Obelinux

Obelinux is a portmanteau of two rather guessable words, in fact the second word is already evident. 'Obelix' and 'Linux'. For me, Obelinux is a long forgotten self proclaimed nick name of a very dear friend, who surprised me by sending a mail after like a decade. This mail was to inquire about the progress of my book. Although I had nothing positive to share, it still made me very happy. This post, then, is dedicated to the one and only Obelinux.

Where am I stuck with the book? - Darn. I set myself a rather economical target of completing 5 stories in 2011. This was a sub point in my 2011 resolutions. Against this lilliputian objective my gargantuan efforts have yielded 2 complete stories. Pathetic. But this post is not to dissect the root causes of poor productivity in my writing, but to ruminate over an alternative course of action. Public opinion (read encouragement) is always a key determinant of my go-no go, so your comments (hope you have read the parenthesis afore) all welcome. Ok ok I admit I have stretched the usage of 'public' a tad too far, given my readership is only 10 odd ha ha.

What's the alternate course I am considering? - How about trying to write a full fledged novel instead? If I am struggling with writing those oh-so-unique short stories, would it work if I eliminate all this hassle by building just one expansive plot and then just write, write till the words swell into a volume worthy of a paperback. Seems plausible to me, all the more because I already have a plot in mind, just the detailing, sub plotting and spicing is required.

What is the plot about? - Unfortunately, there is only one direction that my mind works. I have come to believe that it is more of a incapabiltiy issue rather than lack of interest behind my sticking to the genre of the supernatural. I simply cannot write thrillers or anything else. Sad that makes me feel. But hark hark, there is one more genre which I absolutely loved while growing up which happens to be whodunnit murder mysteries a la the incomparable Dame Agatha Christie. So my novel will be a murder mystery stitched with the elements from the supernatural world. A supernatural crime fiction, how does that sound. Did someone say empty vessels make the most noises? Or was that proof of the pudding lies in its eating?

Bloody I write one story in 3 months, how will I ever write a novel? - Good question. (You see, I am in a alter ego mode right now). When someone says good question, it only means the answer is not obvious. In this case, it is also not forthcoming to me. But I have a hope that it may just work out. The assessment of my writing outputs reveals to me that, unlike other fellas around, I rarely ever leave a started story unfinished. I am a good finisher. The area where my chief struggles lie are in creatively thinking and executing stories under the preamble 'No two stories should be alike'. This SWOT analysis gives me confidence that maybe once I begin the end will come, later rather than sooner!

Still thinking... but one thing is certain. If I ever get around to writing this, the protagonist will be loosely modeled around the inspiration for all this - Obelinux!

Kiran and Kanishka - Part IV

Please read Part I, Part II & Part III for a quick recap

The world swam around Kanishka’s eyes and had she not been comfortably seated, she would have fainted. Gathering herself, she drank some water, cleared her throat and spoke. “Aunty… I am besides myself with shock, because I can’t make you believe that in the photograph which I have Kiran has been growing all these years while I am still 12 years old ”. I have never breathed a word about this to anyone. For 25 years, I have kept this photograph. Many times I wanted to destroy the photograph. It drove me towards spirituality and I learnt that there are many things around us which do not understand. Somehow I don’t know what to say, but we must let these things be as they are. Don’t ever disturb the order of the unknown, for the consequences can be far beyond human ken.

A silence now enveloped the two women. It was convenient. An abrupt end to its perpetuity was brought by Kanishka’s remark

“But I still don’t understand one thing. I have always seen Kiran ‘grow’ old in that photograph and over the years got somewhat comfortable with seeing him ‘grow’. However… he just stopped ‘growing’ in his young twenties. And there has been no change in him since the past ten years. I still can’t figure out why?

The old woman’s already white face had turned a shade whiter. A whisper ‘Do you want to you why?” did not elude Kanishka. She stared at the old woman. Why????

“Because Kiran died in a car accident when he was 24”

Update (18/05/07):

Obligatory Afterword:

Phew! What a response. The entire story got about 40 comments! Thanks dear friends, I absolutely loved reading your comments and speculation.

It might interest all that Kiran and Kanishka is just a draft version. My recent readings on M.R.James have inspired me to give his style a try. But that style can be attempted only on stories which have strong plots with ‘events’ happening. As all would reckon, we have in K&K a dream sequence to portray a past, a train setting, a car journey and finally a emotional tete-a-tete in an archaic bungalow setting. Such motley themes give me confidence to try out his style.

Some fine day I may retouch and begin re-writing K&K. The plot will not change, only the use of first person narratives to get a point across would be tempered. Solid stories never have people talking directly, the point has to be drilled ‘on a slant’ (wink)

So once again, my dear reader friends, thanks for your sustained interest in the ramblings of my liquid mind. An aspiring writer needs tons of it :-)

Kiran and Kanishka - Part II

Please read Part I for a quick recap...

Kanishka woke up with a start. She was sweating badly. She had never dreamt of Kiran in these twenty five years. His family moved away the very next week and that was the last she heard of her best friend. She clasped her damp face with her hands. Kiran. The photograph. All that she had was a photograph of her childhood friend. And the photograph had a story of its own. The photograph was her darkest secret which she had kept to herself all these years. Twenty five years since she lost touch of Kiran. Twenty five years she had kept the photo. Twenty five years she had never breathed a word about it to anyone.

She got down and saw the old woman staring blankly at the receding landscape. Kanishka had an odd feeling she had seen the woman somewhere. She looked hard at her but gave up and instead began looking for her slippers. One was sticking out from underneath a lofty V.I.P suitcase, the other was where she had left it. She heaved the slipper out and snaked her way to the wash-basin. Some local adivaasi women were squatting near the toilet. Kanishka looked at their torn blouses revealing all that they meant to dignify. She sighed and splashed her face with water. The train had slowed down and she stood at the door for a while looking at the lush green rice paddy fields festooning the countryside. Looking at them she recalled a phrase ‘The farther the grass the greener it looks’

As the Gitanjali Express gained speed, Kanishka abandoned her post and got back to her seat. She sat down, removed her slippers and stacked them neatly in one corner. Her attention now inadvertently fell on the person sitting in front. Kanishka thought, “How should I start a conversation” … “Well maybe I’ll make some movements or noise to draw her attention”. She did so but still could not solicit even a disdainful glance. The old woman’s deadpan countenance bore on it a troubled past. Kanishka was getting impatient. She blurted out, “You going to Kolkata?”

The old woman turned and looked at Kanishka. The eyes locked. A sense of déjà vu gripped her senses as she looked straight into the grey eyes. The old woman stared at Kanishka.. the grey eyes unblinking. The old woman’s face bore an expression which beggared description, was it astonishment, was it fear, was it neither? She began to tremble and grasping Kanishka’s hand gave out a hoarse whistle ‘Come with me, please’

Screaming Update: to be continued...

Kiran and Kanishka - Part I

The Benadryl had now reached her blood and she felt sleepy. Good for my cough, she thought. Kanishka climbed up the top side berth and lay down. The Gitanjali Express was running an hour late. The driver hooted the electric horn to clear the line, but Kanishka didn’t hear the horn. She was already fast asleep.

An armadillo walked up wearing blue trousers and handed Kanishka a Bible. She said, “Thank you Mr. Vajpayee.. that’s so nice of you”. The armadillo immediately turned and ran back, terrified. She laughed and put the Bible on her head and started walking on the Howrah Bridge. Her husband’s head popped out of a Honda City and he called out ‘What’s for dinner’. She smiled, “Chhole Bhature”. Suddenly the bridge collapsed and she fell into the Ganges frantically calling for her husband. The saline water burned her eyeballs and she raised her hand to

The train was on Rourkela Jn. An old woman slowly waded her way up to the lower side berth. She saw a middle aged woman sleeping on the top berth.

“Kannu tum kitni pyaari lag rahi ho iss dress main. Tumhara aur Kiran ka ek photo lete hain” Kanishka had won the fancy dress competition in school. She was dressed as a fairy and was waving her wand at Kiran who was runners up. Kiran was dressed as a clown with a red Popsicle on his nose. The ten year old winner and runners up smiled when the Konica camera clicked. Kiran and Kanishka. Best friends.

Kanishka turned in her sleep. The old woman below was silently staring out of the window.

She slapped Kiran and started crying. He screamed ‘I hate you’ and started crying.
Kanishka: I hate you double.
Kiran: “Why did you steal my pen?”
Kanishka: “Why did you hurt Lucy?”
Kiran: “Because you stole my pen”
Kanishka: “I didn’t”
Kiran: “Then I also didn’t hurt your dog”
Kanishka: “You did, Saurabh told me”
Kiran: “I hate you”
Kanishka: “I hate you double”
Kiran: (crying like a baby) “I will never talk to you again”
Kanishka: (crying like a baby) “I will never talk to you again”

to be continued...

On writing ghost stories

I have read quite a few ghost story writers .. and writing a supernatural short story primarily falls in two categories. This is entirely my observation

First style is the very simple standard XII english like that used by Ruskin Bond and Roald Dahl. It works beautifully. Second is the Grub Street/Dead Poets Society english used by Mary Shelley, Henry James (Turn of the Screw), Edgar Allan Poe. It also works beautifully. I try both styles but naturally fail miserably! I have almost completely given up the second style more out of incapability. I recall my writings were at their grotesque best during engineering now I prefer being simple and straight.

One author which I am currently reading is M.R.James. He is a class apart. I am actually very impressed by his writings primarily because I know how difficult it is to write a ghost short story (any short story for that matter). Strongly recommend.

PS: This might come as an expected shock to many but I have had this habit of reading one ghost story every night before going to sleep ha ha .. talk of lullabies! lalla lalla lori bhoot ki story

Update: Hate to disappoint my dear reader friends, but I unabashedly refuse any explanations to my persona non grata which includes my writings. Readers are free to interpret, contort, distort, misconstrue, abuse, praise, dignify, genuflect, mudsling, sympathize, empathize with all that is/shall be published on this webpage. Live and please let live. Simplio! . Thanks and Best Regards.