Stories

A very random, frustrating and enlightening conversation:

It all started with an innocuous remark about an upcoming movie. I said I would not sit through the end because it was just wrong. The immediate retort being that I could not question the validity or the correctness of the same, because the entire story was created by one person, and that person alone has the right to decide upon an ending. There are various levels on which I disagree with this statement. And I hope to deal with at least some of them coherently below. Luck to me, then.

...It is a Story.

All stories are told, whether in ink or blood, through tears or laughter, briefly or in great detail. But a story can never be told in wholeness, totality. Not a story about a number of people. For, even if you describe all their deeds and actions, you can't keep an eye on each and every one of them at every single point through your story. It'd be hard enough to do so if it were one single character whose life and adventures you were following. But, to imagine you can do that for thousands is just being hopeful. Hopelessly so.

Here, one might say that since the characters and plot line were created inside a certain individual's head, only that individual has the power and knowledge to dictate their actions and deeds, ultimately deciding their fates. Yes, but only up until the time that the said story stays inside that particular person's head. The moment it's let out, escapes, it mixes with the outside world, or the 'real world' to which the author herself belongs. And, the author is undeniably like the God of the created universe, creating the characters and their world. But, do we really believe that each and every one of our actions has been pre-ordained and decided? And that we are all fated to our ends? That, nothing we really do matters at all, for if it "wasn't meant to be", it won't?

(And, even scarier, that none of it is decided? That your life is just one side character in God's universe and he doesn't even know what he'll do with you yet? That, if he's in a bad mood, or if his girlfriend bugs him enough, he'll kill you in a car accident right after you get a promotion and have a baby?)

Parents are more reasonable than that. I suppose they would have made a better example too. For, after all, characters are just like children. They're never really yours. Once you bring them into existence, let them interact with the World, they're their own people, and though they will do what you've taught them to do, they will also do things that they've learnt when you weren't watching.

If a mother of two children wrote a story about her 18 year old kids, do you really believe that everything that is mentioned in her tale is really all that would have happened? Would she not modify certain parts so that the World doesn't judge her own "creations" too harshly? And, more importantly, don't you think there would be things that she doesn't even know about? Let alone the multitude of things that she suspects, hopes for, and sees in her children.

The problem is simply this; when you're writing a story, there's every possibility that you've gotten something wrong. In writing literature, more specifically of the narrative-fiction kind, there are various forms of classification, one of the primary being the distinction between 1) Building characters and having events befall them, describing their interactions and 2) Deciding on a tale that must be told, and working in characters that seem to fit. All stories are undoubtedly a mix of the two. Good stories result from a good mix. Like rum and coke, it really is too subjective to break down further. But, I digress.

The point being, stories are not just created out of thin air. You must first create/possess a world with an existing-workable framework of rules. You must have characters that behave in character, as far as a real person would. Because, whether imagined, dreamt up, thought of or compiled, a character is an individual. One that is thought of is one that does not exist in the World of the author, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't exist at all. With the hundreds of permutations and combinations available from something as innocent as a three-digit number, there are infinite possibilities that the human gene-pool *shall* one day (if already hasn't) result in such a person. And on a much lower probability scale, that the world around him as imagined by the author will exist. Kind of like the monkeys with typewriters writing Shakespeare, you may argue. But the conditions include infinite time. And while we may not have enough of the same (nor do the monkeys) to ever test that theory adequately, the Universe has more than enough time, place and scope to have every possible World already in existence. Just because we are not aware of it, doesn't change the fact that we are not the only existence in the Universe, let alone the only Universe in existence.

The point is, once a character is created, it is created. After that, as the writer, you are bound to try and represent that character and frame reactions and interactions according to what the said character would have done. If you've ever tried writing about somebody real before, or even a character that resembles someone you know, you'll know the feeling I speak of. It's the "If Xyz was faced by this, what would he do?" And obviously, you can never know for sure. Not in real life, and not in the story. Sure, the author may know best how he would react if the ironing-maid burns his favorite sweater, or what he would do/feel when he loses his job, or maybe even his thoughts on a date with an attractive woman, but, when the same character is faced with dilemmas with far-reaching, wide and over-arcing repercussions, not even the character himself can be certain of what he will do. Sure, the author can exercise discretion whether he will commit suicide or turn into an alcoholic, but here, the story will always come foremost. No matter what principles and rules govern a single character, for the author, the plot is what must come together. Loose ends have to be tied. And that doesn't happen in real life.

So, maybe, I phrased it incorrectly. Maybe, I should have said, if the creator of a Universe says that is how it would be, I politely disagree. I believe that if those people had really existed, and lived, and gone through the events that you say they did, they wouldn't end up like you say they will. In fact, I believe that if (when?) they ever do come into existence (or already are so), then that is not how their story would end. I, as an individual myself, who doesn't have to bother with the tale and the proper ending and the pressure to not leave anything unfinished, may have only followed the development of a character or two, paying special intense attention to the personalities they are supposed to be, and the unmentioned reasons for their behaviors.

To go back to the example of the mother with the two 18 year old boys, in her story, she may speak of this one night that she had gone out to a friend's, returning home earlier than expected only to find son A asleep in bed much before his bedtime, with the sheets already soaking in water, while disheveled Son B explained in needless detail the circumstances in which his brother decided to go to sleep so early. Two weeks later, when she talks of the missing bottles of Wine and A's growing anti-social behavior, you might make the connection, but just because she's lived with them and knows them doesn't mean she can predict, or even guess at, their actions successfully. Not all the time. Not when she has to think about (and keep an eye on) B, her husband, their pet dog, the family business. Now imagine if she had to decide what each of them would do in every single waking moment as well. No matter how good, kind or persuasive she may be, if something goes too fundamentally against B's character, such as being told to kill A for being a good-for-nothing alcoholic, B won't do it. He can't. And she can scream and demand and believe whatever she wants. But, there are certain things your character won't allow you to do, no matter how much someone wants you to. And years later, if she says B did kill A, even though it was she who really ended up doing it, her words won't become true. Not merely because she wanted it to happen. Not because it would end "right". And, not even if it were truly her belief that's that what should have happened and did indeed happen.

Because, the truth is truth. And, it's above our wants and desires and hopes and beliefs. It's true because it happens. And I may be wrong. She may be wrong. Every single person in the world who has ever though of this story may be wrong. But, she doesn't get to be right merely because she thought of them before someone else did. And she doesn't get to be right simply because she created them. That's all I want to say, really. And, I know it seems like I took this too personally, but you know what, it wasn't a perfect Universe, but, I've found something there that makes me smile, and laugh, and grin and it's just too right to be deemed wrong. By anybody. It isn't even for me. But something like that, if it exists, well, I'd rather have my memory of this whole obsession wiped clean without hesitation than have *their* world destroyed because someone couldn't believe. And you all know how important my memories are to me. It's only because there's nothing in this Universe, or any Universe for that matter, that matters more than the truth. Not to me. And you can't just let someone decide what that is. You can rest in the knowledge that the World I obsess over doesn't really exist. But, we are just a story to someone, you know. And that's the most we can hope to be, when this is all over. They're already there. What gives any of us the right to decide their endings? We can only weigh, calculate, predict, hope and dream. And believe, of course. But, those are individual options. And no one should have beliefs shoved down their throats. No matter which God wills it so.

It's. just. wrong.

True Story # 1

.

Lying upside down in a tiny hotel room, in a black dress and pointed heels, smoking a cigarette, watching Alvin and the Chipmunks sing for Christmas on TV.
While a guy she'd met for the first time the evening before took a shower.
Her phone which lay beside her, almost out of charge, told a tale of a call list she could only cringe at. The only charger they had between them was in her bag, which was incidentally with the manager of the last bar they hit the night before. It also contained all her money, both her cards and enough stuff to put her in jail for 7 years.

Also, she was missing her 21st and 22nd hours of a certain class.

.

(As related to this blogger, last winter)

The Insomniac II

Note: Yes, it is fictitious.

When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake

I pass out sometimes and wake up in strange places with no idea how I got there. Sometimes there are people around who tell me what we've been doing. Sometimes I'm alone.

I share my flat with two other girls. We don't see much of each other, but the weeks when they aren't home are the worst. I wake up to find my windows open and the ashtray full. I wake up to find the water refilled, the T.V. on. I wake up in the hall clutching a bottle of orange juice, in my bed dressed in clothes I don't remember changing into. There are always cigarettes around, though I don't remember buying them. The whole world goes crazy until they come back when it all goes back to the once-in-a-while "Where the fuck am I?" morning. I can deal with those.

The only worrying part is the effect this is having on my memory. I don't remember walking to work, don't remember completing reports, don't remember attending official parties. I lose count of days and forget what date it is. I seem to be working on automatic. That isn't to say I don't fuck up every once in a while, but I manage. I suppose I could leave it like this for a little while, but then again, it isn't like I have a choice.

I am about to go to bed now; there's no water on my table and I am going to close the windows. I'm out of cigarettes and there's a dull ache at the center of my head. I think I can see the hours go by...
or maybe it's all just a bad dream.

Untitled

It always starts the same exact way, with the unreadable credits rolling and the three second shot of you walking away. At first it was confusing. Then it became annoying. And now it hardly makes a difference. Sometimes, it doesn't even bother me that I don't know how it ends.

On some days I can hear a shot ring out at the very end. But usually, it ends when the shouting begins. Or maybe I just don't hear it over the din. I can't decide which I would rather wake up from. None, definitely, but unfortunately that isn't exactly an option.

I went back home the other day. Funnily enough, I still call it home sometimes. Though I guess I'll stop after a while. After all, it hasn't even been an entire year. I curse and scream a lot lesser, or at least, that's what I'd like to believe. I never cried.

The first time, it was nothing more than a nightmare. The next few times were enough to make me wonder. And now it's just part of the whole routine. Just a part of me. Like a song that won't go away.

After a few months I told them that they had stopped completely, because I was tired of the sympathy in their eyes. Fools. Well, at least they let me stick around. And I guess I should be grateful. It's not like I have a lot of homes to choose from. One's already nothing more than rubble.

Sometimes I wonder if you're still alive. There. I had to say it. I know it's silly and saying it out aloud just makes me feel stupid. But I do wonder. And I know all of us do. Of course it isn't something anyone will ever dare say. But I know it's true. Especially the kid, but then again she was always a little too optimistic.

I suppose they'll stop. The dreams I mean. They better anyhow. Not that it bothers me anymore, but it keeps me here. And it makes me wait. I don't like waiting. They'll stop. After all, it hasn't even been a year...

Missing

She walks into the room, barely suppressed excitement oozing out into the air, making it difficult to breathe without choking on the expectation of drama. He's missing again. I know it before she tells me. I always do.

His mother is frantic. At first it's confusion. Then rage. And now a little bit of worry seeps in through the corners of the tightly sealed doors and windows. His father has just been told. The boy is in real trouble. Again.

Lazlo and I exchange sympathetic looks guarded closely behind blank faces. At least, for once, he is better at it than I am. I am still finding it hard to breathe normally. She questions him, and Lazlo denies having any knowledge about the boy's disappearance. She looks at him in disapproval with a faint tinge of pride. It's never her son. Lazlo looks almost uncomfortable, and I feel bad.

She walks out of the room, expressing her concern for the boy and decides to call his mother so that they can go look for him together. Front row seats, I think viciously. And then let the guilt gnaw at my insides for even thinking such a cruel thought. Of course she's worried. That's the look in her eye. Why am I focusing only on that glint?

I wait till she's gone and then turn to Lazlo, keeping my voice calm so as to not scare him. He doesn't know. I can always tell. They've become too predictable. All of them. My head starts to hurt and I think of the medication my mother has just been prescribed. I think she bought the pills today. I try to think of something else. Anything else, but there's a black hole in my head and all the thoughts are sucked out before I can comprehend them.

Lazlo looks at me strangely and I manage a glare. He leaves the room and I let my head fall forward. I can hear them arguing outside. Somewhere in the middle of the argument I hear my name. I don't even bother trying to listen anymore. It's always the same anyway.

My father leaves to help find the missing boy. My mother hurries along. Don't forget your camera, I think and once again feel the all too familiar guilt melting my insides. I ignore the feeling. As always.

And as I let my mind go dull with hunger, I manage to wonder where he really is. A part of me hopes he finally found the courage to do what he was planning to, though the sane part of me is shocked that I can even think that way. I don't feel too bad. Takes too much effort...
Good luck Boy. I'm rooting for you.

Untitled

They were two wounded soldiers, fighting a pointless war, out of bullets. Two soldiers talking about nothing at all; unable to ask the other which side he was fighting on, perhaps because they didn’t want to know... or perhaps because it just didn’t matter anymore.

He looked up at her as she pulled out a cigarette from the half empty pack. Half empty. He guessed that made him a pessimist. She closed her eyes as she lit it. He noticed that. That, and the fact that her hair fell about her face in an almost apologetic way while she was lighting it. He said almost because she was too proud to ever be able to look apologetic. Angry? Easily. Annoyed? Definitely. Disappointed? Yes. Sad? Sometimes…. But apologetic? It just wasn’t possible.

She took a long drag and opened her eyes. Kohl filled dark eyes that always seemed like they meant to say something more but didn’t know how to. Or at least that’s how she imagined them to look. A conversation from a lifetime ago floated through her head along with the strains from the music at the bar.

“You have creepy eyes.”

“Creepy? Thanks! What the hell is that supposed to mean anyway?”

“Err… I didn’t mean it like that… It’s just… well, they’re too blank. I can never tell what you’re feeling”

Water.

Cold water.

She always thought that her eyes were what betrayed her. Years of practice had taught her how to hold that mask in place. Blank and smooth, like nothingness itself. It was the best weapon disguised as a perfect shield. In reality, it couldn’t stop anything. Definitely not pain. But it was proud. And it made the opponent determined to break you. And so, the words got crueller and the blows harder, but as long as you didn’t flinch, you won. It wasn’t exactly a fun game, but it captivated her.

Her eyes were always what gave her away. She could hold back any emotion, but her eyes reflected what she felt. Even the slightest hurt would make them widen, kind words would make them quiver and sometimes they would soften. Luckily, most people couldn’t read her eyes… but she still felt betrayed… and a little reassured. She did not like losing control… but she liked knowing something about her was still natural. Still… human.

And he had said her eyes were blank…

She looked at the man across the table. She couldn’t exactly place the look he had on his face, which bothered her. She was good at reading people. Really good… but when it came to him, it frustrated her to no end that she couldn’t figure out what he was thinking. She sighed and took another drag from her burning cigarette, watching as he lit one of his own.

He wondered what he should say now. She looked like she was waiting for him to say or do something. It was like playing a game of poker and suddenly realizing it was your turn… except the difference was he really had no idea what game he was supposed to be playing right now, and that just made things a lot harder.

He asked her what she wanted to drink and they both ordered their shots. Brandy for him because his throat still hurt. She asked for a Whiskey. Straight. And he couldn’t help nor explain the smile that flitted across his face.

She looked down into her drink with the saddest eyes he had ever seen on anyone. When he called her name, she looked up at him and smiled. And the question he had been planning to ask seemed pointless. Of course she was okay. Didn’t she look like she was okay? A perfect defence he didn’t know how to cross. And so, he let it be, shaking his head as she looked up at him curiously.

Her name. It had always felt alien to her. Yet every time he said it, it felt as if it belonged to her. She really couldn’t imagine being called anything else, though she strongly suspected she would feel the same no matter what he called her. It had always been like that. From the very beginning. She loved the way he said her name…

Oh, but it wasn’t love, she thought as he raised his eyebrow at something she had said. That didn’t mean she knew what it was. Nor did it mean she understood. All she knew as she glared at him while he laughed at her was that it felt… real. Comeback after comeback, and it felt good. It made her feel almost alive. Almost. As he chuckled again, she wondered if he felt the same way. And as he looked up at her with his expression changing from amusement to one that was puzzled, she knew her eyes were betraying her again.

She smiled at him, and the confused look on his face made her giggle, which confused him even further, but he laughed anyway. She didn’t laugh like this very much. And it made him oddly happy to know that he was the reason. He didn’t know why and he continued to bug her about inconsequentialities. She didn’t mind. He knew that. He could tell. Even if her eyes were hollow, they seemed to shine when she argued with him, and he liked that.

She asked him a question. He started telling her about the answer. And both of them skirted past the things they really wanted to talk about. Needed to talk about. Why did he keep disappearing? Why did she never ask him where he’d been?

They couldn’t be on opposite sides, he thought. She was too much like him. And yet, with her blank eyes and distant smile, he couldn’t even tell if she was fighting the same war… and he didn’t know how to ask. But he really didn’t think it mattered very much. At least, he thought as she laughed again and pretended to throw the glass at him as her eyes shone, not anymore…

"Leave Me Alone"

Leave me alone...

Were those not your last words to me dear Sayuri?

They must have been.

I still remember that night you know...

It was really cold, and I could tell you had been crying.

I could have asked.

I should have said something.

Asked how you were doing, whether you needed anything, if everything was okay, anything!

Instead, I tilted my new hat at you and nodded.

And you smiled back.

Just a tiny little smile, but it made me really happy, you know?

That you cared enough to try and smile even though you were sad...

But I know you would have done the same for anyone who smiled at you...

Still, as you walked away in that light rain

with the dark shadows growing behind you as you walked further into the night in your black dress...

I thought that there was still some chance we could fix the mess we had made.

Thought things were finally getting better...

I didn't say a word.

And the next morning they told me you were dead.

Wait a minute Sayuri darling.

Let me pour myself a drink. Its been too long.

And where did I keep that damned matchbox?!

Sorry, where was I?

I remember the day we spent at the beach

It seems like such a long long time ago

Akane was there too, along with him.

That was nice.

We laughed a lot, All of us.

Sang silly songs all the way there and back.

And you spoke to me as if everything was fine.

As if nothing had been broken.

Like you could not see the past anymore.

And I don't know if that hurt or helped.

But I do know that I liked the way your dark hair flew about your pale face

and I liked the black dress you wore...

like the one you were wearing the last time I saw you...

Another drink Sayuri.

Just hold on.

No, I'm not drinking too much.

Just another shot...

You know what?

I wish I knew you before...

Before all the pills, and the drinking...

I know you'd be mad at me for saying this

I know you would say it would have been the same...

But would it have?

Maybe then you would have said you loved me

Maybe then I would have said the same...

Maybe I would have stopped by that night.

We wouldn't have had that stupid argument...

Do you remember that night?

I do.

I wish I didn't.

But now, I realize that it was the last time I ever heard your voice...

And so, I don't think I'll ever be able to forget.

I won't be able to forget the screaming

the thunder

the shattering of the vase (the crystal one Inari gave you for your b'day)

the yelling

the tears that filled up in your eyes - the ones you rubbed away before they ever had a chance to fall...

I'll never forget the way you looked at me that night

The anger

the disbelief

and the pain...

Just leave me alone...

Want to know a secret?

It wasn't the screaming that made me leave...

It was that look.

Your words.

I couldn't bear the thought of hurting you...

and I realized I had.

Over and over,

So, I packed up my bags and left.

Didn't even kiss you goodbye.

Left you alone, with your "substances"

Left a shaky you trying to pour a drink into a glass.

Didn't even offer to help.

Didn't call.

Didn't bat an eyelid when that other guy moved in.

Didn't say a word to you when I ever ran into you anywhere.

Didn't say anything when I saw the first bruise.

Didn't listen to the rumors...

I didn't know.

I didn't know he hurt you.

I didn't want to know.

So... I didn't.

I don't know why I smiled at you last night Sayuri.

Maybe I thought it was finally time.

Maybe it was the fact that it was raining, and I always love you more when it rains.

But I didn't say a word...

Would things be different if I had spoken to you?

Would it have changed anything?

Would they still find your body in that bathtub?

I wonder what was the last thing you thought of...

Were you scared?

Did you close your eyes when you drew that line?

Did it hurt?

Leave me alone...

Those were your last words to me...

and I wish I had never listened...

The Price of Honesty

Imagine this:

You are walking down a crowded market road with your little brother. Because he's only 13, your mother has asked you to keep an eye on him. So that he doesn't get lost, or kidnapped. That kind of thing. It is quite crowded today. So you grumble and sigh but agree and have been keeping an eye on him all morning. He's been behaving, which is a good thing, but he's a good kid anyhow and you smile when you think of the ice-cream you're planning to reward him with at the end of this trip. It'll make him happy and he'll probably flash that happy silly smile at you. The one you keep making fun of, but secretly adore.

You buy some flowers for the project you're supposed to work on tonight while your little brother ogles at a gaming console at the other side of the street. Its getting late, so you decide to head back. You don't wanna be late for lunch after all. The place just seems to have gotten even more crowded and you urge your brother to hurry. A black motorcycle makes its way into the narrow street and you frown in annoyance. people move out of the way and you too take a step back, holding on to your little brother's hand. The black motorcycle makes its way slowly and carefully through the crowded street. As it nears, one of the two riders - who are both in black - drops a black polythene bag with what looked like a lunch box inside. Pulling his hand away from yours, your goody-two-shoes brother hops forward and picks it up. You look at him and roll your eyes in exasperation, but you can't help but feel proud of him. He's your little brother and he's turned out alright. You smile and think to yourself that perhaps you should buy him two cones of ice-cream instead of just one. You notice a nearby old lady smiling at your kid brother as he picks up the packet and turns to the bikers, and your pride soars even higher.

"Brother, your packet has fallen..."

Those are the last words you hear him say before the blast.

Those are the last words you ever hear him say...

_________________________________________________________________________________________

A thirteen year old boy was killed today in a Delhi market as he attempted to return a fallen packet to its owners. Unfortunately for the young sincere child, they did not want their "packet" which turned out to be a low intensity bomb. The last words heard by eyewitnesses and his relations were ‘brother, your packet has fallen.’

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/delhi-blast-honesty-turns-fatal-for-boy/366708/

My deepest condolences go to the family and friends of the child...

Torture

She didn't know why she had to torture herself so.
'Torture' she mused, a faint smile tugging at her lips. How dramatic. But it would be the apt word. What else could you call it?
It was like watchin the cooking special on TV the night you were dying of hunger and it was too late to buy anything to eat... or like reading your ex-boyfriend's letters, or even worse, reading your own diary's account of the most painful day of your life.
Yep, she thought, combing her rain-drenched hair. Torture was the perfect word...

She wondered if he had noticed though.
She frowned slightly, hoping that was not the case. It would be terrible if he had...
After all the work she had put into this facade, it would kill her knowing one tiny gesture of comfort made it all crash to the ground...
But he had been so upset...
She shook her head, and glared at herself in the mirror.
It was all for good.
Hers and his.
She was just glad she pulled her hand away before it rested on his shoulder...
Jus glad that she pulled it away before he raised his bowed head...
Just relieved that when he looked up at her, the pain had not made the hate vanish, just dimmed it for a while...
So relieved...
and so...

Thunder sounded in the distance, shaking her out of her reverie...
She smiled at her dismal reflection and ran the brush through her hair again.
Torture....