Google The Philospher's Stone

Jul 16, 2014

Than to love and be loved by me


Over the top of the hill lay a man with his woman. Having felt her innermost desires in his heart the worth of her body was now nothing to him. He casually removed his clothes from the shelf and walked out of the house without a care.

The woman of course unaware about his sudden departure was yet to recover from the happenings of the day. She had found herself in bed with a stranger. A man she had only met hours ago. And not only had she outdone her own inhibitions, she had perhaps crossed a line or two beyond the realm of reason.

But what had been the closing act of the scene surprised many.

His suicide only minutes later came as the final piece of the show. A show which had started long back but found space and energy only on that particular day.

                                              *                                   *                                     *

He had moved across cities and hills and suns of different lands only to finally find his resting space. Beside a woman. His idea of love had always been elusive but so much had been spoken about the last dying words of a man that he thought his actions may never scale the limits.

Thirty days or more had gone by and his thoughts had found no space in the real world.

But there she was, standing across him as dainty as any woman could be. Untouched, unexplored and if his mind could permit to say so unexpected. Because her beauty was nowhere compared to the women who had thrown at him all these years.

                                               *                                   *                                     *

But why die? A question that haunted many but none more than the woman herself.

She felt a sense of relief when she heard the news. Was it the end of a guilt trip? A chapter best laid to rest in the ashes? She could not say so. But whatever emotion she may have revealed, remorse or sadness was not one of them.

                                               *                                   *                                   *

And in his wallet was an address, a picture of a lady long died. And a roughly scribbled paper with Edgar Poe's last poetry.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wing├Ęd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Jul 11, 2014

Controlling the blogger's block!

Control freak. 

I had almost always wanted to let my hair loose and dance in the rain without once bothering about the cold or the clothes or the men in the balconies watching me drenched. Could I do any of these? Nay.

And the answer to this was always my control freakishness. Why at all would I have taken almost forty mins and as many as five times full post deletion to finally write this down. Which may as well be the sixth one that goes through the onslaught of the dreaded backspace.

When I saw the post on write tribe elaborating upon the dreaded blogger's block, I felt as if Vidya and Corinne had simply written my heart out. Every single bit was like gospel truth. More so since I have lost my mojo all over these last few months and forgotten what its like to simply write.

But well they wish to know what I may propose to help remove this blogger's block? Joke's on me since all my tips could well be dumped in the near by recycle bin on the desktop for their lack of use.

Anyways. Try I may.

Being a control freak I could tell you that my blogger's block has a lot to do with this emotion. The senses of control or perfection or the high points of past forbid me from doing anything mediocre. And this saps not only energy or efforts but also the sense of attempt. 

Five tips to deal with this?

Test waters

Social media profiles today work wonders with people. From break ups to break downs they work just as good. If blogger's block has bitten you and long passages scare the hell out of you, resort to the good ol' facebook status message or in some cases the one forty characters of twitter. The sheer pace of activity on these sites act as good ego boosters and often validate the writer within us.

Read

This one is like the golden rule of everything that gets blocked in life. Read out of tricky situations. Where newly wed daughter-in-laws have cookery books to eat their way into the husbands and MILs. Fellow blogger's writing space just as much help us to wriggle out of clamored souls.

If its rubbish get inspired, if its crappy thank God you have competition somewhere :D

Work out a routine

I am sorry but for almost everything gone bad I have a simple rule. Plan and plan and write it all down. I have diaries filled with schedules starting from school time. It was always fun to make a new schedule, follow it for a while and then break it. Only to start over again next month. But in that period where I woke up at five and read through eleven a lot would get sorted in time.

Keep aside an hour for blogging even if it means only to backspace all your articles

Free write

Put the timer on and write. For next fifteen minutes don't spell check don't see what you may have written and not written. Grammar may remain with wren and perhaps martin could dig his grave with it. Simply let the thoughts control you and not the perfection of writing. Believe me it breaks more shackles of your block than any of the above stated rules as such.

Connect with fellow bloggers

Nothing works better than a word of encouragement and unlike writing, blogging is a lot about interacting besides words. Bloggers know that what makes them work is not their internet space but their relationships beyond it. I know for one that out of all the rules one thing that always keeps buoyant is the group of friends I have found in this space...

Four is all I could furnish, until next time. Sayonara!

And while you are at this why don't you read up a rather interesting conversation between Vidya and Corinne at write tribe on the subject.

Jul 6, 2014

Whats running got to do with writing?

It is day two already for my writing muse. Out in the balcony is a soft breezy evening and a lot on mind. Inside the room adjacent a match is on. Wimbledon final. One which involves Roger Federer. And of course the frenzy my husband goes through is substantial.

So today I decided to run. A good two kilometres I must say, which surprised me as well. Having stopped running in the last year of college this was a pleasant occurrence.

But what does writing have to do with running? And why at all even club it?

In one of his interviews, Murakami states that one thing he considers of utmost important in his writing career is his physical fitness. At the age of 31 he decided to train for marathon. Not having done any form of sports previously, this was a tough decision for him.

One that ensured his phenomenal success in the world of fiction writing.

You may now ask why.

According to him, what often failed him was not his mental stamina but rather his physical one. Sitting for long hours at the desk was more trying for his body than mind.

Having conquered the marathon hurdles many times, his writing and consequent success in the world of novels increased.

He also added that the writing room in his house has a rather heavy door one which needs a decent amount of strength to open and move inside.

Reason being two. First is that the idea of opening a heavy door and then shutting it behind him denoted the act of closing a real world he lived in. And opening doors to characters and stories. A form of mental isolation.

Second he says is that the day he cannot open that door on his own, he would stop writing. It would denote to him that his body is no longer capable of enduring the hard life of being a writer.

The heavy door can perhaps come later, for now twenty minutes of running will be duly added to routine :D

Jul 5, 2014

Being themeless for a change #blogboost

*drum rolls* it is Ultimate Blogging Challenge yet again. With flurries of messages and wall posts all calling out to the blogger in me, the July challenge seemed like a perfect comeback into this world. 

Imagine I am twenty eight and already discussing my comebacks, how old things really get? And all so quickly.

Over the last few daily challenges, right from April's A-Z to multiple UBCs from last year, I have invariably written posts centered around a theme. This time round though I am going to proceed without one.

It has its pros and cons of course. And always playing safe in challenges for my own writing muse and the readers, this time it is going to be different.

But really why theme-less? Because I have gotten sick and tired of routines and schedules. Past few months has seen my diary filled with pages of moving cities notes, work related pointers, budgets and of course a water tight work-home routine.

Hence to break free from the shackles of this everyday affair, I am going to go free lance in this space.

Expect anything under the sun these thirty days twenty five days. 

Hop around and check my fellow blogger friends blogs Aditi and Kajal whose love and support has kept me going day after day: And say a surprise hello to Nabanita who like me needs a push into her writing self.

Until next time my writing muse strikes this space. Sayonara :D




Jun 26, 2014

The Wedding dues

Fifteen years of knowing him and another ten of forgetting. It was a long long time for someone to endure love.

It was a soft summery night when they had decided to go their seperate ways. It wasn't a choice after all. He had become besotted with an heiress and she had been left with her one room, five girls apartment to go back to.

"But I thought we loved each other unto death," words she could never bring herself to say that night.

And now watching him stand only a couple of feet away from her, she felt a strange sense of relief. Yes relief of closure, of finally saying it out loud, you don't affect me.

But just when she decided she had firmed her emotion, he turned.

Greyed hair, wrinkled sides. An emotional appeal of forgiveness in the eyes and a lopsided grin.

The sheer audacity, she thought. The open challenge of knowing all will be forgotten is what got to her. And then seconds later the first fifteen years of knowing him returned.

"And hello," he said.

"Hello to you too," she replied with a quick smile.

And the silence dropped low.

Clearly the discomfort was all hers, she thought. Because his smile had nothing to hint the same.

The audacity, she thought. Some things take a while to fade away. A good twenty five years while too not enough.

"It's my marriage next month," she had no idea why on earth she spoke those words.

He only laughed and spoke an incoherent, 'congratulations'.

                                      *                                                   *                                       *

"Aren't you too old to wonder all this,"Betty was amazed to hear her best friend talk.

"I am not wondering about anything. Only appalled by his guiltless behavior even after all these years," because Samantha could clearly not get over her morning encounter with the man of her nightmares.

"I believe this will all pass and you shall become Mrs. Waters in exactly thirty days. And today will look like a tiny speck of aberration in times to come," she replied, moving on to the next set of dress in the shop.

"As my maid of honour, this is your duty to ensure he comes nowhere near me up until my marriage. Is this clear?" Samantha spoke with all her seriousness.

"Yes madame, now please go ahead and pick up the cocktail dress for the last time this month," she replied.

                                   *                                                        *                                          *

It was the 25th. A day she had been looking forward to ever since that diamond studded ring sat tight on her finger. 

John was her classmate and then over the last few years her closest friend. When that friendship decided to turn serious, she could never say. But well it was true they never quite dated each other. The status went from friends to engaged and she was not the one to complain.

Standing at the window she watched the car pull in at the church entrance. Out came the man she had always thought would never say the right words. She was damn right, he didn't. He only pulled out the perfect ring.

Standing at six feet, two inches clad in a sharp black suit, he looked every bit of the choice she had decided to make. 

And seconds later he looked up, knowing fully well he would find a peering Samantha at the window overhead. The look they exchanged had a sense of mockery and jest, but above all it had the finality of the emotion they felt. 

They had reached the day after months of discussion.

But right behind him stood another man. Greyed hair and wrinkled face. His smile intact and the matching black suit augmenting the outlook. He meant some serious business in the wedding.

She almost couldn't control herself today. She instantly ran down the stairs to stop what she now felt was fast getting out of hand.

A rather shocked family and friends quickly moved forward to stop her from going further. But without wasting another time she out sped them.

"Why are you here," she asked the man who shouldn't be in the black suit in first place.

But her question was met by someone else's voice.

"I called him," he replied. The look of deciseveness clearly stumped her.

"But why? After all the things he has done to me," Samantha screamed.

"Because even after everything he did to you. There was something I could not ask him to let go," John continued.

"What," she screamed again.

"The right of a father to give his only daughter away for her wedding. The right of walking her down the aisle to the man of her dreams," and with these words from John, the two people standing opposite to each other broke down.

Maybe in hearts of hearts, John gave Samantha something she herself couldn't demand.