A Fantasy of mine

I’ve mostly dabbled here in supposed poetry. I’ve been absent years and this latter part due to focus on my fantasy. The fantasy is a fantasy novel I am penning now. The initial title was Garbage Teller’s Passion Wage. It started as a light hearted funny yarn of romance in a mystical setting between a storyteller and a lady of royalty. Soon fantasy mixed with reality and all my negatives found expression, the yarn dwelt on the various faiths of people and all had their holy books and so as my quest for a story of great evil grew and took shape, I decided to add to the original title, Unholy Book of the Devil Emperor. Then the central character’s name was Vel meaning a spear, with inclusion of almost copies of Vel to make six spears indicative of a six faced god in mythology, the focus title of Spear Hymns was framed. Now intend to use all three titles. All Vels are lazy, intelligent, with insanity issues and much more. They have own stories in own different worlds yet a clear demarcation and differences of these characters yet to be made.

There is a saying that for the sake of world, a nation and for that a region and town and for the town a person can be sacrificed. Despite American individualism they subscribe to this reality as pragmatism. A child, a girl is the source of a devastating plague in many worlds. Killing her would end the plague and save billions across worlds, simple arithmetic. The hero against this creed of forced sacrifice fights to save girl is the main story.

But the hero is a bachelor, unable to find a bride due to madness and in a fling satisfies wifey needs but he sees a wife now as an essential burden to bear to get the reward of kids. Like all, hero cherished innocence and mischief of kids but only more so.He is wedded to his porn and in maximised pleasure except for lacking kids. So now the hero travelling with and fighting all worlds to save kid has special meaning. The hero’s greatest evil isn’t violence that follows in the story but perversions especially paedophilic instincts now long forgotten and cured. The girl is an orphan pushed in to being a child prostitute who is then injected to make the source of the plague. The hero has to break her barrier to make her trust him and he needs a mom figure for her for which he choses the unattainable royalty. Partway through he realised the only way of saving the girl wasn’t by goodness, good deeds and implication for compassion but rather getting more powerful than the combined powers of the world. He has no magic in a magical world and recruiting an army of girls made loyal he rises in merchanting to be the richest and commits many murders and with a big army wages wars against official powers of the world. He interacts with divine forces of three major faiths. Unlike well-wishers claiming all faiths are same and tell same, he differentiates them in to sunrise, noon and sunset faiths with much in common but much apart and each a consistent nice reality. He interacts with gods, angels, chosen of people, Emperors, devils and demons all wanting to use the power of the girl or kill her. so he becomes the most evil and powerful Devil emperor. This is the story and premise of my fantasy novel.

I once here scribbled raw,

you praised before thaw,

my laws laid by what saw,

tears dry, intel fail, punch with paw,

not a story but to offer my soul,

to sip or chip, your role,

my goal to have hearts stole,

give a try, ignite this coal.

My poetry verses above maybe poor and dashed on impulse without thought as always. But I am working on this fantasy genre manuscript on a professional basis including almost all of the tropes of the genre in an innovative way, more than two dozen. The evil isn’t fantasy but stark raw reprehensible reality including the caste identities in India and play of three major faiths there. The evil is the prime mover and the central character though with credible heroes and forces who win. Gods, angels and more come treated respectfully yet shunned. The exaggerations immense with all worlds and high heavens conquered by hero before fall. Not a single POV, all one hero tale, other spears shaped good and great and other heroes too, dance here. The crux of the power or force not the hero without magic but his army of girls, he calls daughters who together are the most potent force equal to the one god in many faiths.

Will keep posting progress of the work and hope to use this blog as launching pad for the novel in time since obviously traditional publishers will reject this. Wish me well and spread the word of the upcoming ‘SPEAR HYMNS

Relic

There in a fast canal flooded by thoughts I found something. A clue. A clue to a piece of myself. People are by nature a veritable jigsaw puzzle. Some move in myriad direction and are difficult to piece together. But they too are assembled by others and the folks themselves. I move in predictable ways yet far too little of me has been found. For in my life I have been torn and shredded to the tiniest bits on countless occasions. Pieces have been flung to the far corners of the sky as well as the deepest abyss.

Pinocchio of wood, yet he stood solid and strove to be a human with heart,

I too yearn the same, what is it to be human, heartless me play demon’s part.

Why am I so? I was not always thus. A disorder of the mind crashed me each time I sought to be free and fly away from my cage. Never under pressure to earn a daily wage I sunk in to the vicious and everlasting tentacles of idleness. Now I can’t compel myself to move and act even when I am asked to. Yet things after my heart like this rambling discourse I do with joy and such fervour and pace to astonish even the astute writers. My old self is chipper, ever funny, sagacious and indomitable. I knew all parts of me can’t be found and I will never be my old self. All I wanted now was to find the major pieces and put it back so that I am human again. The missing pieces I shall grow newly on my own. After all Humpty Dumpty couldn’t be put together by all the king’s men.

I seek mastery that others show while all I see is a mystery,

I can strive hard but how can I find a life anew,

as experience is the fodder for literature.

I once long before all the debacles dreamt dreams big and rich with such intricate tapestry and skill renown that still haunts me. I want at least a part of that dream fulfilled. To be famous and successful in any sphere. To prove to the world and myself that the dismal failure that I am today can morph in to the greatest of success. I decide like the clock decides time that I shall be a writer. Without life experiences I can try spinning out of the world stories or write genre fiction. I tried it but my mind is not in to it. I decide that I would write character driven literary fiction. With time and perseverance I must carry other people’s experiences and mould them in to a beautiful sculpture.

These are the feeble clues I unearthed from the fast canal of thoughts. They are insufficient I know. I shall travel to the skies and reach the deepest recesses of this world and find parts of me sufficient to weave a story that shall be added to the immortal relics of time.

These feeble hands that break all that it touches in to dust

should make an urn of Keats’ lore as to save this soul, it is a must.

I am a shadow

[This poem is inspired by Nirant Gurav’s style of writing.]

I am now a shadow of myself

that I once was.

Where find I

the broken fragments.

Can I ever be whole again?

When all king’s men 

couldn’t make Humpty Dumpty right

what hope do empty I have. 

I need not a thousand men

but a brave three hundred

that stand by me always. 

My fragmented soul

hovers around her.

She is long gone

dissolved in the mist.

If perchance

I rise to fame and glory

she might return to me.

Not her sorry

nor her story

I care.

All I want is her

and I would regain myself.

So I need to conquer the world

brave three hundred

to set her free

and recapture myself.  

The Sea Beckons – 8 – Quest

Velan was happy and content these days. The friendship of the sophisticated slum girl Mercy and the creatively alluring Deepa’s blog rapport made him happy. The days that extended endlessly with boredom now were shorter and sweeter. It had been several days since the first phone call with Mercy. He had talked to her several times since then and also met her in the beach on more than a couple of occasions. Similarly he commented regularly on Deepa’s blog posts and she too left comments in his blog.

Yet even in these wondrous times there was an ache in the back of his mind. He wanted to write a novel. It was his life quest. He had in fact written a potboiler thriller fiction novel. But it didn’t satisfy him. He almost discarded it. He wanted to write a character driven literary fiction. Yet having had a cloistered life and having slept idly for over a decade he had nothing much to draw from his life for the novel.

So he wanted to meet new people in different walks of life and interview them about their life and experiences. He bought a recorder for this. He already had a camera to take photographs. But you can’t simply go up to people and talk to them about their lives. At least he could not do so. He asked his friend Stephen about this and he had promised to arrange for meetings. But it was not happening.

Meanwhile under the guidance of his brother and his own efforts the non vegetarian restaurant was beginning to take shape. The kitchen and the kitchen team were ready. The interior decoration was done. Only the several other finishing touches remained.

Life was taking shape for Velan before his eyes. Yet the slow pace of these changes were almost maddening for Velan.

Then something hit Velan hard. Why wait for his friend Stephen to ask for introductions. He can ask Mercy and she will take him right in to the midst of the slums and right to the midst of the sea. But the problem was she might take affront to treating her and her folks as some pieces from the zoo. Yet the yearning for his quest of a novel outweighed these considerations and he called her. She picked the phone on the first ring itself.

“Hello Mercy, I have a favour to ask of you. But I don’t know how to ask.”

“We are way past these things. Don’t be shy,” prodded Mercy.

“I want to meet people of your slum and interview them. Go in a boat to the sea. All this for a novel I want to write.”

Mercy laughed loudly at this and said, “Thats all. For a moment there I thought you were about to propose to me. Consider it done.”

“Okay, I’ve got to go blog now. Catch you later.”

“So you are still running behind that blogging girl Deepa you’ve told me about.”

“No, nothing of that sort. We are co-bloggers thats all. Please don’t tease me over her.”

Velan ended his phone call and sat idly smoking and hearing songs. His mind was not in to blogging. He wanted his novel bad. Did he have it in him he wondered. The blog was filled with people of superior skills. Yet if they themselves couldn’t make it, could he? He had meagre talents that he can hone. But will it take him all the way. Something drastic must happen in his life to force his pen to weave a glorious novel. What will happen he wondered.

 

The Sea Beckons 6 – Blogging girl

[ Velan is a psychiatric patient who remains single because of that. He has met a slum girl, a graduate and employed one at the beach. After chit chat they swapped numbers]

It has been two days since he met Mercy at the beach. He had been meaning to call her but somehow it didn’t happen. He barged in to his room after a very late breakfast of Ven pongal and vada and a coconut chutney. He decided to check out his blog before calling Mercy. He had recently posted a poem that he thought was a bit rough around the edges but still beautiful and stunning. He had hoped for a few likes and comments before he returned from breakfast. He was in for a disappointment the blog post had only one like.

He had a hundred and eighty odd followers and his posts average at least five likes easily.  Some of his posts got a dozen or more likes. However he denied that the likes matter. But only the quality of his writings and the very fact he is writing more is important.

He clicked the Gravatar of a girl in a green floral print dress looking away from the camera. Her face wasn’t visible. An ugly duckling may be mused Velan laughing to himself. Though he laughed there was something enamouring in the elusive beauty of that picture. He fell for its indescribable charm. He navigated to her Gravatar page and through the website link there he went to her blog. Normally when visiting other blogs he used to read fast, skip, read, skip, read etc to get at the gist of the post and then like it. Not that anyone would quiz him about the post yet he did it as an etiquette. Some blogs especially poems enthral him and he reads them slow and steady. Her blog was of poems and self help features. It wasn’t dazzling but it was innocent and alluring. There were a lot of love poems and he hated such poems. He liked a few takes on pets, nature and her emotional distress. Especially some poems about her grief thawed his indifferent heart and made him cry. Her name was Deepa and she too had some sort of psychiatric disorder and was grappling with depression.

There was an emotional connect for him. There was a red ball near the bell on the screen indicating new message. She had commented on his blog.

‘You write well but why so sad in all that you write.’

He commented back saying ‘I am actually a fun loving person in real life but write thus as an outlet for negativity.’

He decided to write something brighter for her. Gone was the thought of having to call Mercy. In a blog world you don’t chat like you do in Facebook or other social media platforms. Here you interact only in the context of the blog.

He found in her blog a peculiar type of poem called Villanelle. Inspired by it Velan wrote a Villanelle of his own. He mentioned Deepa and her blog as the inspiration in his blog post. He provided a link to her blog from his blog itself. Then to his surprise Velan found her liking almost all of his blog posts and commenting on a few. Their camaraderie was improving day by day. Velan visited her blog often and spent time on it as much as he did on his own blog.

The Sea Beckons 7

 

I am a stalker – Haibun

I now have made my blog as the second home for me.

I’ve rested movies and books to saunter on the blogosphere. I spend most time in my own blog scribbling at times writing. I venture out to other blogs earlier to invite likes for my own blog but now to enjoy myself. They inspire me, they are like me contemporary and with skills that I can aspire to. I am no flirt yet I enjoy female converse and company more regardless of age. I am stating a universal truth that some don’t admit. Opposites attract, interact, inspire etc. Moreover I am a sort of feminist who believes women in general have more warmth and that their voice is stifled in the patriarchal world. Whatever it is regardless of gender, man or woman, I would like to converse with other bloggers. I’ve made quite a few attempts mentioning them in my blog posts like a child. I feel the Gravatars are real people with whom I bond over time.

I am a stalker of a different breed

that stalks bloggers high and low with soft corner for women

to repulse, just like me more, often and on your own.

A picture can – Haibun

A picture can be more beautiful transcending reality.

I dabble in verses and rhymes. Thats something that I’ve been doing since childhood. I have grown but not my writing. I still scribble odd things with little maturity and not one of my scribblings can I call good in its entirety. May be I am a harsh critic. That being the case while still languishing in writing I am thinking of dabbling in photography. A picture is worth a thousand words they say. I say similarly that weighty words can inspire a zillion photos. Yet I want to try my hand at the new hobby.

caught with lens or pen,

beauty and honesty that matter,

for now and ever.