Fall For A Magician.

Fall for a magician. Fall in love with a magician, a magician whose words weave mystical lands in thin air, who draws blind faith of a fading summer, whose voice makes the insides warm and squishy and it is as if everything is just right.

Fall for someone who cannot admire you enough despite the imperfections that you make evident, complaining; someone who lends to these imperfections a rhythm, a symphony, a song, a tune while stringing their guitar in the morning, while you indulge in some breakfast in bed that they prepared for you, in a voice so beautiful that it makes you giggle and blush.

Fall for someone who isn’t afraid to tell you how they fell for you; someone who chooses the right words and isn’t hesitant to tell you when it happened, almost like two worlds colliding, two universes colliding and being one for eternity; someone who can write a book about how they love the way you brush your hair, or the small mole on your back, or the color of your eye, or the glint n your hair when sunlight falls on it.

Fall for someone who paints you while you sit engrossed in your book, someone who converges the two you’s: the one of their dreams and the one that is you, in yellows and reds and in colors unseen and shades unnoticed, small details that give incredible depth and beauty and charm and poise to that simple crayon painting, making it so beautiful to look at, that it hurts.

Fall for someone who makes you their muse. That way, it doesn’t matter if you live or you die, if you laugh or cry, if it works or if it doesn’t, because it will always be there when you’re sad or lonely or depressed and you feel unloved and ugly, and maybe for just some time, your song, your poem, your picture will make you happy, and maybe, just maybe, make everything better for a while.

So fall in love with a magician, and it might just the be the best thing you would have ever done.

 

Identity.

He lives in the words he has read, in the lives of people he has read about, in their dreams and ambitions and with each different character, he finds something he can call his. A small scar, a similar habit, a strange hobby, a favorite word, a small fetish. Yet with each person, he leaves a little of himself. The person which a certain line reminded him of, a memory that he associated with that paragraph, a tear in the paper as he opened the pages, a strand of hair that fell of his hair as he slept, cuddling the book like a lover.

Perhaps it is not wise to derive yourself, to build and make yourself from things borrowed and lent. But maybe, that is the point. Perhaps, he felt so tired of making himself, building, constructing himself from a defined box of adjectives- funny, bore, happy, witty, lonesome- instead of memories associated with that adjective that he just couldn’t take it.

Maybe for him, happiness was when he was with his friends, or when he could dance to his heart’s content, or maybe relaxation for him was snuggling next to his favorite book and maybe, contentment was when he could see the sunrise.

Maybe doubt for him is when he isn’t sure if the red blazer goes with the black shoes.

This way, he isn’t angry or sad, or depressed or happy or content or peaceful, he is a sunset and he is a song or he is the green couch you know you’d never use. He is now a bundle of memories. He is with Peeta and he is with Juliet and he is with Martin Luther King Jr and he is with Gandhi and he is with Marilyn Monroe and he with Beatles and he is with Peter Norman and he is with Sachin Tendulkar and he is with Caesar as he gets stabbed and he is with Simon Beauvoir on his last journey and he is with Voldemort as he makes his horcrux.

This way, he is everywhere, and everywhere is him.

But right now?

Right now, he is just a page marked in yet another book, preparing to be a part of a yet another universe when he leaves the smell of his favourite cologne in between its sheets.

Bookworm’s Delight: Animal Farm

Animal Farm by George Orwell is a masterpiece, and so, I was deeply annoyed when my friends said, “It’s such a children’s book.” It is a simple book, with a message that even adults fail to decipher.

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

The story begins with the Major, an old and a widely respected boar, who moments before his death proclaims that all animals must get rid of Jones, their owner, rebel to overthrow human tyranny and establish the ‘Republic of Animals’. Under the leadership of Snowball and Napoleon, two pigs, the animals begin to fight for there rights, until it’s not about their rights, but about power. Who wins, and who loses is what the entire novella narrates. It’s the story of a rebellion gone wrong.

The story-line is brilliant, the language easy, and the characters relatable, not not in physical form. It describes in true innocence the ugly truth behind power, the hypocrisy of living being, both animals and humans, and the extent that living beings can go to in order to obtain what they want.

Orwell has been a clever man, because he manages to describe, with success, the true nature of humans, with the help of simple characters.

This book ends with a simple sentence that sums up entire novel perfectly.

“Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.”

Books: The Ultimate Soulmate

“Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life.” – Mark Twain

I like reading books. I love them. I love the idea that simple words we use everyday, can create a magical world, hidden in the clouds, or under the sea, in the forest or maybe, just inside the wall next to your bed. Your books may leave you in a world of fantasy for, maybe, a month, or may give you another reason to not read. The same books may change your entire prospective or deepen your believe further. These little words printed on paper, spin themselves to create a world from which, in most cases, escape doors are hard to find. It is the same words that made me read 5 books in 9 days. And to be truthful, I am proud of this endeavor. Yes, quite a feat actually.

I read the Hunger Games: Trilogy (which I got very cheap for just Rs.600 from Flipkart, very cheap), then I read The Undomestic Goddess, and finally, Those Pricey Thakur Girls. Frankly, I am full of surprise that someone can twist a story as well as Suzanne Collins (Hunger Games). I even enjoyed The Undomestic Goddess, but Those Pricey Thakur Girls turned out to be a disappointment. I think it was a wee bit spicy for my taste.

Before I say more, let me narrate to you, how my love affair with books started. It was the red- colored ‘Famous Five’ that caught my attention at a stationary shop in my tenth (not sure) year of existence on the earth. And down on my knees I went, begging my father to buy me the one book I wanted. Everyone at my house, my pa, grandpa, and my aunts, all read books. It turned out to be quite sorrowful for my father later, when he realized that I had not inherited a single gene from that department. So he made hay while the sun shined and bought me the book, which, of course, I read and loved. I read two more books from the same series and that is when I discovered that there is a huge world out there, with many people, who have nothing else to do, writing books. Roald Dahl, R.L Stine, Ruskin Bond were some of the early authors read. Just as my interest in books grew, so did my collection, which now covers an entire wall in the smallest room of our house (not all books are mine; some are dad’s while some are as old as my grand dad).

This is my first love. No matter how old I become, no matter how gloomy the day may seem, no matter if the world is fighting the WWIII, these printed papers always manage to take my mind of things and carry me to London, to study at Hogwarts, or some fifty million years later to Panem, to attend the Hunger Games, of before the birth of Christ to witness the fight between Shiva and Daksha. And I might just add, even if you feel morose, and the only flicker of hope had died away, the yellow, rusty and smelly old pages of your favorite books will surely make you smile and crinkle up the edges of your eyes. Books are that escape from the world that even a migration to, say, Pluto, won’t provide.

You may not have any money in your wallet, but books travel with you, along with all the characters in the story, and don’t ask for payment.  I know this sounds insane, but I can tell you exactly where the Starbucks in London is, or how large is the Central Park in New York and where the lake is, or maybe, where Rusty had his first kiss, in Dehra. It’s all because I read stories based there (God forbid, my father plans a trip there). Books, like people, don’t ask favors, but just keep unrolling the stories they carry, collected from many places, without  a stop, and without any moment’s hesitation grab your hand and mind and pull you on board in this journey called Life. Books are companions for life, just as C.W.Eliot says:

“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.”

For people, whose lovers betrayed them, for husbands, whose wives are dead and wives whose husbands have gone the same way. For children who could never meet there parents, or to parents whose children have stopped caring for them, books provide the ultimate retreat. The people feel the connect to characters like Harry (orphaned), Rusty (abandoned), Katniss/Peeta (uncared) or going into old classics, Romeo and Juliet (loved, hated and finally killed) or the ancient mariner (whose regret was much harder to carry than to live life) or Ullin’s daughter (whose father failed to understand her love for the chieftain) are just to name a few. People reach out at an emotional level with character so heart melting and thus, feel the need to not just read, but also know more.

And you know, the best things about books? They let us create our world. They don’t dictate our imagination. For instance, Rowling’s description of the castle, “Hogwarts a vast stone castle, with many turrets and towers. It sits high on a cliff, overlooking the grounds, the lake and the forest. The ceiling of the Great Hall, where the students and staff gather for meals and other events, is bewitched to look like the sky outside,” shows that the person is free to image that the ceiling to be ten stories high, or twenty stories high and so on. The person is free to picture that the ceiling may be wooden or plastic or steel, or may be none at all and just pure magic that doesn’t let rain wet the seated. And also they make good bathroom reads.

So be it sunshine or rain, droughts or flood, happy times or sad times, books survive all. So whenever you are feeling blue, just remember that you always have someone to turn to. Because, nothing is better than having a hot coffee mug in your hands, perched up on the big armchair, and smell and see and feel and read you favorite book and move on.

 

I Regret

I can’t sleep at night
Books are everywhere in sight.
Exams are near
Taking away everything dear.

T.V. , Computers, PlayStation
We can’t live: They are our addiction.
Friends are a world apart
A treat is, for us, visiting the mart.

Papers flying everywhere
Books are scattered here and there.
Pens are making screeching sounds
The syllabus left is a big mound.

The exams are a day after
Parents’ shouts drowning our laughter!
If only I had studied before,
I would have been so sore.