Do you have a story for me?

I have always found it hard to romanticize (well, at least intentionally!). Hence I am always fascinated by people sketching long poems on love, composing catchy music on life, stringing epics on beauty. It is amazing how it doesn't wear people out! I mean, far from it, people always yearn for more of this stuff. So, it is not surprising that I am now trying to find a connection between a queer tendency I have discovered in myself recently, and my apparent lack of imagination.

During my wee reading days, I was often attacked by what a few book-lovers had coined - a page-sixteen-syndrome. It simply means that the book you are holding is not going to take your mind through the fantastic journey it promised, beyond page number 16. This is because the journey it is currently taking you on is unbearable for that poor mind of yours. You need a halt and page 16 is the pseudonym. As a reader much in the green, trying to discover my comfort genre, I figured I would have to wade through a pool of seemingly boring books to thresh a few that would suit my taste.

Now the recent queer tendency that I had made a mention of earlier has to do with this page 16 syndrome. What had been a curious phenomenon witnessed during what we can call a book-reader’s puberty, has now started growing on me. I somehow cannot keep my mind to set sail and embark on the journey any book wants to take me on. I took a count of the books I had handled in the past one year and realized I had attempted 15 books, of which I may have reached page 200 of the highest scorer, the rest being discarded at an insignificant page number. Either my taste is evolving / maturing/ going through another book-reader’s puberty, or my mind is plain bored with the same dish offered in different plates! Mind you, I do not want to be misunderstood when I say same dish (I do believe no two books are the same).

What I actually mean is that I need someone to write me a magical book.

Someone to tell me it is ok to not embed a love story in a crime plot, it is equally beautiful to not sing songs about the nature, it is alright that the protagonist is dull, dim, distasteful, and one who hardly fulfils the definition of a contemporary hero, and it is lyrical to hear the punch line without the chaff. That way it will make me believe that a book can be written on you and me, our mothers and anybody. That way I know that everybody has a story to tell – some simple and some lavish. 

When he whispers sweet nothings

Every night when I put myself to sleep, I hold on to a book to help me glide through the purgatory - that is a miserable half-daze - and make my journey into the sweat heaven called dreamland smooth. Something like the last piece of reality I want to be in touch with before I shut my eyes to the world and let an unknown force take over.

Between those few moments of half-daze and deep sleep, there is this one short stretch of time where I feel enveloped by multiple thoughts all at once. More like a man whispering unrelated tit bits into my ear – strangely at the same time- but in different tones and from different locations. Picture this. You are on ground zero and you want to get to the top floor. You take the elevator. The elevator is mirror-walled on three sides. You have a co-passenger with you. You see infinite images of him on the mirror opposite. Each image telling you something different; each image showing you something distinct.  Such is the stretch before deep sleep.

Last night I pictured these sweet nothings: A Russian matryoshka doll; a girl of four with small, beady eyes, straight hair and a long skirt – she laughs every time you turn your head away from her and successfully draws your attention;  a long piece of cloth in cream with a red border; some pieces of shattered glass found on a school playground – little girls hovering around to collect the pretty shapeless pieces to play with them later; a wooden dragon on the shelf; a content Buddha head on a plain white wall... A view of the endless ocean from a ship’s cabin – an urgent feeling of “will there be land in sight soon?” ...

A few more thoughts before I am fast asleep.

Image courtesy: goodbooksforyoungsouls.blogspot