What's In A Story?

Hello.
My exams near. Any more discussion on that topic is strongly discouraged.


This post is made thinking of one of the most interesting people I know in this world. His identity is kept a secret by choice.

What makes a story memorable?
What makes you remember one story and forget the rest?
Spoiler alert, I dont have the answer. Sorry.


Some people look at their lives as a photograph, some as a film, some as a book, some as a song,  some as a game of tennis and some as an equation. I take these specific examples because I know atleast one in each of the aforementioned categories.
I also know this one person who looks at the world as the women he can love, the women he can't, and the rest.
Its a personal question to ask somebody how they see their lives. But Im assuming we're amongst friends here and Il just skip right to the part where I tell you that I look at my life as a story. A work of fiction. A balance of the elements that make a good, crisp story.
I wonder why storytelling is only a hobby and not an explicit profession?
I like to remember my life as multiple stories that I can tell. Will "I can share" be a better usage, I ask?

My grandfather, every encounter with him, results in atleast 2 stories I wish I could tell as my own. Things as simple as his school routine in the 50's or how he got a job at the age of 16 or how his school fees were Rs. 4 a month. Or his last conversation with his father.
I wonder out of the thousands he's got to tell, the ones he remembers vaguely, the ones that shall forever remain a secret, I've but been told of a mere handful.
Its like squatting one mosquito, knowing how many more are left.

I wish by reading that, you too would want to share as many stories as possible with the people around you. Spread the love, so to speak.
Because the infinite things that you now leave unsaid, the things that you now find embarrassing, and the promises that only you remember, seem so much more human, when you say it with a story.
And does it not excite you by the possibility of gaining knowledge about someone's life ? Knowledge that doesn't necessarily contribute to you academically or technically. But is there really anything more intimate than knowing the colour of someone's toothbrush? (Just an example)


And would we not appreciate a secret more if we knew the story behind it?
The deepest darkest secrets I keep, I keep them for a reason. The reason must never be a secret. Why not incorporate said reason into a story, is my argument.



Speaking of stories, check out "Snow, Glass, Apples" by Neil Gaiman (mind-fucking-blowing author), "Memento Mori" by Jonathan Nolan (Chris Nolan used this as inspiration for Memento) and some O.Henry if you've got the time.



Now once again, it is time I leave you with nothing but your own thoughts. When we become as scary and as loving as we can possibly be.

Good Night,
V






_______________________________________________________



Hope is never lost, Only forgotten
- Yours truly


"And the secret, of course, to any list is to keep it in a place where you're bound to see it."

- Memento Mori - Jonathon Nolan

Now Reading :  Timeline - Michael Crichton

Now Listening : Pretty Lights - Finally Moving

                         Tor.Ma in Dub - Smile

Now Feeling : Slightly discontent

Disengaging Emotions

Greetings and felicitations for the upcoming festivities. Knock yourself out by believing into the custom of having to celebrate only on certain days and lose and forget that the point of life is celebrating everyday. Or atleast living a search that helps you find something to celebrate in yourself.

Im in the heart of Chennai in a kickass hostel but I have no Internet. Which means the occasional chances I get at Internet are almost always worthless. So if you deem it fit then I apologize for the long time that I have been absent from you. Whoever the fuck you are.

Im gonna be brutally honest here, I dont really like my college. Its as dry and as bland as the mess food here. Im in love with Chennai though. And my guys here are Swag Gurus of their own sort.
I love being a local here. Being able to slip in and out of seemingly normal situations, click those mental pictures and just try and learn a story from a face. My favourite passtime here. Public transport is just a boon for the story-hungry like me.
This place has probably brought out a different side of me. A side thats here to stay, or maybe not.
All I wonder is, how I do know whats worth the risk and whats not?
And like most of the questions I ask, I live a life searching for ze answers.

I turned 18 a week ago. Frankly, I dont feel no different. Sure it was a great day and nite but I feel like the same entity. I thought the Gods would come down and marvel at what I'm doing. Wait, I'm just fucking with you. Im pretty sure they already do marvel at what I do. Just as how they do at what you do. Or anyone for that polytheist argument.

But if there's anything Im sure of by now, its that who I am (or who you are ) is defined by every little moment in our lives. Nothing we have done has not affected us. All the embarrassing moments, the things you'd change if you could go back in time. Well theres a fractional probability that you wont be you if that hadn't happened. Im just saying. We  live a life where our actions and their ramifications can never entirely be understood. So why bother and complicate things wondering how life would have been , and just observe how life will be?
And be proud of that? After all the most intangible and integral part of our mental identity is our life. You, me , no one in the world can change that.
So if you're in that road in life where you're wondering why life turned out like this and how life would have been if this hadn't happened, then just stop there. There's no point. Life is only as complicated as we make it and thats the truth. Embrace it and believe it. Only then will you feel it.
And sometimes I get a little too poetical for my own good. Haha hopefully someone will find that endearing.

Hope.


Thats all life is really. And I shall say this time and again.
Im taking bends and curves, but Im just enjoying the feel of the wind.

Goodnite.
-
V


____________________________________________________________________________


Today, I was sitting on the steps of church waiting for a bus when I saw an old Catholic nun being assisted up the steps by a young man wearing a Muslim turban. Once they were at the top, the nun turned to the young man and said, “I can see both of our gods raise beautiful children. Thank you.” The young man smiled and nodded. MMT

Today, I was standing at a crosswalk in the rain waiting for the light to change when the girl next to me pushed her large umbrella a little to the right so that it covered both of our heads. We then looked at each other for a prolonged moment and exchanged smiles before we crossed the street and walked in separate directions. MMT




Now Listening : Mindstreet, Broken, Tribes of Babel - Motherjane 
Now Reading : I Am Number Four - Pittacus Lore
                       The Immortals of Meluha - Amish
                       Revolution 2020 - Chetan Bhagat
                       A Thousand Splendid Suns - Khaled Hosseini
Now Feeling : At home.

Recurrance

Ever wondered what it would be like to lose your ability to store new memories? Short term memory loss. Media and propoganda have probably made you familiar with that term. But spare it a thought beyond the realm of film.
If your life began and ended every 15 minutes, how awful would that be?
Not at all. Allow me to explain.
I live a life of analogies and misunderstandings. Im hoping this story will help you realize what a blessed life a memory loss patient lives.

Waking upto gunshots is not exactly the dream life of many. But my condition puts me in situations like this. Or so I assume. The unnerving part is me holding the gun and staring at the eyes of a man  who just lost his life. Im trying by instict to see what emotion that man last conveyed before I helped him. I like to tell myself I helped. It doesn't matter anyway. Soon Im gonna be having this argument with myself. Thats my life. Lives rather. I dont have the ability to make new memories. I survive on notes and small paragraphs that I write myself to remind me of who I am and why I do what I do. Its a jungle out there they say. But the real jungle we're afraid of is in here, in our minds. The whole while. We just choose never to go hunting. So much for pleasantries. Although, wait, whats that at the window...


Flashing lights in your eyes is not how someone would like to wake up. But thats when I realize Im already awake with a dead man on the floor and a gun in one hand. A helping hand with the pun intended, if I may. But in the other hand, I hold a note written by a familiar hand to the not so familiar situation.
You are a nobody. Leave like one.
Golden Park Hotel. Room 908.
I am a dream walker, I say to myself. I live my own dreams and nightmares and I learn. But most of all, I teach. Who, you ask. Myself. Its a cycle. I learn while I teach and I teach while I learn. I guess wordplay isn't affected by my condition.


The sound of a moving train is not how someone would like to wake up. But I'm already up.
Trains move and so I assume, I am moving to somewhere. Where, I ask.
The note in my hand explains. I look around and see people with faces like mine, eyes like mine, and yet. How different we are, I wanted to tell that woman who stood next to me. I wont remember you in 10 minutes and I never will really know you more than how you present yourself to me every 10 minutes. Its a cruel life, said her face, as if Fate were playing a cruel joke on me and she had heard every word I had just thougt.
Maybe it is a cruel life. But this is my stop. And thats what I do. I Stop. And then I Start.


A train door opening and masses of human scum entering and leaving is the sight that I was born into. I miss my mother. I recount her face from memory and I realize that there's a chance she doesn't know of me anymore. Its a cruel world. A jungle they say. But the real jungle, is up here, in our minds. The note I clutch in my hands tells me where to go. And I, the obedient servant of myslef, follow.

908.
Its a funny no, 9. Any number containing the digit 9, when all its digits are added result in the sum of all the digits except 9. Try it. And any multiple of 9, when digit-added results in 9. Instinct tells me I have a thing for numbers. I've already made almost 18 (again, a multiple of 9 and a beautiful no. of its own accord) observations and conclusions on a 3 digit no. Its a funny world.

The room is empty and devoid of anything that encourages or implies that what lived within its confines was what would be called an average human. I think I would've liked to give this impression to anyone snooping on me. I raise my hat to myself. I live a good life, being able to marvel at my handiwork everytime as though I see and understand it only for the first time. I see that the toilet is very well maintained and once again, I marvel at my need to be clean even when little in the world matters.
On the desk I find a document filled with details of one person. I'm not one for names so I'll just skip it. I search for some sort of writing I recognize and I find it.


Waking up to a lone table in an empty room is not a story most would share. But this, alas, is my life. I see the paper has some words on it. Written by as familiar as familiar can get. By Yours truly. It Read:
He raises interesting questions. Probably he holds a cure to the misery ?
(To what misery?, which is soon answered)
How do you know that what you are thinking now has not been thought all your life and will be thought for , for the remainder of your life?

Suddenly, I shiver. Such brilliance. Such concisement in the matter of my life. My biggest problem brought down to one fucking string of words.
I ask myself, how do I know if I haven't spent all my life thinking whether I have spent all my life thinking of my life?
Its a circle of insanity. That never ends. That never ceases. That never stops.
Even imagining my life in this aspect makes me shudder.
But then, in the simplicity that only I can understand, it hits me.
This is not insanity.
It is pure beauty.
Why it sounds insane is because you think that you remember that the cycle exists. I do not. Each time is as genuinely felt as the previous and as earnestly awaited as the next.
It does not affect me. But yet it poses a problem.
And solutions to problems are a bit of my speciality.

So I tore the note and made another. Even more concise than the last.
It read:
Kill Him. He challenges the beauty of your life.



I woke up to a note telling me to kill someone.  To a note from me telling myself to kill someone. Of all the people in the world, who else would I trust but myself?


Now,
If I can only remember where the bloody bullets are?




___________________________________________

In completely unrelated news, I just got a BlackBerry.
Which means that getting in touch with me has never been easier. Drop me a line if you require my BB pin, my phone no. or any of the email id's that I can access via the BB.

Stay safe .


-
V


_____________________________

Now Listening:
Hello Good Morning - Diddy Dirty Money
Please Don't Go - Mike Posner
Dum Maaro Dum (the original one ) - Dum Maaro Dum

Now Reading : My BBM conversation with Shivani. \m/

Now Feeling : Sinister

Insanity Amongst Other Things

Greetings and wishes for unwished occassions my ever faithful audience. I am of the opinion that there is no apologizing to be done for my absence over the past few weeks. I doubt I was missed and I hope I can bring back that writing mode I ever so love. The exams are yet to be done with but the ones that are over have taken their toll on me. Im happy they're over and I think thats all I wish to speak of 'em.

What follows is a short story I made in my mind a few mins ago. Written at a stretch with no drafts and reviews. Dont judge. Dont hate. Congratulate.




1.15am
About the time when the drunks and the not so drunks begin leaving the crowded bar and head to the wife. Whether they get a banging or get to do some banging will never be known. She herself never bothered. Cleaned the glasses. Cleared the plates and got on with life. Deep down inside, it was the picture of that '69 Mustang and the joint she kept in her locker that kept her going.Possibly it was some psychological problem that a doctor would cure with a hundred million sedatives and an ever-more effective bill. But to her opinion, everyone had some shit messed up in their heads and it often was a matter of perspective to realize who would really stab you while you sleep and who wouldn't.
And then he came in.
Oh yes, straight out of one of those magazines, she had never seen this man come into the bar before. Never seen a man like him before, in fact. She had never felt the kiss and warmth of a man for a very long time. She never knew what it felt like to have a man celebrate her as a perennial festival and not as a singular evening's trophy. C'est la vie, someone had told her. C'est la vie Je ne veut pas vivre is what she wanted to tell that someone. But not all that is thought is said in this funny world we call home.
He sat right across her, she behind the counter, eyes fixed on him and his, fixed on the TV screen.
"Jack. Make it a double", he said. Simple enough order if it had been another man. And it would've bin given in the same old dusty glasses used for eons. But no, this was no ordinary man. One of the new glasses, a little more than a double and a professionally cut lemon wedge perfectly placed so as to not hinder the first and the perfect sip. But the person she served was no usual at this bar and neither was he paying attention to all the signs this woman was so subtly conveying.
In a matter of seconds, "Reload", he said.
Same routine. Unnoticed, obviously.
2 seconds and 2 shots afterward, he asked,"I've always thought the bartender would wonder why a man comes in  late and orders more shots than you're allowed to give this time in the night. You, however do not seem to share the opinion." 
Blood flowing faster than all the alcohol she had served, she was at a loss for words. The handsome brute spoke. He was not just a morose tank. He was a talking morose tank. Christmas does come early once in a while.
Doing the same thing any woman does when talking to a man she has a thing for, "Uh. Okay. Why you drinkin' so much pal?"
Not overdone, she thought.


He smiled. Not a giving smile. A sinister, almost borderline grieved smile.
"You see that woman on the tele? That Martha J?"
"Yeah"
"I asked that woman to marry me 4 nights back. She said yes."
"Oh my God. Im so sorry"
Why was she sorry? Martha J was featured in the news report about her death.
"No you're not. You havent done anything , why must you be sorry?
It is a shitty situation when you hear bout someone's death and there is no bloody right way to respond. Eh. Who gives a...?" 
5th Reload.
"Suicide is what the police have confirmed. I got me a text from her the night before she did it. Telling me not to mourn her and to consider life as a new page. Funny bit is that the police never found her phone. But we were no spies or important people for a suicide to be staged. Maybe she threw it. Maybe she didn't. Im just gonna have to live without that knowledge. Although, living at all seems to be a harder task now."
"You gotta hang in ther' honey. Things will change. I know it."
"Says who? Say, whats yer name Missy?"
"Hope."
"Thats as ironic as life can get. 
I better get going now, lass. Got the rest of my life to brood. This is for the drinks and for being the first person in many to have not asked me if I did that to the woman who would've been the mother of my children."
"I can't take your money sir. Its alright"
"You see this bunch of notes? Comes to about 15 bucks. I first met Martha when she was ahead of me in line in a branch of a fast food joint. Their credit card machine was down and she didn't have no money. I was hungry and I offered to pay for her meal. After the customary formalities and involuntary denial she agreed to it and promised she'd pay it back. That's how we started dating. Then, a day after she killed herself, I got a letter from her addressed to me, written on the day she did it. It contained this wad of notes. Now why would she do that eh?
Did she want me to think that the whole thing was just a prolonged mindfuck to pay me back a measly 15 bucks? That I was supposed to forger her like I forgot that she owed me money?
This money won't let me sleep missy. You keep it. You look like someone who knows how to use it."
"Er. Thanks. Where will you go now?"
"Home. Or whatever is left of it"
And he left. And she never saw him again. She almost considered the whole thing being a dream.


Hope told this story a total of a hundred times before her death as a tool for inspiration, strengthening relationships and as her last words to the man who held her as she died. She valued it more than any heirloom that she inherited. And cherished it beyond measure.
But her story was incomplete. She never saw the tele, after our man left, showed that Martha was killed in a car accident. And nothing to do with suicide.




Back "home", he enters and hits the bed.
"Hey honey, how did the class go?", asked his wife. Yes, his wife.
"Life changing Martha Darling. Life-changing. By the way, don't you owe me money from the first time we met?"








If the intricacies and the underlying message of this story failed to reach you, leave a word and I shall explain.


________________________________________________________
Got one exam left and I hope it goes well.
Played Holi like a maniac today. Cheers to Daddy Long Legs for that.
Stay safe and don't drink and drive. However horrible you are, I think you dont deserve to die in a space as tight and enclosed as your car.

Goodnite Folks,
V










Now Listening:
Payaliyaa - Dev D (Trippy song, check it out)
Den Standiga Resan - Opeth
High - James Blunt            
Now Reading : Brisingr - Christopher Paolini (The fourth book, Inheritance is out in November and I dont think I'll survive the curiousity!)
Now Feeling : Happy and slightly hungry.        

The Welcome Mat

I apologize if you look forward to seeing the words my hands type appear on your screen. I have been postponing doing this. There have been many weekends passing with something else more important than you. Or so it felt like at that time.
If youre not a reader and just found this by your own course of life, then take the time to reach the last fullstop and not stop at this one .

I am a thought filled person and I take my time with my decisions. But the past few months have been more or less impulsive. Doing things without sparing them much thougt. Its not like a life altering process but I feel like I dont know the person who did all the things I just did.


But a lot has happened since then and that person has disappeared only for me to resurface.
I am a bored, sleepy and lazy person and I need some boosts once in a while to realize all the beauty in life.
Jhankaar did just that. I didnt participate in anything. Neither did I do too much work. But I was there. A part of my school. For the last time. I represented that which I love. And I felt happy when I got back home. Happy that places like the field stands and the multipurpose hall and the basketball courts will bring back memories. Memories of periods bunked, of events attended. Of things I've done in these years at school. A little early to get all emotional about my school you might say but its never too early to start liking something more.
Every corridor and every teacher and every part of my school has a memory linked to it. And that memory never was and never will be the same if it weren't for me. And thats as close to the best feeling on Earth.

And here I am, realizing that in a few months Im about to lose all thats bin important for me all my life. Im not going to be a school student in a few months.
But Im smiling. Why? Because I am not losing anything.
All there was shall remain. And all there is to be shall be.


Sentiments apart and onto what this post is about.
Im going to watch Shawshank Redemption again for the nth time and I already know I'll be a happier person once I've seen it.
Because the movie doesnt talk about redemption by actually killing a woman and going to jail. In fact many people feel that Andy finds redemption by becoming the rich man in the convertible car and the beach scenery. But thats just a picture to hang on your wall. Or a welcome mat.
Redemption is with Red. Redemption is in decency a man shows even in prison. Redemption is in how a man retains integrity till his death. Redemption is in leaving prison a more peace-filled man. Redemption is in saying True Salvation Comes From Within.

Redemption is in living a life with simple emotions.

You could do the flashiest of things, eat the unhealthiest of foods and drive the fastest of cars and still live a simple life if all you are made up of are simple emotions.


Life is far too complicated as it is for us to make it worse.
Make simple choices. And express simple emotions and life is good.
Complex emotions stop a man from walking up to a woman and telling her that she looks good. Complex emotions stop someone from going upto someone and just asking them what the problem is.

But without exception, you will disagree. And if you actually tell me that, whether we know each other or not. Whether we like each other or not. Whether we care or not. Then you just proved me right.


Redemption is in Simple Emotions.



Cheers to Good Movies,
V



______________________________
Now Listening - Nothing.
Now Watching - The Shawshank Redemption
Now Reading - Eldest - Christopher Paolini ( I Cannot wait for the fourth book)
Now Feeling - Oddly Happy

Lost But Never Found

Hey,
A month it has been since we last...read/wrote? Let me begin by thanking you. The very fact that your eyes are moving over the very words that my fingers have typed makes me smile. You may not relate to them, may not appreciate them, may not even pay attention to them but you are an audience. And you are what every writer wants. Maybe its too much to call myself a writer but till we get another term, I'm gonna stick with that.

This month can be summed in pretty much one word: SLEEP.
For all you haters who say you've done more epic things than this, I really don't care. There's nothing more comforting than a pillow, a nice blanket, no worries of a school, the two digits it brands upon you and sure as hell no timings to stick to. I find it the most awesome thing since I've hardly been able to do it in the recent past.

My mind has almost been a stagnant blackhole this month. Not much to think about when you're mind's taking rest all the time. Got a lot of lost music this month. Not too many movies. Quite a bit of Madina. Not too much of Shatti. Money crunches galore.

Browsed a lot of MMT's. Real touching shit man. Makes you appreciate your life so much more and helps you understand that even small actions can put a smile on someone else's life and rest apart, thats what life's most about, smiling.


Maybe its all the sleep but I cant write much this time. Almost forced myself to do this.

As for the title, its something that all the Texts From Last Nights & Makes Me Thinks that I formulated;


There's a quality that each and every one of possesses, not necessarily the same quality. A quality that is either inculcated or brought into you by whatever source. Its not the quality that others define you by. Its the quality that you define yourself by. A quality that not everyone has to know but you must. A quality that may be diffilcult to obtain but bloody easy to lose. All this third person description might have made you feel that I'm going to tell you the quality. Read again. Its not a quality that everyone shares.


If, however you lose this quality, you lose yourself. And once its lost, it can never be found. Sure, you can adopt another quality, but you're never the same. You can change the definition of anything but it will never be the same. Hope you get what I'm trying to say.


From TFLN I've read about people doing some VERY embarrassing stuff and then texting about it. I mean who the hell does some very screwed up shit and then texts someone about it??

Makes Me Think is a site that every bloody one of you should visit once in a while. Nothing will make you reconfirm that there are good people still on Earth than that site. Brilliant, to say the least.


This month has revolved around these two sites, Madina and Sherlock Holmes. Normal. If I may say so.


I found my quality during this month. And I'm bloody proud of it.

Hoping you find yours,
V

_________________________________________________________________________


(312): I remember going home with 2 girls. Woke up with 4.


(407): I went to disney world today with my friends, met snow white, then saw her later at a bar. she is naked next to me in her bed, passwed out. when you wish upon a star...

Today, I am bound to a hospital bed, slowly losing my battle with cancer. About an hour ago, I told my wife that she must live her life to the fullest and accomplish great things after I'm gone. She kissed me on the forehead as she comforted our baby boy and said, "I already have." MMT


Today, I sat in class with my head down for most of the period. My teacher asked me to stay behind. I thought I was in trouble for not paying attention. Instead he said, “If you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.” I intend to take him up on his offer tomorrow. MMT



Now Listening: Invisible - Will.I.Am

Now Eating: Pizza after a LONG time

Now Reading: The White Tiger- Aravind Adiga

Now Feeling: Relieved since I finally know when school reopens.