कल, आज, और कल

कल आज हुआ और आज कल,

आज कल दिल-ओ-जिगर हैं बेकल ।

पल पल  कण कण में है हलचल ,

महबूब हो गया है ओझल ।

अब  यहां न रुक एक पल,

ए रूह-ए-मजरूह, जहां से चलाचल ।

         ...श्याम सुन्दर बुलुसु 

MY JOURNEY INTO THE WORLD OF WRITING - IX

The long and short of it

The initial period immediately after my retirement in 2010 was hectic, what with our having to quit the Government Quarters and move into a rented apartment; I was not bored with me. (It reminds me of a famous quote in Readers Digest, way back in the early seventies. “Keep your company to yourself. If you cannot tolerate it, why inflict it on others?” Ref. OLD AGE and LONELINESS - II).

I was doing some sketching randomly and started getting bored. It was then that my second angel inspired (bullied would be a better choice of word) me into writing (Ref. MY JOURNEY INTO THE WORLD OF WRITING - II) and the rest, as they say, is history, even if a depressing one as is in my case.

I started to write.

During the period 2010-2012, “Dance of life”, “The Kidnap”, “Embers of the pyre”, “Intersections”, “Misogynist interrupted”, and “Soul mates” came out into existence, in that evolutionary not revolutionary order, albeit in our (me and my family) minds and on the hard disk. They would continue to do so - I mean, exist on the referred places - until 2014, while I got busy with the nitty-gritty of publishing them. (That is a completely different story and I shall deal with it later.)

Given our precarious pecuniary position (aah…a soul-soothing alliteration) I was looking for a “traditional” publisher, which became an obsolete practice and was unavailable, especially for a first-time author. I didn’t even know what “self-publishing” meant! It will not be a hyperbole (Please visit my “I LOVE ENGLISH” page on my Facebook profile) to say that there may be no major publishing house that I did not contact; some responded, many did not. However, the positive fallout of the process was, I learnt what “self-publishing” meant. However, the quest ended there, as self-publishing was expensive and I did not have the required money.

***

The beginning of period 2012-14 once again saw me drift and slip into depression-causing inaction. My efforts for traditional publishing were not yielding any result, positive result, I mean. Then, purely by chance, I came upon an Internet advertisement on my Facebook page, that of Your Story Club.com. I gathered details of the process of submission of short stories to them. Despite having written six novels, I was unsure of dabbling in the shorter version of storytelling.

I wanted my debut, my first step into this format of storytelling to be as risk-free as it was with my first novel. A major reason for this diffidence was none of my novels had been published and consequently none of them had been read or scrutinised by editors, readers, et al. Submission for publication on this website meant that the stories would be read; they would be scrutinised by the editor and the readers!  I pondered over the matter again and again for several days. Ultimately, I decided upon the idea of putting on page some of my memorable experiences.

I called my first step into this world, “I-CON ONE”, a simple anecdote of my first experience with a conman. This was accepted, published, and read (Reads: 264 till date) by some; liked and commented upon by a couple of readers. The takeoff was anything but sensational, but it was a takeoff for me in this short-story world. That’s the long and short of it as far as I am concerned.

***

“I-CON TWO” and “THE INTERVIEW”, two more of my memorable experiences, followed. The former was, once again, ‘a simple anecdote of my experience with a conman’, wherein I knowingly allowed a stranger to con me, as I had explained in my story. This attracted a modest readership of 242 till date; there were no comments or ‘like’s. My writing style and the topics probably were too anaemic.

The latter was on a completely different topic, although a personal experience. Inter alia, it dwelt upon the rigours of school admissions. However, that was only the background. The main aspect, the crux was something else. How many times we find little innocent children innovating based on their limited experiences and knowledge! This story was a humorous window to look at my experience. Please read it and you will understand. This story had a better readership of 846 and a couple of likes and comments.

I take liberty with your time and patience to quote another example to support my theory. In 1970 or 1971, I was tutoring my little nephew. (It is a different matter that he is an extremely erudite individual and…grrr…an unflinching critic of my writings. He is an unseen editor of all my novels, by the way; another is my second daughter.) I had taught him some aspects of geography and maps, and a few words like “foreign”, “East Germany” and “West Germany” (yes, they were separate countries then). Sometime later, I found a paper, upon which he had practised writing what he had learnt. I had stomachache laughing at what I had read; “East Germany”, “West Germany”, “East Foreign”, “West Foreign”, etc.

***

Well folks, I shall stop this post here. I shall exit my personal experiences and enter the world of short fiction in my next.

Be seeing you!

***

MY JOURNEY INTO THE WORLD OF WRITING-VIII

The word “misogyny” is centre-stage of late.

mi·sog·y·ny  = n. Hatred or mistrust of women.

This is a millennia-old masculine mental malady (sigh…Alliteration, my weakness). No society, oriental or occidental, is untouched by it.

However, that is a topic for another day.

***

Presently, I shall take you through the labyrinthine path of my own “misogynist”. His misogyny degenerates to such depths that he simply destroys his female victims.

Come, walk with me the dark streets of Chennai and track his perverted mind and moves.

Oh, be careful. Do not dither during the eerie, dark night, for danger lurks on every dusty street, at every dark corner.

***

To admit a truth, this one genre troubled me no end. Personally, violence against women and children disturbs me deeply. My family (especially my late wife) had a tough time handling me whenever I came across news reports or movie scenes depicting such violence. That being the case, how did/could I undertake such a topic?

At the very outset of my journey into the world of writing, I decided the genres in which I shall write my novels. The other reason was, as a writer I was determined to test my mettle/ability to handle every possible genre/topic. It will be appropriate to quote here the remarks of Mrs. Srichandra Mukherjee Venkataramanan, an ardent reader of my gibberish. She wrote (read THE ANTIQUE):

“Sir, I am a ‘Malgudi Days’ kind of reader…having grown up on a staple diet of sleepy villages, rowdy children and characters who are super heroes in the garb of a common man…so this latest offering from you is an absolute delight for me…I loved this story of an extraordinary man wrapped in ordinary …And I also admire the fact that you attempt every genre of writing….be it a thriller, love story or a one with a social message. Good Luck for your next one….”

***

Having decided upon the topics in each genre, I embarked on my journey with my misogynist, however much repulsive the fellow was. With the experience of five novels under my belt, I mean virtual pen, the opening scene was a cinch. My long and wide exposure to English novels and Hollywood movies came in very handy in giving a form to my ideas on this story.

As is my wont, I refrained from the hype that I see around me in movies and TV serials and stuck to a straightforward narration of my narrative. In this aspect, I would like to mention Alfred Hitchcock, the guru of thrillers. Suffice to say that, even after five decades, his movies are unbeatable in suspense and horror, narrated in a simple, straightforward style. Psycho, Rear Window, North by Northwest, The Man Who Knew Too Much, Torn Curtain and Dial ‘M’ For Murder are but a few of his straightforward masterpieces.

Moving on in my journey, I had to create the predator’s character, physical personality, background, and modus operandi. The story opens with a murder by the psychopath; the victim is his tenth. While I briefly mentioned the characters of the previous nine victims, Nandini, the tenth victim was different in that the story begins with her murder and, therefore, I had to create her character in detail. It must be believable, down-to-earth, plausible, and match the mindset of the predator, for he chose her as a victim.

***

Then comes the background of the story itself, the why’s and how’s of it. A tricky scenario arose, for I had already decided to entrust the investigation to a Private Investigator (PI), Mr. Azhzgan, a former IPS officer. This is simply not done in our country. In my “The Kidnap”, I intended to do it but gave up for the same reason. This time around, I hit upon a neutral ground and handed over the case to my PI, the protagonist of the story.

Another aspect I had to handle deftly and as seamlessly as possible was “how the case comes to my PI”. The DCP, who was investigating the previous nine murders, becomes the collateral victim of the serial killer. He is forced to quit the Police Force in ignominy and approaches our PI. You must read the story to appreciate this.

Then, our PI’s organisation, if it could be called that, given its precarious pecuniary position (OMG, Alliteration again), must be believable and credible. I took lot of pains to create the organisation. The style of introduction of the PI and his organisation is completely couched in sardonic humour à la James Hadley Chase - a challenge for me. I had to make the characters and the office, everything in it, laugh at themselves. This flippancy, the sardonic humour was the most difficult for me, especially to convince my readers. As time passed by, and as I got into writing short stories, I acquired a semblance of control over this aspect of writing (Read LIPSTICK, FIRST NIGHT, and CURIOUS CASE OF A MISSING BUTTON).

***

Well the investigation by my PI progressed smoothly until it hit a roadblock, a seeming cul-de-sac and I hit my first writer’s block. I racked my brain for several days! The story just would not move ahead at all. I was at my wit’s end. I kept going over my (limited) knowledge in matters of criminal investigation. Eureka! Ultimately, I found the solution to the impasse I found myself in! I shall not reveal what it is; suffice it to say that it was an important part of investigative matters. With that important aspect inserted at the appropriate position, the story took off once again and raced ahead to its bone-shattering climax.

***

Well, that is talking a lot of shop. I shall let you read the novel and judge for yourself.

Happy reading, friends.

***

TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE

…that is the million-dollar question… “To write or not to write?”

Am I such a great saint that I do anything (or everything) without expecting rewards/returns? (कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन। मा कर्मफलहेतुर्भूर्मा ते सङ्गोऽस्त्वकर्मणि॥ Meaning: You have the right to work only but never to its fruits. Let not the fruits of action be your motive, nor let your attachment be to inaction.)

The answer is an emphatic “No”.

I do seek rewards/returns for my efforts.

I am a writer and an author. What kind of returns do I expect for my works? Good sales for my books, at least reasonably good sales. Good reviews for my books, at least reasonably good reviews. Good readership for my other writings – short stories, poems, blogs, and posts on social media platforms.

Criticism? Of course, it is bound to be there. True, it is difficult to digest criticism but if I find constructive quality in it, I would truly appreciate it, too.

Simply put, I write for recognition. If, in the process, I make a little money, well, I will surely be happy. For me, readership and interaction count e.g. my writings on Your Story Club. The “rewards” I got there were few and far between but the recognition (and appreciation) I got there was reasonably good. I could not have asked for more given my “style” of writing and the topics I chose (they are anaemic, you see).

If I can achieve even a fraction of the philosophy of "To work you have the right, but not to the fruits thereof" I can confer sainthood upon myself.

Bye for now.

***

THE ENDANGERED SPECIES

Hi friends,

Another hiatus, entailed by a major, life-altering event, temporarily silenced my virtual quill, only temporarily.

***

During the days when I was actively churning out gibberish at a frenetic pace on Your Story Club, I had submitted a short story to them. It was on the topic of female child abuse. They found it inappropriate and asked me if I would like to modify it with the help of their editorial staff. Yes, you have guessed correctly; I rejected the “offer”. After several years, I feel like sharing it with you all on my blog.

Here comes the “THE ENDANGERED SPECIES”.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE ENDANGERED SPECIES

Creation (Srishti)

Guddi was fourteen years old when she died.

Sustenance (Sthiti)

The Father and the Mother rejoiced, “Goddess Lakshmi is born amidst us.”

“We shall name her Lakshmi,” said the Mother.

“But, I will call her Guddi,” declared the Father.

###

Guddi rolled over. Her parents rejoiced.

###

Guddi crawled. Her parents were on cloud nine.

###

Guddi walked her first step. Her parents reached the moon.

###

Guddi spoke her first word, “Amma”. Her parents celebrated.

###

Guddi started attending school. Her parents attained the seventh heaven of bliss.

###

Time flew.

###

Guddi returned from school distressed. The Mother was distressed. She looked at Guddi’s uniform. She understood.

###

The Mother whispered to the Father, “Our Guddi has attained puberty.”

They threw a gala party and invited relatives and friends.

###

The Mother spoke to the Father, “We have to start looking for alliances for our Guddi.”

The Father replied, “No, she is only in school. I want her to study and become a doctor or a computer engineer.”

They argued and, finally, the Mother gave in.

###

One day, the Mother told the Father, “My brother’s son, Babloo, is coming to this place.”

The Father asked, “Why?”

“He has got admission in a college here. He will stay with us and study.”

“Why can’t he stay in a hostel?”

“My brother is worried. Babloo fell into bad company and created some trouble there. If he stays in a hostel, there won’t be any check on him. Please, let him stay,” the Mother pleaded.

The Father gave in. “All right, but be careful.”

###

“Babloo, will you please help me solve this arithmetic problem?”

“What is it?”

Guddi went close to him. Babloo caught by her waist and drew her to him.

Guddi panicked and struggled to extricate herself, in vain.

###

Later...

“If you tell anyone about this, I will surely tell all your friends in your school and distribute the videos I took.”

Guddi wept silently and ran away, adjusting her skirt and blouse.

###

Months passed by...

###

The Mother returned from market.

There was complete silence in the house.

“Guddi...Guddi...where are you?”

The Mother entered Guddi’s room and was shocked speechless...

###

There was a ceiling fan in the room.

The Mother’s sari was hanging from the ceiling fan.

There was a noose at the end of the sari.

The noose was tight around a neck.

The neck belonged to Guddi.

Guddi’s eyes bulged out. Her tongue protruded through the lips.

The Mother screamed and fell unconscious.

###

The autopsy revealed that Guddi was not a virgin. On her body, there were some marks of struggle, scratches, and bites.

The Father and the Mother stood stunned incredulously.

###

A note, written by Guddi for her Parents, was found on her study table.

“Mom and Dad,

I cannot describe what Babloo and his friends have been doing to me. I tried to tell you on several occasions about the way Babloo was leering at me and touching me but you two wouldn’t listen to me. Babloo threatened to post my ‘those’ photos on the Internet. I was afraid. Two of his friends joined him.

There is no end to my misery. I cannot face the world. I am taking my life.

Mummy, papa, I love you very much. I wanted to study and become a computer engineer like dad wanted. I wanted to get a good job and support you in your old age. I can do none of those now.

If there is next birth, I want to be born as your son and take care of you.

Sorry mummy. Sorry papa.

Guddi.”

The Police investigated and arrested Babloo and two of his friends.

Laya (Dissolution)

“Goddess Durga is born in our family,” The Parents announced.

.oOo.

AUTHOR’S WORDS

While inside the mother’s womb, when she is delivered onto the Mother Earth, when she goes into the world seeking education and knowledge, while at work, or in her married life, in fact, until her last breath on this planet earth, a woman’s life is one of struggle to stay alive. Danger lurks at every turn and every corner on her path. If she crosses one alive, she confronts another, every moment, every day, every year.

The endangered animals can be protected with fences.

Truly, woman is the endangered species since, in her case, the fences themselves are the real stalking threats to her survival.

This short story is my humble homage and tribute to women of this world.

All the characters and situations portrayed in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

... Shyam Sundar Bulusu

UNTIL I MET YOU

Bower had a grievance,

Flower lacked fragrance.

Rainbow was innocent of colours,

Summer was devoid of showers.

Song eluded the nightingale,

Dance shunned the peacock.

Breeze forgot to whisper,

Brook failed to meander.

Damsel’s eyes didn’t flutter,

Lover’s lips didn’t stutter.

Nature didn’t smile, too,

Until I met you.

***

A woman - anguish