Tag: reality

To Read Is to Write

to read

I met a girl who’d subjected herself to an impressive schedule. A fiction and a non-fiction every week, no matter what.

It seemed a vigorous routine. Like school homework. Do it, finish it, and move on to the next. Reading is learning yes, but to me it seemed like she forced herself to read, read, and read even more.

Which is not a wrong thing. Except it felt so wrong that someone who’d read so much wouldn’t want as much to do with writing. She had an aversion to writing, and I couldn’t understand that.

When I first got bored with my school routine, I took to reading. I wasn’t as aggressive as I’d like to claim, but I read a lot.

And I realised I loved reading. From Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, and Sherlock Holmes to Harry Potter, and Narnia, it was a crescendo of curiosity. And I believe that was a good thing.

I used to sit under a not-so-bright lamp, all night, peering at the fine print. It was fascination beyond anything I had felt. I loved the way reading made me feel. I longed for the lure of the sentences, the way a story moved from one word to another, how every letter and every comma only enriched the narrative, and how every single dash or stroke on paper added so much value.

I loved absorbing more than the story — the size of the print, the blackness of it, and the tiny strokes that sharpened every curve. I began to see the beauty in a full stop, the potential in ellipsis, the continuity in a comma, and the definite uncertainty in a question mark.

And that’s when I understood I want to write like that.

I had, for years, admired the way writers played with words, the way Shakespeare shattered grammar rules and yet made it sound so right. And I wanted to do the same, in such a way so as to make another young reader stare swell in love with words — just as I had.

And that’s why I never comprehend when someone says they love reading, but can’t write. What do they see while reading, I wonder?

Every Step Along the Way

How can I thank you?

No problem. Like coffee?

I’d love to meet again.

I’d like that too.

When can I call you?

I’m always free, aren’t you?

You like roses?

Who doesn’t?

Some don’t.

Well, I do.

Red or white?

What do you think?

Plain or embossed?

I want a design. You?

Me too. I like this pair.

I like the silver streaks.

Gold rings, silver linings?

Little things matter, right?

Guess, boy or girl?

Boy, I say. You?

Either way, it’s ours.

And we’ll love it.

You know I love you?

Do you have to say?

Recliner or armchair?

Which is more comfortable?

I don’t know, you tell me.

Recliner. Armchair later maybe.

Aren’t you the boss?

Aren’t you the financier?

Help me, which pill?

Why not keep tabs?

Yes, next time. Tell me now.

Here, this now. That one later.

Thanks. Want some tea?

Why the hell not?

IOUs Made Awkward

What’s more awkward than owing someone? Somehow though, whenever we say “I owe you,” we don’t think of owing someone something other than money.

sorry.jpg

Like an apology, for instance.

I owe you an apology. It’s awkward because I don’t realise I owe you. And even if I do, I wouldn’t want to apologise. Because, it’s demeaning.

Unlike owning cash for a petty party we crashed the other night, owing an apology isn’t as fashionable. There’s no pride in it. Sure, people used to frown even when you owed money, but that’s in the past. Now, owing money for a group outing is the posh thing to do. People have come to accept that youngsters spend their money and time on parties and food. It’s only natural.

But to owe an apology, is to make yourself vulnerable. How often do we hesitate at the send button after typing out “sorry”? It’s proof that you’ve been in the wrong, and we hate being wrong. It’s an inherent quality — the obsession with being right, and the ego that prevents us from accepting our mistakes.

No matter how big a personality, looking another person in the eyes, and saying you’re sorry is still too much for far too many people.

But what’s the point of living in a society if we can’t accept it when we’re wrong? What’s wrong with letting down that ego and just say sorry? After all, we’ve got nothing valuable to lose. On the contrary, an apology only shows we’re human, and broad in the mind. If only we can realise that “to err is human,” we wouldn’t let our incorrigible behaviour get in the way of happy co-living.

The Visit

She answered the phone and heard her daughter’s voice for the first time in many years. – Today’s Author

“Hello, Ma. How are you?”

Click.

Must be a wrong number, Mrs Graham concluded. She turned her back on the phone and walked to her couch, and Dr Oz.

She sighed as the doctor announced a commercial break. The phone rang again. She heaved herself from the couch mumbling, “Oh, these things never leave me in peace.” She trudged over to the telephone stand in the kitchen and picked up the receiver with a trembling hand. “Hello,” she meant to say in a crisp voice. All that came out was a treble. She tried again.

“Hello,” Shaky this time, but not as squeaky.

“Mama! It’s me, Karen.”

“Eh?” She cleared her throat, “Karen?”

“Yes, yes, Mama! How are you?”

Mrs Graham crinkled her eyes, “Who’s mama?”

Click.

“Hello?” Mrs Graham looked at the silent now-receiver in her hand. She didn’t understand. One moment there was a woman’s voice, and the next, nothing. “Hello?” she called into the receiver. “Anyone there?”

She heard no reply. She could hear that the jingles had come to an end, so she went back to Dr. Oz.

By the time the show ended, about an hour later, the doorbell rang. Mrs Graham let it ring for a few moments before making a grudging effort to get up from the couch.

The bell continued to ring as she traced her footsteps to the door. Imagining the old days when she would just yank the door away, she turned the knob with a soft touch.

There stood a young woman at the door, her eyes wide and lips apart in uncertainty. She looked about medium age, tall, and tanned. Her curly hair danced to the breeze playing outside. Mrs Graham looked at her in exasperation.

Earlier, whenever the bell rang, Mrs Graham would rush to the door, hoping it would be someone to visit her. They had told her she had a daughter. And a grand daughter. And that they’d stop by whenever they had the chance. But ever since she had woken up from her coma, no one had called.

“The girl’s house is over there,” She waved her hand at the house opposite to hers. She had grown tired of young high schoolers stopping by her doorstep looking for their class mate who threw parties all night.

“Mama, it’s your daughter.”