Why I Didn’t Read the Millennium Series

millenium

I started reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but I couldn’t even get past half of the book.

But the funny thing is that I hadn’t accepted it, until now. I tried giving it another try, again, and again. And again, and again I failed.

I just couldn’t get through it.

Perhaps it’s just me, I thought. But now, I’ve learnt to forgive myself; it’s the book. I just don’t like books like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

I only tried it because of two reasons: One, my book-freak cousin recommended it. Every time she spoke about the book, her eyes would sparkle with dream-like awe. She had warned be about the dull start, but she also told me how awesome it would get after that.

I never got to the interesting part. I couldn’t tolerate it that long.

Second reason: The title. I do this a lot. I judge a book by the cover, but more so by the title. And ever so often, I’ve been wrong. But I still stick to my instincts.

It was an attractive title. A story about a girl with a dragon tattoo. I like dragons, tattoos, and girls who get tattoos. I drooled at the title.

For all the drooling I did, the book disappointed me. With my cousin’s word, I had expected too much of the book. Perhaps it was my fault to set unrealistic expectations. Still, the fact is, I don’t like topics that the book addresses.

Of course, I enjoyed Lisbeth Salander’s attitude and arrogance. Sure, I could relate to Blomkvist’s thirst for recognition, but I did not enjoy the plot moving all over the place.

I’m uncomfortable with simultaneous subplots and empty scenes. A lot of slow-moving incidents threw me off the main plot, and I couldn’t find my way back with the same enthusiasm as before.

And so, I stopped reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I wanted to like the book. Just like so many others. People kept saying how great the book was, tying it with the author’s sinister death.

I couldn’t see it, though. I couldn’t understand why it’s such a big deal. I tried, and I failed. And disappointed. I didn’t want to hate the book.

But shit happens.

Never Say Nay

Today’s prompt was a little weird. Deprive, it said. And I at once thought of a stern mother depriving her child of ice cream. That was too obvious. So I thought of one other thing you should never deprive yourself of. I came up with a list.

Sleep

Because, well, not sleeping for too long will kill you and no one wants that. Besides, what’s the worth of living if you don’t give yourself some time off?

Food

I couldn’t help it. I have a troubled relationship with food. Sometimes, I binge, and sometimes I cringe at food. But even I can’t say no to some bread and shredded chicken.

Love

People say it’s the most important thing for a human being. I’d agree, but only if it involves self-love. We live in a world that teaches young children to look in the mirror at hate what they see. And from what I know, a child who deprives self-love deprives life itself.

Books

Everyone should be able to read. It’s not just a gateway to worlds as mysterious as Narnia, but a book is a treasure to cherish. Plus, you’d look cool quoting Aristotle during a fancy dinner.

Coffee

To keep us going…

Tea

It’s not often that you see both tea and coffee in the same list, but I’m weird like that. I like my tea first thing in the morning. And I like it better when I make it myself. Because, sometimes, you just need tea.

Shakespeare

Never deprive yourself the treat that is Shakespeare. From “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” to “Thou art as fat as butter,” to “All that glitters is not gold,” the man is too precious to ignore.

I might have left out a few, but that’s my list. What’s on your never-deprive-yourself-of list?

The Manuscript

manuscript

“Look on the bright side,” My friends advised me. The glass was half full. I still get to keep all that’s important to me.

I get my privacy, for starters. My phone balance wouldn’t disappear. My tee shirts will remain mine, and mine only, and my messy room would be just as I like it.

But I didn’t want the “bright side.” I got to keep my stuff, but my being felt empty. She had left me pining, and yearning for something stronger than the oxygen that puffed up my hollow insides.

I remained on my couch, in my track pants, reaching for a fifth beer, munching on the fourth burger.

It’s just a phase, people thought. I’d recover, they said, replenish, and then move on. Everyone did that.

But I remained on my couch, in my track pants, —

“Hey, why are you saying the same thing again?”

I sighed.

“It’s a narrative, honey,” I explained to my impatient wife who stared at my manuscript, scratching the side of her chin. “There are no rules.”

She gave me that look. The look she always gave me while she looked in through my eyes, into my soul before blurting out, “Oh, you writers!”

Chasing Dreams

Her parents hadn’t bothered. Her classmates thought her a loser. And her teachers didn’t want to acknowledge “the weird girl” as their student.

She was weird and bespectacled. She’d have a pencil between her teeth and another behind her ear. She’d choose the notebook over the Notebook any day.

Twelve years ago, she ran away from school. To explore the world. To write.

She didn’t stop waver for one moment. And after all this time, or The Screeching Voice in My Head, came out two days ago. She hadn’t slept since.

James thrust the review magazine at her.

She opened to happiness.

And Then One Day…

It was her secret. No one knew, not even her boyfriend. And she wanted to keep it that way. Telling people would mean speaking out and she wasn’t sure how to do that.

She had been mute for 22 years. People had thought she’d never speak out. Her parents had given up hope, and so had her doctors.

But then one day, he waltzed into her uneventful life. She stood on the pavement looking at vehicles clamouring past with no intention of stopping. The pedestrian crossing was just a dab of paint in her wheel-inflicted neighbourhood.

Every time she took a step towards the crossing, a car would whiz by, knocking the wind out of her and messing up her hair. And she’d step back onto the comforting pavement, and wait for another rare gap when the street would be less occupied.

After what seemed like hours, a man popped out of nowhere and stood at her side. He tilted his head to peek at the endless stream of vehicles, and then took a couple of steps back.

Heaving a sigh, he turned to look at her. “Busy street, huh?” he raised his eyebrows. Though she hadn’t heard what he said, she read him. And smiled, with a vigourous nod. He said nothing more, and she returned her gaze to the traffic lights, wondering if someone had tampered with it.

The next thing she knew, someone had grabbed her arm and dragged her onto the street. In one swift moment, she crossed the street. When she realised it, she was on the other side of the street, her hair all over her eyes, and the man heaving next to her. Her heart thumped in its rib cage and she breathed deep to bring it down to normal.

“What the hell did you do, you a — ” She almost blurted out. The words exploded inside her head, but not a sound escaped her mouth. He was smiling at her, expecting to say something. When she didn’t, however, he realised shouldn’t linger any longer. Waving at her, he disappeared into the building nearby.

Looking his figure shrinking in the distance, she mused, “asshole.” And this time, the word came out loud enough for her to hear it. For the first time in 22 years, she had uttered a word.