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A tale through years

Amol-Aalia
…A story that never was

“Chalte, chalte, mere yeh geet yaad rakhna
Kabhi alvida na kehna”

As the radio gently blew out the melody into the sleepy, dark room, the clutter in Amol’s mind was swept away by a pristine image- a beautiful girl in a serene, delicate white sari, wisps of her loose hair playing about her face, glowing against a dark background. It was Aalia as she had looked when she sang this song in the Farewell.

Aalia...that was the name he remembered the most from his college.

The old memories started playing out in his mind. Aalia’s first day in college. She had joined two weeks late. Amol still remembered the yellow suit she had been wearing that day. He couldn’t think why, but a thought had crossed his mind then- “Maybe I’ll remember this day someday.” Then, during a free lecture, Malati, who was also Aalia’s roommate, had introduced her to him and other friends. That day, Aalia stepped into their group, and his life.

Everyday, his eyes would search for her the moment he entered the class. Even today, he could visualize the different dresses that she wore. His face became radiant whenever she talked with him, his heart longing to treasure every word she said. The twinkle of her eyes as she spoke would sparkle his days. Her laughter was heavenly bliss for him. Thinking about those seemingly surreal, magical moments he had once lived, a smile unconsciously alighted on Amol’s face.

But it had not been so easy then!

Four years! For four years, he had suffered in silence. For four years, he had suffered his silence. He would demur at the slightest thought of telling his feelings to her. Such an idea would instantly conjure up images of her saying “No” and turning her back on him forever...it seemed too big a risk to take.

And so, the time flew by- talking with Aalia, laughing with Aalia, thinking about Aalia but not once letting her know his little secret.

Today, lying down in his dark room, Amol was remembering Aalia. Again. It’s not that he doesn’t love his wife. He dotes on her, but he loves Aalia too. Still. At times like today, a question often haunts him…

“What if I had told her?”

*

“You know Mama, a new boy joined our class today, and he’s already become my best friend.” Six-year-old Ahaan crackled excitedly, as soon as he saw his mother.

“That’s very nice sweetie. What’s your friend’s name?” Aalia asked her son, taking him in her embrace.

“Amol.”

Aalia was stunned. She had heard the name after years. The name of the boy she had loved in college.



Afterword: I wrote the above story in the second year of college. It was my first love-story. I felt self-conscious to submit it for Quiet, our college magazine. A few of my friends teased me about it too. "It's not autobiographical," I bashfully tried to clarify. I always showed all the Magboard magazines to my parents as soon as they came out. But while showing this edition of Quiet, I felt a little apprehensive. Will my parents too think that it was autobiographical? They read it. Papa said it was a good story and that was that.
At the time, I had considered this to be my finest story. I re-read it in August this year. The story written four-and-a-half years ago now seemed naive. I made changes. Then, I juxtaposed its older and newer version and realized that the changes that I made were autobiographical. The earlier story was written according to my then beliefs, and the newer according to the belief now. Here is the changed story:



A story that never was

“Chalte, chalte, mere yeh geet yaad rakhna
Kabhi alvida na kehna”

As the radio gently blew out the melody into the sleepy, dark room, an image tiptoed into Amol’s drowsy mind- a beautiful girl in a serene , delicate white sari, wisps of her loose hair playing about her face, glowing against a dark background. That was how Aalia had looked when she sang this song in the Farewell.

Aalia Gujral...the name he had thought he would never forget.

His eyes still closed, he pushed away sleep and tried to remember. A few scenes came back, random, hazy, vague. That surprised him. Time had obfuscated the memories he had thought were unforgettable and he had not even come to know! He tried to put those scenes in order.

Aalia’s first day in college. She had joined (two weeks?) late. She was wearing a yellow suit that day. He had not known why, but a thought had crossed his mind then- “Maybe I’ll remember this day someday.” Then, Maalti, who was also Aalia’s roommate, had introduced her to all of them. Aalia had stepped into their group, and his life.

Amol-of-today smiled as he saw in his mind that young, lovesick Amol, whose eyes searched for Aalia the moment he entered the class, whose face became radiant whenever she talked with him, whose heart yearned to treasure each word she said. The twinkle of her eyes sparkled his days. Her laughter made him euphoric . Those days that he had once lived seemed so surreal and fairy-tale-like now! How simple, how innocent he had been!

For four years, that callow lovesick Amol suffered in silence. For four years, he suffered his silence. He cringed at the slightest thought of telling his feelings to her. Such an idea instantly conjured up images of her saying “No” and turning her back on him forever. It seemed too big a risk to take to that novice in love.

And so, time flew by- talking with Aalia, laughing with Aalia, thinking about Aalia but not once letting her know his little secret.

College ended. Their paths bifurcated . They hadn’t thought it was possible but they lost touch. He hadn't thought it was possible but he fell in love once more, married, had kids. The name he had thought he would never forget dimmed and dimmed and dimmed. Till a random radio song today brought it back in light.

Steeped in those tender memories of his first love, his heart became wet, soft. He mentally smiled at and blessed Aalia- dear Aalia- and the dear naïve boy he once was. Then, he remembered the long-forgotten question which, once upon a time, had afflicted him terribly:

“What if I had told her?”

*

“You know Mama, a new boy joined our class today, and he’s already become my best friend.” Six-year-old Aahaan crackled excitedly, as soon as he saw his mother.

“That’s very nice sweetie. What’s your friend’s name?” Aalia asked her son, taking him in her embrace.

“Amol.”

Aalia nodded but said nothing. She had heard the name after years. The name of the boy she had loved in college.

A video

I've just read about Peter Elbow on Wikipedia. He made a career out of his writer's block!

Binodini

Today morning, I finished Tagore's novel Binodini. The Bangla original is titled 'Chokher Bali.' 'Chokher Bali' literally means 'sand in the eye, an irritant.' This is the friendly nickname that the two female protagonists, Asha and Binodini, give to each other in the novel.

There are some books upon reading which you feel that even you can write something similar. Then, there are some which awe you totally, which humble you, make you bow your head before the talent and the intelligence of the man who could write like that, make you realize what a long way you have to go. Binodini falls in the later category. I think I will re-read the novel in a few months to fully grasp its complexity.

Many times while reading it, I put the book down, simply to reflect over the awesome characterization. "Have any of my characters ever had such psychological depth?" I asked myself. The answer was a straight 'No.' "Will I ever be able to write such characters?" I made a mental note to do specific practice of characterisation.

The main mover and shaker of the novel is Binodini. Her character is also the most complex.

The novel is set in the first decade of 20th century. Binodini is a young widow. A childhood friend of her mother, Rajlakshmi, comes to her village. Binodini is glad to have somebody to fuss over and takes very good care of Rajlakshmi. The old woman becomes very attached to her. When it is time for her to return to her son's home in Calcutta, Binodini cannot bear to let her go away. So, she takes Binodini also with her.

Thus Binodini comes to Mahendra's house. Mahendra is the only and much pampered son of Rajlakshmi. Asha is his girl-wife, Asha. Mahendra and Asha are newly married and can see nothing beyond each other. Binodini sees their conjugal bliss and feels jealous and lonely.

The first proposal to marry Binodini had actually gone to Mahendra. He had rejected it saying that he was not yet ready for marriage. She had then got married to her husband, and within an year had become a widow. Now, staying in Mahendra's house and seeing how superior she is in every respect to Asha, she starts imagining 'what could have been'. She could have been the mistress of this house.

Asha and she become very good friends. Asha looks upto her. She acknowledges Binodini's superiority to her in intellect, knowledge, household skills and beauty. Simple-minded as she is, she is eager that Mahendra too should meet her best friend, appreciate her virtues and befriend her.

Mahendra is indeed curious about the new woman in the house. But he haughtily decides to ignore her, thinking it beneath him to show interest. But when Binodini ignores him even more, his interest is aroused. Subtly manipulating his innocent wife, he sees her. Her beauty impresses him.

Slowly, Binodini seduces him. It all happens very subtly. Asha does not even realize the mischief.

Bihari is Mahendra's best friend since childhood. He is almost like the second son of the house. Bihari is an idealist. He feels great compassion for the poor and also associates with the Nationalist movement. He holds Binodini in high regard. Binodini too respects him very much. What Bihari thinks of her begins to matter to her. She now wants to live upto the image that Bihari has of her. The image of an intelligent but simple and kind-hearted woman. She begins to turn away from Mahendra. Her attempts at seduction stop.

But it is too late. Mahendra has fallen for her. The more she ignores him now, the more determined he becomes in his pursuit. Slowly, she starts directly rejecting him, and then, even insulting him. Yet, he does not stop. His desire for her only becomes more acute.

Soon, the matters precipitate. Asha discovers what has been going on. She is heartbroken. She had always worshipped Mahendra as her god. Now, the god falls from his pedestal.

When his mother confronts him about Binodini, Mahendra declares that he will leave home with Binodini.

Binodini goes to Bihari's house and confesses her love for him. He however only suggests that she return to her village. She agrees.

Soon after she goes to her village, Mahendra too appears there. The villagers are scandalized. They decree that such an immoral widow cannot be allowed to live there.

Binodini has no choice but to leave. Mahendra is glad that she will henceforth be totally dependent on him and will have no choice but to accept his love. She realizes her lack of options yet does not yield to Mahendra. In fact, she treats him with contempt, and the fact that he clings to her despite such treatment, disgusts her further.

Towards the novel's end, Mahendra's sleeping self-respect wakes up. He decides to return to his home. Upon returning, he finds that he has lost the regard that his mother and wife used to have him for him. His wife forgives him, but from now on, treats him as an equal. She is no longer the reverential bride she used to be.

Bihari proposes marriage to Binodini. But, she refuses. "Marry a widow!" she says. "What a shameful thing to do! You may be generous and reckless enough to court such a disaster, but if I let you do it, if I exposed you to social calumny on my account, I should not be able to lift my head up again."

It is said that later, Tagore regretted this ending. I too did not like it.

If she had said, "People will regard it as a shameful thing. And, I cannot let you suffer social calumny on my account," I would have understood it. She loved Bihari so much that she could bear to stay away from him but could not bear one bad word spoken about him. But what she said was, "Marry a widow! What a shameful thing to do!" This shows that she herself believed that widow remarriage was a shameful thing. And this is what I found incongruous with her characterization. Throughout the novel, Binodini is potrayed as a rebellious woman. According to the society and the religion, widows are not supposed to have any physical needs. She, on the other hand, feels no shame about her hunger for love and consciously lures another woman's husband in order to satisfy it. It seems shocking therefore to see her talk like an ideal widow when she declines Bihari's proposal. If she thought that marrying a widow was shameful, why did she offer herself to Bihari before?

I also found Binodini's words above remarkable on another count. Don't they show how our sense of right and wrong is shaped by societal conditioning? Because we have grown up with the idea that widow remarriage is ok, we raise our eyebrows at Binodini's words. She would have raised hers if we told her that there was nothing shameful about her marriage with Bihari.

The Godly dimensions of Knowledge

So many times I feel so awed
By how little I know
There is so much to learn
And, so little time!

Whenever I think about this, a sudden frenzy overwhelms me. I imagine myself drinking in greedy large gulps from the ocean of knowledge. And, I despair, because I am not drinking fast enough and there is so much to drink that my life will fall too short.

Books ought to be cheaper

I read the historical novel 'Roothi Raani' by Munshi Premchand today. The book had two novels in 100 pages and it cost, well, Rs 28.

I like buying books and spend hours at bookstores. I first pick up all the books that entice me. Then, when I do a mental calculation of how much the bill will be, I have to question myself about each of them. "How badly do I want it?" "Do I really want to own a copy of this? I can read it in the library." There are some books which I won't get in the library. So, I have to buy them.

I do these deliberations each time I buy books. Yet, I end up spending quite a fortune. Even as I make the payment, a voice inside screams that I can still leave them all on the counter and walk out and save my money. I never do that and guiltily offer my debit card to the cashier. I ought to be frugal. I am living off on my savings.

But it's so easy to buy a book of twenty eight rupees! The bestselling books of vernacular literature are fabulously priced. I went to Punjab Book Center today and bought 3 Punjabi and 2 Hindi books in Rs 178!

Chetan Bhagat's books cost Rs 95 and that was a major reason in his success. You don't think twice about buying him because it's just Rs 95!

I once bought a book 'Story and Structure' from a roadside second-hand book stall on MG Road in Bangalore. It cost Rs 30 and featured 43 short stories by as many great writers. I was shocked to have got such a gem for so little. It must have been a part of the University curriculum for literature.

I do understand that cheaper books will not be as fine in quality. That doesn't bother me much. The size of the book piracy market should be a sufficient proof that 1) We (usually) prefer to pay for the content and not the fine paper. 2) We are very much willing to pay for content until it becomes too highly priced and pulls itself out of our reach.

I also understand that the books that cater to niches are necessarily expensive. Cheaper books can be profitable to the publisher only if the sales volume is large.

And that is my point. If a book gets cheaper than a bottle of sauce, and also does satisfy some need- whether the need for relaxation or escape or knowledge- then, it will definitely achieve a large sales volume because people will then be able to make guilt-free, impulse buys of books.

The Blog enters Phase-2

I raised my eyebrows as I read the following quotation:

"In a much quoted passage in his inaugural address, President Kennedy said, "Ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country." It is a striking sign of the temper of our times that the controversy about this passage centered on its origin and not on its content. Neither half of the statement expresses a relation between the citizen and his government that is worthy of the ideals of free men in a free society. The paternalistic "what your country can do for you" implies that government is the patron, the citizen the ward, a view that is at odds with the free man's belief in his own responsibility for his own destiny. The organismic, "what you can do for your country" implies that government is the master or the deity, the citizen, the servant or the votary. To the free man, the country is the collection of individuals who compose it, not something over and above them. He is proud of a common heritage and loyal to common traditions. But he regards government as a means, an instrumentality, neither a grantor of favors and gifts, nor a master or god to be blindly worshiped and served. He recognizes no national goal except as it is the consensus of the goals that the citizens severally serve. He recognizes no national purpose except as it is the consensus of the purposes for which the citizens severally strive."
— Milton Friedman

I was astonished because it was a totally new point of view for me. I usually accept quotations on their face value. This one I did. Around three years ago, my group in college had organized a panel discussion on this quote. The movie Rang De Basanti had just been released and we were all in the grips of patriotic fervor. The general sentiment of the panelists as well as the audience had been 'Yes! We will step forward and do things for India. Kuchh kar ke dikhayeinge.'

Idealism that is woken up by a movie and sleeps back after a few days is so shallow! And gullibe is the mind which lets that happen. I cannot claim much intellectual improvement since. I am still not good at critical analysis. Writers need that skill.

*

You are not going to see any more rants on this blog. And as for that October rant about being a failure and all that, well, it was a phase and it's gone now. Things are back on track. On the writing track.

Till now, this was the blog of a 'wannabe writer'. So, you saw all of my confusions etc. here. I am no more a 'wannabe writer.'

Inspired by the vernacular literature

I bought five-six Punjabi books recently. Three of them were by Amrita Pritam. I read them first.

I finished the novel 'Eho hamaara jeevana' by Dalip Kaur Tiwana an hour ago.

It was after a really long time that I am reading Punjabi literature. The experience was delicious. Something written in words that you use naturally is so easy to read! I understood the text automatically, without consciously processing what I read. I felt that those words 'belonged' to me! As indeed they do. With English, the words, the settings, the idioms do seem like good friends but a thin barrier remains. They remain a little foreign.

So, 'the effortless reading experience' was the first point I made a mental note of.

Secondly, I noticed how natural, how plausible the dialogues seemed. Now, that was of course because I picked up good books (though Amrita does get so poetic at times that her prose seems stilted). I found 'Eho Hamaara Jeevana' excellent in this respect. I really admired the authoress' grasp over the rural Punjabi idiom. She has written exactly as a rustic would speak.

In fact, I am writing this post mainly in order to note this point. Authentic dialogue is the soul of a story. A writer need not use metaphors. He need not use heavy-duty words (in fact, he mustn't!). What he needs to do is to present his characters accurately, and to make them speak and act as a real person in that situation would.

Today, I also read a story by Munshi Premchand. Sadgati. There too, I went "Wow!" over how natural his dialogue seemed. I have read some works by Premchand over the years, but all in English.

I've decided to go to Punjab Book Center tomorrow and pick up a few books of Premchand in Hindi and more Punjabi books.

I want my English work, especially the dialogue, to seem as natural as in Hindi or Punjabi. That is a benchmark.