{Of all lies, art is the least untrue - Flaubert}

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

A Story

I can tell you a story. This story will have its highs and lows, reader may even get involved, tricked and tipped but why should I tell a story, any story of highs and lows, involving any act of tipping someone. Till I say that 'someone', 'someone', I can't write anything, and how to make that 'someone', 'me', eludes me, without going through what he/she has gone through, the highs and lows, how can one write a single word. I overheard two people talking about a woman and her lover and how severely she is treated by him and he by her. The discussing couple is treating it like a therapy/way to probably say something that is not possible without the invention of the story. Girl used her eyes to show the unsaid happiness and sadness and she waited if he could read it, if he couldn't, it could well be her story. The story had become a tool, a wrapper of personal anxiety and mutual-introspection. She will ask him what he will do in such a situation, before he replies, she will give him mute hints and expect something. He moved from logic to love in split seconds. By this time, that story has become their story and they were finding spaces inside each other, scavenging through the cavities of past, adjusting zeolites of today. The fast calculations of love are happening, whether she will understand , whether he will say what she long for. A story has left its ground, its caste and nationality and reached where it should be, in the lives of people. Fiction going to reality, from where it originated, a full cycle, sound of paper-turning morphing into heart beats, faster...slower.

I can tell you a story. I can give you some part of me, some code to me, some code to air I breathe, something more even. But why should I. When I will be mocked for what I am, when I will mocked for being naked in a fashion show. A story is not told to remove the clothes, or the show the flesh, but to show what clothes and flesh are made of. A story may point to the robbed beauty of the peacock whose feather you sport in your crown, or the origin of the flame from which the kohl in the eyes of girl originated. What constitutes me, can very well constitute you. Can someone cut though the flesh, can someone tear the clothes and remain unharmed ?

I can tell you a story. But when it ends, will you read it all over again. Once the last pages have revealed themselves and the book lies naked without secrets, will you touch it again. Or will you just say, I have read it and walk away. If yes, I should not tell a story. A story should not end , but on paper. A story revolves on the periphery of real and unreal, you can never touch it but revolve with it, it let you move from real to unreal, happiness to pain to numbness and then back and then back again. It sits somewhere on the blurred outline of a distant shadow, not in light, not in dark, but revealing both light and darkness, the pleasures of both, the horrors of all. A story sits like a old dog, who has seen a life and has become a story, the dying flesh but the ink on paper still glowing as sunshine on pavement stone and saying the unsaid, just near a sewage, he sits all day, the world come to him every moment and reveals itself, becoming the story, a dog - a mute dog of letters.


Alok said...

Hmmm. Your blog is getting more and more postmodern :)

are you taking some experimental fiction class these days?

Alok said...

I liked the last line of your post...the way you mixed Kafka with that "mute dog of letters"..

I have no fucking clue what that means but it sures gives your post some airs of profundity, false or otherwise I don't know...

ventilatorblues said...

I was once at a very highbrow (read : experimental) jazz concert with a friend. When it all ended and we were leaving, we looked at each other, shrugged, and my friend said "I have no idea what they just played, but it damn sure sounded interesting!"

I often feel like that when I come here, connecting with little bits here and there, but probably missing the big picture. But thats cool coz the parts I connect with get pretty close. :)

anurag said...

Thanks Alok. Especially for the second comment :)

As for the fiction class, its a good idea. I think I should do one, at least it will be worth one post ;)

Thanks vb, so nice to see you again, I thought you stopped reading this stupid blog :)

Indrajith said...

The most beautiful story is still untold. Tt will never be told as might not fit it in words. Though it is a photo of your lady love it can never be her. It is like fragrance of a flower. Freely flowing in search of noses. It can be experienced only if we were there.

It is lying along with the pebbles of the untrodden banks of the mighty rivers and the silence of the dark forest and chirps of the jungles. It has been witnessed by the trees and moon. It is like the piece of a music that came out of the trumpet which cannot be put back in to it and back in words.
The Story never started and never ended. The air we breathe still holds the aroma of the characters of the great story. It touches & tickles our nose, we never understood. It brushes our ears with the resonant words of them, We never understood. It still lingers, reverberates .. We will never understand. But... we live the very same story.

bloggerhead said...

just passing through. very keenly written blog and i agree with alok--very postmodern in a sense. Cheers!