Prompt Sunday: Writer’s Block

I know this is not a Sunday, but this post has been long overdue. Hence when I finally wrote it, I couldn’t wait till Sunday to share it.

Prompt : List down all the cliches you can think of. Now choose one amongst them that strikes your fancy. Write a poem about that cliche- it can either be taken literally or figuratively.

Writer’s block

The epitome of all excuses,
the stalling of the pen,
as if it works on an engine,
and never shall work again.

“Oh I lack ideas right now”
“Oh I am too distracted”
“Oh I am not in the feel”
that’s how we have reacted.

Waiting for the epiphany,
We while away the hours,
waiting under those trees,
as if words were scented flowers.

To not cook, and be better at it,
A daydreamer’s dream,
While roaming as a vagabond,
Beside your mind’s stream.

It is not the pen, it is the pain,
which you avoid everyday,
Toil you must, on sheets of paper,
Forget the sun and make hay.

Words of advice, of mine to me,
to everybody and you,
Pick up that pen, and put it down,
Ink a word or two.

And watch that story flow out,
and reward your very dreams,
Stop, Oh vagabond! and dive,
in the beautiful mind’s streams.

Image Courtesy: Calvin and Hobbes, (http://visualquill.com/visual-quill-blog/block-out-writers-block)

FYI: Writer’s block is a cliche among writers

CHAPTER SEVEN: YOU

Far away from the Cho’s village, there was a mountain. No, seriously, there was a mountain far away from that village. It’s a different thing that people in this world have accepted ‘faraway’ as a standard unit of measure which was anything but standard. It was equal to any distance that consisted of a variable topology exciting enough to be chronicled as a journey. Due to a freak accident involving plate tectonics and an acorn, that distance was roughly equal to seven blocks from Cho’s village. Now don’t complain that blocks aren’t a standard unit of measure. People of Knoo Eork beg to differ.

*****************

The concept of standard units, like the concept of everything else, was different in the kingdom. Since there was only one kingdom on one planet in one solar system in one galaxy in one cluster in one universe, there was not exactly a need for standardization and universal convenience. So the units were formed as per convenience and public voting.

Public voting is one of the most fundamental phenomenon’s of nature. No matter what package it is presented in, in this kingdom, the results were always exactly the opposite of what they should have been. If you expect a majority result, it will be a minority result. If you expect a whitewash, it will be a tarbath. No result will make any sense. You get the drift. So the kingdom got these basic units for themselves:

Length: “Faraway” – One faraway consisted of a certain distance within which there was enough topological variation to be traveled upon as part of a chronicle (read a few cliffs to hang from, one vast desert, two or more vantage points to observe the other side, one river per day to catch fish from and to spy on maidens, one large enough jungle for monsters and walking inanimate objects to hide in and be killed in). For the people who are confused, kindly consult the people of Knoo Eork for a relevant relation to blocks.

Time: “Profsee” – One profsee was the time duration between a prophecy being made and fulfilled. Accept it. It is the only unit of time with any relevance in this universe. What happens when there is no prophecy you ask? The unit is referred to as Noprofsee. There were certain sub units like Chaptur, Prokrusteenashun (PN) etc, which, quite correctly, changed their definitions with time.

Weight: “Flai” – One flai was the weight one could bear while flying. For most it was their own weight. As you can guess, here people who could not fly were considered weightless.

Speed: “AypeekJurknee (AJ)” – One faraway per profsee was one aypeekjurknee.

Well, other units were formed much later than the events of this story, so currently they do not concern us. As if you would care when they do.

*****************
Now that mountain was taken on lease by Tim from the Universal Board of Villainous Hideouts for the duration of one prophecy. When asked by the board the name he desired to register it by, Tim showed his magical creativity and connection to the people of Knoo Eork’s Arlaym area, he named it “Mount Mahlease”.

On top of this Mount Mahlease, deep within the darkest dark places in the darkness of the dark lair of Tim, was the oldest and most powerful being in the existence of the universe: You. Do not be confused. One of the most omnipresent powers of You is that wherever his name is written down in any language, it changes into the pronoun for second person singular in that language. Some say this has something to do with the fact that You was always lonely. One cannot refer to his name, even in this form, in plural. Apart from his name, You has several powers, the true extent of which are not known to anyone but You.

One of the most primeval powers that belonged to You was the ability to do what You believed in. Some say, that this is what started You down the dark path. This and some other creatures called They who used to play with what he believed in. You had a mind which, being what it was, was highly prone to unleashing it’s full abilities singularly towards destruction, or creation. Unfortunately, You met Tim while we were on the first chapter. This time, They did not read this chronicle, it was Tim who spent an entire chapter with You. And Tim let his magic work on You, this time with the Quarter behind the ear trick. You couldn’t help being drawn to following Tim, and You did. The rest is the back-story to this chapter.

Now You waits. He has been waiting for more than one Noprofsee, for a prophecy. Because he knew one was coming. He is waiting. For the chosen one. Because if someone is interested in what happens to the chosen one, it’s not me.

It’s You.

Show Review: Prison Break

*WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD*

Almost all of us have at least heard of the show. For me, it was a friend’s recommendation that got me started on this one. And albeit my curiosity. The curiosity rooted from the fact that we have seen a sufficient number of prison based movies and read prison stories in books. Considering that sometimes even those movies seemed stretched, I was curious as to how an entire 4 season show can be about breaking out of prison unless it is the ‘Tartarus’.

The first two seasons didn’t disappoint me. In fact, the ending of the first season got me even more curious. “Now what?” was the question that came to my mind regarding the possibilities the plot was about to explore, which is somewhat rare considering that Prison Break is not one of your highly acclaimed shows that go on to win Emmys and Golden Globes and whatnot. Wentworth Miller does a great job of being the cool and geek-genius brother of the slow but strong Dominic Purcell.

You must be starting to get a hint of where this review is headed now. It is headed into the truckload of stereotypes and few drops of imagination this show has to offer. The plan to break out of the prison was genius and very nicely portrayed over several episodes. In fact, at one point of time they seem to be digging a hole for 5 episodes. Some might call it realistic. I found it dramatic. The ensemble prisonmates that are attempt to escape also consist of a set of stereotypes- Our genius and his beefy brother, A petty theif, an old robber, a IRAQ veteran turned robber, an immigrant, a prison smuggler, an insane guy and an obsessive criminal. If you haven’t seen the show, you must be wondering, why is this lot escaping? It starts with a series of walk ins and being caught red handed which leads to the inclusion of one more wanted/unwanted character into the escaping lot. And trust me, that was the first two seasons, the good part.

Post the second season, the show just starts to push the limits of your patience by putting Miller in a second prison from which he manages to escape as well. Ask me how? By digging a tunnel! Well, what would you expect from a show that calls the main antagonist organisation “The Company”. And when it runs out of that, it borrows from the holy grail of American action media- Mission Impossible, James Bond and the whole lot. Creating a fourth season that was even more unnecessary than the third one, it involves a slipshod plot to take down the company with actors who I can act better than in my sleep.

I do not hate this show. I have spent a lot of time and interest in watching this at one point of time. What I hate is the way the show plays with the patience and trust that a viewer places on it by more elongation than an elastic band, both intra and inter season.

One good thing that I am glad to have discovered in this show: This guy. Robert Knepper.

When I tell you that he is one of the best negative role actors in the television Industry, I am not exaggerating a bit.

He is one of the factors for which you should watch the show, along with the prison break plan in the first two seasons.

Show Review: Breaking Bad

*NO SPOILERS*

Recently I finished watching the highly acclaimed series ‘Breaking Bad’. Most of us know about it. The show is so popular that it is somewhat of a cultural phenomenon and has a very widespread fan base. So I do not need to introduce it to you.

Neither am I going to delve into details about the story’s plot and how it turns out. No direct spoilers here.

What I am going to talk about, is the idea behind the show as I perceived it. I was always curious about the name from the day I started watching this show. Trust me, nothing is clearer the day you finish it. You might have your own version of the reason behind the name, but you will have one. For me, it was a deconstruction, not much different from the deconstruction process we employ on elements of human body to discern an infection. The entire process, behind how a man goes from an absolutely normal person to something he would himself despise at one point of time, is what this show is about. It is one of the million observations one might make from life, or from the lives around them.

I had a detailed discussion regarding the reasons a potential viewer might have to watch this show. As I said earlier, it is an observation upon life. And anyone who is interested to know and to comprehend the process behind a perfectly good man turning out the opposite, will find this show one of the best representations of the same. ‘Best’ here means the most realistic. It lays out in front of the viewer, in very simple and believable terms, the effects of this process. It shows how these effects are like ripples in a pond, affecting and sometimes infecting the ones around and involved in such a process.

That being said, it is not just a depiction of the destruction such a process can cause. It is mostly that for me, but not all. One of the other primary characters in the show eventually follows the opposite process. Although he does not escape the repercussions of his past entirely, but there might just be a ‘Breaking Good’ in this breaking bad.

There is something about this show that makes it highly believable. Maybe it is the impeccable acting. Maybe it is the unique and apparently plain cinematography. Maybe it is the weaknesses in almost all the characters. I have not seen all the shows in this genre or any genre, so I am nobody to declare if its the “greatest show of all time” or not. That title, for me, belongs to none as the criteria for the same vary as much from person to person as ear shapes and eye color. But I can say, that it is one of the shows that I am glad to have seen. And to anyone who can digest the real possibilities that life has to offer to someone to go bad and their harsh consequences, I highly recommend going through the five seasons of “Breaking Bad” for a visually enriching experience of the same.

And I have a message for the people who have seen the show.

If you thought that he is the good guy, you did not understand the show.

Just like a mystery novel

It was just like a mystery novel. The streets were absolutely silent, with an occasional street dog’s late night complaints echoing in the midnight mist. One of the self-made perks of having a job in print media is that one gets to observe the beauty of a city that has gone to sleep and sometimes, usually on your way back, waking up. Contrary to popular knowledge, Mumbai does actually sleep, even if it is for two hours late in the morning. It does look beautiful, at least to the eyes of Draksh. In fact, anything remotely close to silence and the cold and calm breeze from the sea would feel like the most beautiful phenomenon to someone who had just pulled an all-nighter on the whims of a paranoid editor. As Draksh got down from the auto and started counting the notes for the fare, he looked forward to the day-long sleep that waited for him in his apartment. He turned and started walking towards his apartment, some 50-odd steps off the connecting road, when he noticed the strange-looking man standing near the entrance of his building. Something about him ticked Draksh off. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the man’s appearance. It was very normal, neatly pressed grey check shirt under a double-breasted jacket paired with beige trousers with formal shoes . Perhaps a bit too normal for 4am in the morning. As if he had sensed eyes on him, the man turned towards Draksh and caught his eye. With a sudden look of alarm, he started walking in the opposite direction. Sensing something amiss, Draksh quickened his pace towards the man. He couldn’t stop thinking about the recent rise in small-scale burglaries in the city. In front of him, the man broke into a light jog. “He definitely is running away from me, nobody jogs in formals”, thought Draksh as he broke into a jog himself, the tiredness of his all-nighter somehow vanishing in the electricity the dawn air carried. Trying to close the gap between them, Draksh had just started running faster when he noticed that the man had one hand to his ear, as if he was pressing an earphone to hear something. All of a sudden, the man dashed into a small alley between two stores and by the time Draksh got there, the man was nowhere to be seen. Perplexed, Draksh stood there panting and wondering what this early morning chase could have been for, when it dawned upon him that the man could have been a lookout and this was most likely an attempt to get him away from his apartment. He made his way back to the building as fast as he could, and before he knew it he was running up the stairs to his 4th floor apartment, not waiting for the age-old motorized elevator to show up. As he got to the third floor, he stopped dead in his tracks. The door to 303 was wide open and one could not miss the body of Mr.Parikshit, and the blood that had formed a pool underneath him. Draksh could taste bile. He ran up to his apartment to call the police. Just as he opened the door, he saw a grey envelope right behind it, as if it had been shoved underneath it in a hurry. He picked it up, noticing the air mail tag on the envelope. The normal address on it was Mr.Parikshit’s, but someone had hastily scribbled ‘Drx’ on it. He couldn’t help but think that this was from Mr.Parikshit and whatever had happened in his apartment, was because of this. This irked his curiosity and he looked for a knife to open it, with his inner journalistic instincts overpowering his panic about the situation. Slicing open the envelope, he took out a piece of paper and opened it. There was the National Government’s seal on it with confidential written as a big red watermark. He started reading the paper, and as he read further, shining droplets of sweat appeared on his forehead, as if heralding a torrential downpour that was just beyond the horizon. The words seemed to put him in a daze, and with a sudden thump, he fell backwards onto the sofa, dropping the letter onto his own muddy footprint made moments ago. As the mud slowly dampened the subtext stating, “Part of the Netaji files archive”, only one thought crossed his mind. “This is going to change everything”. It was just like a mystery novel.

Of Bugs and Existence

As I delve in and out of pages of Murakami’s 1Q84 on an unbelievably hot October Sunday afternoon, something outside my window catches my attention. Back in Kolkata, it used to be crows and sparrows flying about looking for food and shade. Here in the outskirts of Gandhinagar, it is swans. An occasional peacock has also been spotted.
No, this is not about the natural beauty of Gandhinagar or my experience of Murakami. Those are topics for a later day. For now, let us while upon the strangeness of the passage of time. The weekend is almost over. The very weekend which we were wondering about, since we did not have anything to do. If you take time as a matter of hours, it will seem to be a passing bunch of swans. Sometimes it might appear beautiful to you. Sometimes, if you are not noticing, all you get to do is to experience it in other’s words like mine. But if you are like me, as in, if you take time as a matter of days, time seems to be even faster. Perhaps more like the light-bug that you spot one instant and in another, it’s gone. Then you spot it again, exactly the same as a while ago, perched nonchalantly. It might even be subject to your chagrin. But there is mostly nothing you can do about it and its persistent repetitiveness than live with it. There is nothing to blame the bug for. You chose to create the circumstances where the bug coexists with you. Now it is a part of your existence.
Talking about bugs, I think I am turning into  one myself. This weekend I gained three new wounds from bug bites on my right hand, which makes me quite symmetric with respect to bug bite wounds. I guess, one can’t just experience the pleasantries of nature without its persecution. But here’s to hoping I can compete with Spiderman.
Existence is highly questionable, especially when it is localized. I wonder if the fishes in an aquarium or rats in a warehouse feels the same doubts as me. The similarities being, we don’t really need to go out of the local domain that we currently are in. We exist here just fine. But, is it just an aquarium instead of an entire universe as we perceive it? An aquarium consisting of me and my life around me, rendered and obscured as per someone else’s wish, some higher power or power that I am unaware of.
Even if that is the case, does such a reflection upon it matter? Think about it. If I try to go beyond this existence and succeed. I succeed in exiting the aquarium. What then? The bugs are back again. I have to go.

Prompt Sunday #5: The Scarecrow

The Prompt: Choose a poem you like. Any poem. Take the last line and use it as the first line for a new poem.

The poem that I have used here is “The Daffodils” by William Wordsworth.

THE SCARECROW
And dances with the Daffodils.
The scarecrow as joy it kills,
To incite fear in creatures winged,
on a stick its existence hinged.

In tattered rags it stands tall,
stands come monsoon and fall,
Stands still in depths of night,
A scar upon a glorious sight.

It looks for you, with a smile forlorn,
It looks for you, with a grimace torn,
Across its face, to absent ears,
as it drinks its own absinthe tears.

Come night, you lie on the bed still,
fear its face in your dreams does fill,
it inhales the scent of terror with vigor,
its strength this very scent does trigger.

In its eyes, lies the fear of a hundred,
it brings to life the very objects of dread,
no shield no walls can hold it back,
Your very essence it does track.

It comes for you, to get into your head,
to make you feel much worse than dead,
It’s here right now, don’t make a sound,
Whatever you do, don’t turn around.

The Messenger of Death

The wind stops, the song dies,

In the distance, an infant cries

The rusted windmill, creaks and turns,

While civilization, in my hand, burns

Look yonder, o’er the hills you’ll see,

My gun, my sword, my steed and me,

The barrel smokes; blood drips down the blade,

The steed foams and struts in the banyan shade.

I am the messenger of death, beware

The good, the bad, none do I spare

I’ve left people with bodies braised

In seconds, entire cities I have razed

I’ve made them cry, I’ve made them weep,

I’ve deprived their nights, of peace and sleep

Countless heartbeats I have stopped,

Countless aspirations I have robbed

Annihilation is my solitary goal,

I am bereft of heart and soul,

Besides me, a deathly silence travels,

As my existence this verse unravels

Where I set foot, happiness does not,

Yet I can’t be burnt or hung or shot

As I have no soul to call my own,

As never-ending hate, this world has shown

They make me unleash, my sword from its sheath

But they are scared of what lies underneath

Little do they know, if some courage do they show?

They won’t be sentenced to pain, down below

No, they’ll be handpicked, to go to Valhalla

From the battlefield and given a reception gala,

With endless treasures they’ll be bestowed,

Into god’s own presence, they’ll be shown

Not wise to this knowledge, they riot and fight,

On the stupid principle of “might is right”

So for eternity, souls I’ll plunder it seems,

With an untold story of a warrior’s dreams.

CHAPTER SIX: YOU GOTTA GO WHEN YOU GOTTA GO

Still in a trance, Cho went back into the house to get his belongings, which like any other character from a fantasy story, could fit in two backpacks. Unfortunately he had only one back, and Dave carrying the bag to the pram was out of question, so he called their household help, Elma, a humanoid with a two storey back. Elma had been with the household since Mo was born, as his mother couldn’t handle all the negative publicity her son generated since his birth. As it is less known, Elma has always been a media consultant-cum-adviser for the Saynuan household. Any unwanted intrusions were stopped by her right at the doorstep, and she always knew what to do in an unexpected situation due to the extremely well detailed history of her kind, who have faced each and every permutation of situations possible in their world, hence are sometimes eternally bored with life in general. The only thing that interests them is to observe the only variable parts of life up close- the decisions made by sentient life. And what better occupation for that purpose than being the household help.
Elma promptly stacked up both of Cho’s bags on her back and started carrying them to the MUP waiting outside. Cho looked around at his house one last time- the faded paint, the random signs of nuclear wreckage, the crevices in the wall facing their ex-neighbor’s windows, now facing a charred scar on the earth, a sure shot sign of a lightning strike. He had a feeling he was not going to see this ever again. Then he realized the feeling was called hope.

Prompt Sunday #4: Cinderella: An Alternate Ending

This weeks’s prompt: Write an alternate ending to the popular fairy tale, Cinderella, in which the glass slipper accidentally fits one of the two stepsisters. Make it a comedy, tragedy, satire, horror, or whatever you wish. Start your story from that very scene.

                                        Cinderella:An Alternate Ending

Cinderella watched as her last hope of freedom, slipped away right in front of her eyes. Damn that fairy godmother. The shoe fit her step sister Myrcella perfectly, almost as perfectly as her life had been ruined till now. The glimmer in the eye of the prince almost made her reach for the ax next to the pile of firewood and chop Myrcella’s foot off, but she restrained this fanatic thought in the realm of her tortured imagination. After all, that is not the ideal way to charm Prince Charming, is it? Blatantly, as Myrcella acknowledged the Prince’s love for her, and claimed to reciprocate the same, Cinderella could not help but think, “Is this for the best? A person who can’t even remember my face without makeup and claims to be in love with me. Perhaps I am better off without this kind of love. All it is worth,apparently, is a stinking little glass shoe”.

As these thoughts were crossing her mind, Myrcella and The Prince had left the house with the stepmother and Catherine following suit, without bothering about Cinderella as usual. Perhaps this was the last trigger that Cinderella’s eternally suppressed rage needed. She went to her room, looked at the bag so neatly packed with all her favorite rags, befitting her bejeweled misery. She took it and threw it into the fireplace. She looked at her father’s last belonging that her stepmother had deemed worth nothing and bestowed upon Cinderella- a battered dirty Miner’s uniform and a weathered but sharp ax. She couldn’t hold back a smile.

As she walked down the pothole ridden countryside road that bordered her village, hopes of a faraway lover crossed her mind again. Perhaps her true love was waiting somewhere else, to one day find her, and give her memories to treasure even in his presence. Someone who would selflessly be their for her when she needed him. Someone who would not be a loser, a wimp. Someone… “Who am I kidding”, she thought as she looked down at her worn out over-sized muddy Miner shoes, “No one is going to come looking for a fit for that! I better keep.. Wait, what was that?”.

Cinderella stopped in the middle of her tracks as she heard a distant wail rise and immediately disappear, as if someone stifled it. It came from the direction of the forest. Cinderella decided to see what it was. Who knows, maybe her prince is wailing out for her help. She did have an axe and her instincts gained over years of gathering wood from the forest after her father’s death.

As she walked deeper into the forest, she noticed multiple horse tracks appearing and disappearing as the density of the forest varied. She followed them and soon she came to a clearing. There was a huge tent in the middle of the clearing, and from within, came the most painful screams she had ever heard. All the years of torture and pain at the hands of her stepmother and sisters flashed through her mind in an instant, and something inside her gave way. She rushed into the tent and saw three men in bed with a girl. Two were holding her and one was having his way with her. It was her stepsister.

In a flash, her ax was in her hand and she was hacking at the throat of the nearest man she could find, as if an enraged beast had been unleashed within her. As the prince lay writhing beside the bed, with his men lying dead in pieces around him, he looked at the tall blonde girl in tattered miner’s rags standing over him, blood smeared across her face and dripping from her ax. He gasped, “It was you!”.

“Glad that his majesty could recognize me finally without a fucking glass shoe. Not so charming anymore are we?”, and she raised her ax and dealt the final blow, unleashing a fresh spurt of blood as the light left the Prince’s eyes.

She looked at the sobbing heap of her sister, curled up in the bloodied bedsheets. She sat beside her and patted her shoulder. It was as if she hadn’t seen the carnage around her. “I deserved this. All these years Cinderella, for doing all those horrible things to you, I deserved this to happen to me”, she whimpered.

“Please save it for your mother and Catherine. Be glad that this anger did not come out back home. For once, I am glad that this bastard found the wrong foot. But that doesn’t mean that I would have wished for this to happen to you. Even you deserve much better, but then what could you expect from a nitwit who couldn’t come up with a better title for himself than Prince Charming. My only hope from him was to take me away from you sorry lot. He did something much better”, said Cinderella.

“What do you mean?”, mumbled Myrcella between sobs.

“He made me realize, that their is no magic fairy godmother or prince charming that can save you from your own weaknesses”, said Cinderella as she stood up and started wiping the blood off herself and her axe, “Find some unblemished clothes and go home Myrcella.”

“Wont you wipe your hair? Wont… you come?”, Myrcella hesitated.

“That’s a good one Myrcella. Cinderalla might have gone back with you, but Erza wont. And as for the hair, I think red suits me” said Erza as she walked out of the tent and disappeared into the forest.