's block, a rather strange one, where creativity is not restricted but perseverence is.

The end result is that I'm writing such meaningless notes, which tend to convey some meaning but actually conveys that I'm perplexed and weird - which has some meaning, but it's utterly useless to me, since I already know it. I don't know what I'm writing but I am noticing that I speak when I write and that's quite pleasing since I can notice that I can type at the speed at which I speak, which can be hell fast at times. I'm listening to a song called 'Another Day in Paradise' by Phil Collins. It's a simple 90s english song which has more of synth and less of guitars and drums. Phil Collins has a typical 90s voice, which seems similar to the commentator of WWE. The tune of the song is uncomplicated, fittingly romantic and the drum-beats remind me that it's based on the most basic beat that one learns in drumming. I also realize that such beats are available in almost all the versions of synthesizers, generally in the first ten of the 'style' beats with the name of '8 beat pop'. However utterly meaningless it may be, I'm wondering that you still are reading it with the hope that there will be something that would be interesting somewhere, whereas the matter of the fact is that it is, if you realize that I'm just writing what comes in my mind to break the block that I'm facing. It's called free writing. I don't know whether it works or not, because when earlier I tried it, I came up with a story called 'The Wait' in my blog 'Graffiti' and I was quite happy with the outcome. Presently, it's more about the present. The song has changed to 'Depend on me' by Bryan Adams. I like him, because he's sung some of the nicest romantic songs I've ever heard, my favorite being 'Have you ever really loved a woman?' I like it because I have. However, in this free flowing writing, I better should not spill my life's story, since writing an autobiography now after breaking this writing block is not my intention.

One thing that strikes my mind right now is the feeling of being good at something. It's an amazing feeling when you realize that you're really good at something. The feeling doesn't emerge from the fact that others like you, but rather, it emerges from the fact that you start liking yourself. When you feel your status messages are worthy of being preserved, when you feel the tunes in your head are worthy of being recorded, the feeling of having an idea worth pursuing and the feeling of a person worth sharing your life with just because you're good at making him/her happy; these are some of the most enchanting moments one would ever encounter. I feel good to feel good about something that I do, something that I am capable of doing. As a matter of truth, I also believe that no great thing can ever be achieved without that good feeling from within. I'm feeling good right now, since I'm actually in now, with Jagjit Singh's wonderful voice singing 'Kabhi yun bhi to ho' in the background. I like music. I like writing. And I like living. I think that's my dose of free writing, it's time to get back to the task waiting to reach its end, time to tell the story, time to live another world - within a book.

Good night. Thanks for listening. :)

Friday, March 4, 2011


An excerpt from the book under construction. Hope you like it.

'Another self-dominated diary entry got trapped between the heavy bundle of pages above it. There weren’t many pages left below to fight back the burden above. The page, carrying the helpless scribble of a struggling artist, succumbed to the weight and got immersed in gruesome darkness. The darkness that needed another sunrise of hope to relinquish itself.'

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

That Little Town

Once upon a time, there was a little town. It was a place where inhabitants were more popular than landmarks, where being social was a part of living, where people were satisfied with whatever little they possessed, where the status of a person was determined by his grace rather than his assets, where being cordial was not a necessity but a habit, where good food was meant to be shared with all the known persons, where a cricket ball hitting a window pane would instigate reprimand but not duels. I used to live in one such town. It was little, much like a cocoon, with a world of its own, away from the world that was outside.

The world is no more the same. It has changed. They say that change is good. But I could never accept it. My little town has been polluted. Polluted with jealousy, greed and amoralilty. In the race of being modernized, the cocoon that gave my little town its life, has been vandalized. Where has the belongingness gone? Why the neighbours who were earlier considered as 'Uncles' and 'Aunts' are now no more than 'people of Flat No. 121'? Why achievements have become more important than happiness? I miss my little town. Sometimes, I feel it to be illusionary, a figment of my imagination, maybe my childish sensibility couldn't unravel the stratas of the hidden feelings that lay beneath that superficial affection. Or maybe, the world indeed has changed. Change, that's not good. Not good at all. Amen.

They tried to change. They have changed.
They didn't try to change. They got changed.
They resisted change. They were changed.
They were dumb. They haven't changed.

P.S. Well, I'm dumb. Like it, only if you're dumb too.