Gift Wrapper

I think this story would deserve the title Airport Love - Part 2 but somewhere in the middle of its conceptualization the current title became more fitting.

Try listening to My Body Is A Cage by Peter Gabriel when you're reading this. A macabre mood does you good sometimes.

If you listened to me, then you're reading this at the airport as you wait for your flight.

Looking around at plastic smiles, plastic baggage, plastic cups and breathing recycled.
So I decided to have a conversation that Im certain I wouldn't have the guts to do face to face.

Something that is better left unsaid. But since when have I followed my own advice?

We've been together, what, 7 years?

Maybe there have been surprises here and there, small bouts of suspense. But overall, our relationship has been nothing but predictable.
Like walking into a Nolan film expecting to be awed.
Or expecting a Mani Ratnam movie to have a happy ending.
Life doesn't always have happy endings. Something I learnt from you.

But I remember vividly, the first night we spent together. Camping somewhere near Perth.
I remember waking up next to you. I remember wanting to wake up next to you, even if there was no dawn and no sunset.

I remember watching you wake.

I remember cooking for you. Serving wine to an already intoxicating person.
I still want to drive through northern French countryside with you.
But cruelly enough, I want to drive back alone.

The feelings I had, I will forever have for you. But I think my want for expressing them has been satisfied. It reminds me of something my mother used to do. Something that I never clearly understood until now.

She took more care in unwrapping the gift paper than she took joy in enjoying the gift.

I think our relationship has reached a point where anything more is certainly a gift.

A Wrapped Gift.
But I'm so much in awe of how perfectly our previous conversations have ended that I'm too scared to tear open the gift wrapper.

That somehow, crazily enough, I will enjoy our memories more than the process of making more.

So when you return from your trip; nothing will have vanished.
Except for me.

______________________________________________________

I enjoyed writing this story. Dont hate, appreciate.

Now reading - The Return of Bruce Wayne - Grant Morrisson

Now Listening - We Swarm - The Glitch Mob

Now Feeling - Uh, Tired

From The Eye Of A Husband

Hello.

Exam in 2 days and somehow I feel like writing only now haha.
What follows is a work of fiction. I dont know if its something Im proud of. But I havent written a story as free flowing as this one. This is written assuming an alternate way of thinking. And I assure you, this doesn't resemble my flow of thought. Much.
This is Mr Loisel's perspective of the events that take place in the short story called  "The Necklace" by Guy De Maupassant. Please read it if you intend on reading this. And bear with me if some elements dont make too much sense.

There's something terribly alluring about the sparks from a lighter's flint. Its a feeling that just lets you know that something interesting is to follow.
I dont think we've met. But Im Mr. Loisel to the world and the same, to you.
Im a clerk, a silent man, and a husband. Not necessarily in that order.

I don't have any savings, dont have a house to my name. Dont have more than 3 shirts including the one Im wearing now.
And yet, here I am. With a cigarette and a night sky view.
Long story short. We were poor (not as poor as we are now, but poor nevertheless). I gave all my savings to buy a dress my wife could wear to the ball. She loaned jewelry from her friend.
And she lost it. I've worked the past 12 years to repay that debt. We finally have. We're free now.
Or thats what I keep telling myself. Hoping that from the next time, I'll actually believe it.

I wonder everyday, how life would've turned out if Id just stuck with my initial plan of asking her to wear flowers to the ball. Or if Id decided to not show her the invitation at all, and bought a gun and shot some birds. (Pun unintended)

Im a 40 year old man and until a while back I thought that expecting someone to show you genuine care and love, and them not doing so is the most painful thing. But now, with a view so clear. With my hand on my heart, I can tell you; the hardest thing is giving someone all the love and all the care you can muster, and get none in return.

Why did Mathilde marry me? Im not great looking. Im not rich. But she stayed. Only to ruin my life.

40,000 francs. The mountains I could've moved had I earned that money willingly and not forcefully.

And what do I get for slaving away my entire life to account and cover up for the stupidity of my wife? Has she ever tried to compensate for the sorrow that I face everyday?

Cold turkey and soup for dinner. A sour mood for breakfast.

I think I lost my wife that night. Along with the necklace.
And I think I lost myself when I realized that.

Because I realized how stupid we are. How stupid we deliberately choose to be.
I love Mathilde. I love her beyond her faults. And I love her even though she's the reason I'll never see the good life.

And I love her even though we never talk now. And I love her.
She wards away my insecurities. And although Im unhappy with her, I think I wouldn't exist without her.

I blew a cloud. And waited for it to disappear.

I think life is like that cloud of smoke I just blew. Theres clarity for a second. A clarity that blocks your view of what's ahead of you. Then it disperses and merges with reality, and you're back to have never understood it at all.
I think we'll never be able to understand life. And that if we did, we'd certainly be missing the point.

Mathilde walks in on me, causing me to jump in surprise.

"I met Jeanne when I was strolling down Champs-Elysees", she said

She told me that the 36,000 franc diamond necklace we slaved was a replacement for a 500 franc fake necklace.

I think I smiled. I say "I think", because I felt so distanced from myself at that point, I could've been slapped in the face and I wouldn't have realized.

I lit another cigarette and asked Mathilde to sit next to me. And I told her, that Paris looked beautiful tonight, and so did she.

I blew a smoke ring. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Now Reading - Uh, nothing.

Now Listening : Pani Da - Vicky Donor

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

Airport Love

What follows is a work of fiction. Inspired by what I have been reading in the recent past and my feelings during said duration. This story has no purpose, no moral and no sarcastic/witty one-liners.
Its merely a situation, like any other, that has its own beauty.
And appreciating beauty as you should know by now, is an acquired taste. So dont hate, congratulate.


I've never like airports. The world insists on so much recycling. I guess those people never look at airports and see what I see. Recycled air. Recycled trays to serve food in. Recycled glasses that are proof to their seemingly genuine hospitality. Recycled paper. Recycled emotions.
But these are thoughts from another day.
Now, whilst sitting next to her , I feel no worry at the misdemeanor of the airport. I turn to look at her, find her reading a book. Doing the same thing she was doing when I first saw her. Apart from one of her hands being interlocked with mine. 
Our drinks had been refilled. I smirked at how small their drinks were and how much smaller they seemed compared to my predicament with her.
There's something terribly alluring about her skin. How it was somehow smooth and dark, throughout. How the darkness inside her was both there and not there. Visibly taunting me.
How her lips moved so effortlessly to say what pleased me and then closed. Leaving me wondering when they would open again and what they would say.
It struck me now, how simply you had said it and yet with so much conviction. That what we had was not meant to last.I continue looking into your face wondering if the beauty that lies herein would answer my never-ending questions. Then again, who would?


I remember now the countless steps we took together. Our eyes locked and our thoughts seldom remaining with only one of us. I remember now, the many pizzerias we ate at. How you agreed when I said these meats were too salty and these wines too syrupy.
I remember now, how I knew your mouth watered when I mentioned Good Ol Indian food and a chilled beer.


But I wonder now if I will be able to hear your laughter in the silence that will no doubt ensue. If I can see your smile in the darkness that will blanket my life. If eating pizza again will take me back to Rome with you?But as I leave the somewhat hazy bit of my memory, and re-enter recycled our extensively recycled world; I think not.


I understand and accept that the landscapes and sceneries I will encounter in the future will have to suffice. The landscape of your body and the monuments I discovered there will forever only be a memory.


Being almost late for your flight, you left. Leaving me with only the last ever taste of your lips.


But even among sorrow and recycled air, I am sure life will go on. Like water that always returns to the river and fuel that always ends up in fire, my life too will return to Normal.

Even if that's not what I want.


________________________________________



Unrelated news, I got into college. So thats a relief.
The road looks smooth now but then again, so do all roads.

________________________________________


Now Listening: Bali - Shaitan
                        Danza Kuduro - Don Omar

Now Reading : Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri
                        Family Matters - Rohinton Mistry
Now Feeling : Relieved

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.