Stories are Priceless..

Our tete-a-tetes with shades of people never cease. Everyday, there is a new encounter, a new person, and...

a new character. Yes. All three.

What gives a book the zest it needs to come alive? Not a distant spice, nor a metaphoric flavour.

Rather, something so concrete as to wish those remote pages to a place as dear and near our hearts as a toy that a certain William of an Enid Blyton adores, or a gritty young girl who wants to change the world...

A book unravels people. It paints a person out of a character. Yes. You cannot love a book for a character. That would be far too bland. You love it from a knowledge, from a feeling, from an experience or many. And that's what makes the book special- that's what makes the book yours.

Seeing that no reader can fathom reading blankly about mere characters, you can very well imagine the plight of woebegone writer!

Ahhh... (Puff)(Pant) It's harder than it appears!

Because a writer's task is first to weave a character out of a person, and proceed with further insight into the character, than the wooden success of the story. To have this clearer, let's sum it up in a phrase: Alive, Faded, Alive.

You look at a person from every possible angle, but when you're scripting a character, all these views converge into a solitary figure, someone whom you see under various lights, but who can only be penned under one light. Dim. Faded.

And when suddenly, someone picks up your book, turns a page, and turns another- you've clicked, and that character is a person again . Only , not the person you saw, but a person the reader sees as a figment of the world he or she has seen.

So there it goes. It's lovely, isn't it? Books are lovely. They're so simple, yet so intricate..And that's why, you mustn't let your passion for reading jade.. A story is too priceless a thing to let go...

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Still

A landscape of feathers The smoothest natural canvas, For Nature's painter- Alighting while parading its beauty Before retreating Into a well-worn easel. Soot-black, rust-grey, brown like tinsel, Folding up and pulling down the covers Over grace, beauty and space, Compounded with distance, Rendering known unknowns, beautiful art. Now mingled with unknown knowns, Streaks of color paint the marauded canvas Differently. Camouflage seems eminent, Unimportance, inadvertent. The marvels Of the aerial world, beget stupor as They transform into the pedestrian In the realm which is terrestrial. The miracle of flight now a bane, As for food they must forage With feet, not fly with feathers. I don't want to startle them. It is silence that beckons them to the ground. Startlement stirs them upwards, into the skies, Simpering, whimpering, not soaring and diving- Trespassers on a land where they are weak, Vulnerable- they know they can't win. Aviation is a weapon futile against...

The Tree Says 'Hi'

The tree says Hi! My balcony was briefly an arboretum. Windswept leaves splayed over the floor Like champion specimens -parts of a fine species- Careening into a welcoming sanctum That is otherwise empty- save for clothes on stands Or people on feet. When this tree paid its timely visit Luckily, there was nothing, no-one. It probably seized A rare chance- when it was out of anchor, fit and fine, In form- and the tiled floor bare. No sign of occupation. It bore its way past the metal rails that serve to Prevent our falls, but here cushioned the tree's. It rested its somber branches easily on the rail, Which is mighty strong and sturdy, as I can now discern. It snooped its slender branches threateningly over A cauldron of leaves. Green cauldron, green sorcerer. When I woke, there it was, unshakeable, unmovable. Oh, it was mobile alright. It'd have moved of its own will. It was merely enjoying its soiree in a forbidden land, Like we all do. But it just stared at me, with compo...

Clandestine

Sometimes we wait too long, To speak our minds. We let lingering truths linger, We let sporadic clocks, chime.. We allow patient seams to fritter away Like a sparrow does with the timber of the tune That she was shrouded by; shrill words tearing Ears, each word she utters, careful, today. While the first day it was a free reign, until Some unctuous winds carried to her, criticism. Just the same way as copper utensils in a house Of steel, are anyone's delight, until bronzed, With wear and use, both are the victims Of sundry needs and glances. Just the same way, some things, Are stowed away in careful pockets Because they have borne a lot of perusing When kept in the open. Like love. Like hurt. Like envy. Like silence. Trust and truth are two things I can list, That are given, that are l'habitude. I tell the truth because it is, it exists, It is what I perceive, it is what I've lived.. And I keep your trust, because I've learnt That it'll help you keep mine, it wil...

The Happy Wanderer

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