Amit Goes Blogging

Challenge:  The story must start with  This is the story of how I died. But, don't worry, this is actually a fun story, and the truth is ....  Word limit 150 words. Metamorphosis This is the story of how I died. But, don't worry, this is actually a fun story, and the truth is I have a new life. I had seen twenty summers and the words of my long-deceased mother still rang in my ears, “My prince will marry a princess.” I took her words to heart. My friends, married and having spawned their ilk, tried to convince me that every mother says it to her son but she doesn’t mean it. Nevertheless, one day, while I lay in the passive wait for my princess, I witnessed a colony of bees entering my hut. As they buzzed in excitement, a tiny bee emerged from the swarm blushingly. An elderly bee introduced her as the princess, Daughter of Queen Bee. The Queen Bee, as she lay dying, decreed that her daughter be married to a male who lived by his mother’s word. Now, the buzz...

Challenge:  A picture of an old man and an old woman with their backs to each other and walking away Time : 30 minutes Word limit : 100 words Ghost from the past The girl was inconsolable, the grandfather unassuageable. A new kid from the neighborhood had dumped her for another girl. Her dream of participating in the coveted dance competition was shattered. Grandfather empathized with her situation. He decided to punish the boy. The boy was an orphan taken under the care of an old lady. Today, the grandfather hardly cared. He went looking for the boy. He found him playing with his granny. The old man’s eyes met hers. He stood with his mouth agape. He remembered his false promise of love and marriage. He walked away  embarrassed .

Challenge: The story must start with  'That day of summer was the most memorable day of my life. It all started when...'. Word limit 100 words. That day of summer was the most memorable day of my life. It all started when  I went on a tea break. I sat beneath a shade next to a water pot. A minute later, a woman laborer approached the pot. She looked mysterious. She filled her glass, rose it above her lips…. As if under her spell, even I raised my hot tea cup, tilted it, and burnt my lips! Blind from tears, I ran to the parking lot, and nursed my swollen pout. Just then, I heard a girl sobbing. Suddenly, the girl started running and, at a distance, crossed a group of co-workers, looking at me menacingly. My lips were telling a story!       

Every book tarries at some point between its covers. Not every page can sparkle, nor can every description lay claim to reader’s imagination. Some passages beg half-to-no attention. Readers who identify with the author's feelings may consider his writing perfectly intelligible; while, to others he may be an epitome of vagueness. Here, evaluations are subjective. One author speaks to his readers, translating his thoughts into words that readers can easily pick into their mental fork. If the author were to explain the passage to the reader in person, it would not better the written word. This author believes that without a reader, a book is dead weight. He is not anxious to achieve anything beyond making the book enjoyable for the reader. Read George Orwell’s Animal Farm and you would understand what I mean. It’s a rare feat that Leo Tolstoy also accomplishes in War and Peace . From the description of chasing wolves to philosophical reflections on individuals and events, Tolsto...

Numerous influences determine our actions. Sometimes, common influences go missing. There are individuals totally cut-off from religious influences. They don’t feel religion inside. There are individuals who do not understand love; or, they do not resonate to the idea of love as I never resonate to the idea of window-shopping. The Outsider introduces you to the strange character of Meursault who is indifferent to things we take too seriously. That is not to say that his participation in life is frugal. He has a job in which he desires to do better. The story begins with Meursault receiving the news of his mother's death. It's a news like any other. He finds himself in an awkward position in asking his boss’ leave to attend mother’s funeral. Back from the funeral, at the first opportunity, he has sex with his girlfriend. Camus paints Meursault's character with the choices he makes. That’s Camus’ craft. To me, Meursault is...

F iction is a great teacher and entertainer. But, over a course of readings, the allusions, the foreshadowing, and the figures of speech  diminish your interest. Also, what fascinates you initially, slowly loses its attraction like any other talent that cannot be admired all the time. Fiction betrays a pattern and language seems inferior to its task. Then, you read Madame Bovary , and language receives a renewed vigour and fiction resurges with its capacity to captivate. In Madame Bovary , the sighs of pity work up to a jaw-clenching experience. There is no escape. If it is so heart-wrenching in a translation, the original work must have been scalding. What victorious imagination! What seething analysis of human fancy! Gustave Flaubert offers the best fit between word and imagination. The author takes great care to furnish the reader with a perfect imagery, which is a trap to drag you into the depths of despair. You meet with a mathematical precision at every turn of ex...

T he Mother by Maxim Gorky was my first novel. I think I read it during Class VII vacations. I remember very little of what I read then: A meek mother who committed herself for the cause espoused by her only son. The son and his other factory worker friends were fighting injustice. My sympathies were completely with the mother and son. In the end, the mother is waylaid. Her anguished portrait in which she is seen distributing pamphlets in a crowd was my final impression from the book. When I read the book again this week, I knew a little more. The story has the Russian revolution of 1905 as its backdrop. The workers' lot had remained unchanged generation after generation. The workers broke under the burden of labour and gross exploitation. In the evenings, they would get drunk at the tavern and get into a brawl with one another. Women were in much more pitiable condition, living in the constant terror of being beaten up by the...

T o retell tales to the point of summing up the mythology of a civilisation is no mean feat. Edith Hamilton does complete justice to the subject which is evident in the way she puts together the disjoint tales, drawing upon the work of dramatists of later ages to straighten out a tale crudely rendered at the hands of the authors gone before. But, what struck me were the parallels that stand out so clearly between Indian and Greek mythic tales. Although the characterisation is distinct, the turnkey events bear startling similarities. Achilles’ heels are as vulnerable as Krishna’s. A lover going down to Hades to reclaim the life of the beloved is a Greek version of Savitri and Satyvan. But, unlike the Greek gods, the Indian gods are more rational. The Indian god Indra is notorious for his promiscuity, but there is no philanderer like Zeus. A Greek god doesn't give two hoots about his godly demeanour when favouring his subject or venting his anger on a hero who has wronged him un...

This novella portrays the struggle of an old fisherman, who has had a grim luck lasting 84 days before he makes a prize catch of a giant marlin. The struggle to land the fish spans three days and two nights. I was glad that the old man survived the ordeal; otherwise, the cover picture of a dark sea broken in storm portends sadness for the reader. But, the protagonist's living triumph does not make me a fan of the book. It did not appeal to me the way it has besotted the imagination of some of the raving reviewers. A colleague swore by its appeal on Thursday last; I couldn’t get started that evening. Friday evening set me on the course. Saturday night I laid the book to rest. Lesson learnt: To factor in my wife’s opinion about a book. I bought her this novella considering the short flights she took at reading. The book bored her to death. She must be heartbroken herself for having given up too early. She amply made up for her stasis by reading up two other classics. ...

I hope to stay my course---read the famous classics from the Greeks until the late twentieth century. I have a decent collection of literary classics. But, looking at my dazzling collection, I am at my wit’s end---where to begin! Will I end up being a mere book collector? Forget majoring in literature, won't I even have the satisfaction of calling myself an informal student of literature? Will the money that could have bought immediate joys to my loved ones leave me with only a hope of future joy? I have browsed the net for inspiration and direction, careful not to ignore the two even if they can be found buried in the comment threads and finger-tiring scrolls. I have browsed through the best books voted by Times, Modern Library, and umpteen other blog posts on good reads to prepare myself for that leap. But, I am still nursing my irritation. Just yesterday I went on another buying spree and ended up with six additions to my collection. Now, I have decided to stop...