Amit Goes Blogging

Most of the luggage was borne on shoulders and some of it wheeled out of the elevator. The cab was navigating off the track on the Uber app. The time lost in finding a cab had eaten into our buffer time. The nuisance of luggage was weighing heavily on my mind and shoulders. I was doing a mental check of my vitamin B12 and D3; the levels seemed not enough to care for an ailing wife and control a restive kid. Just three of us and at every point we halted, the bags were counted. While I was doing it a third time at the apartment gates, I heard hurried steps approaching us. They were two of them and they didn’t bother to look at us. Culturally, Indians gaze at strangers with a sense of entitlement. And, we were strangers with luggage. While crossing us, acknowledging the curious looks I was casting back at them, one of them gestured by a sign of hand under his throat and barely managed these words, “What they doing man?” The fracas was now audible in the direction they ran. Two second...

My writing ability multiplied manifold cannot play second fiddle to Orwellian portrayal. So, I am not reviewing the book here. I am here to congratulate Orwell and join him in the belligerent satisfaction of outsizing all literary yardsticks of evocative portrayals. Dystopian novel it is; but, the dystopia is so intense that a person not in excruciating physical pain and with reasoning ability intact will call our world a utopia. Emotional pain does not count because that can be treated (unlearnt). The book paints a world that is a brick kiln of emotions. Everything other than body and brain is vaporized. That is the fate of the citizenry of Oceania. The book denigrates dignity of emotion. Whoever believes in that idea has messed up with his organism. The book explodes continuously, and you cannot but blink uncontrollably. Towards the end, it felt I was reading the book with closed eyes. The horror of the portrayal is so disturbing that you stop empathising with Winston, the protagoni...

(Read out to sporting seniors and colleagues in BMC on my farewell) Basking in the warmth of training, Sips of coffee, slow-paced learning, With two months to settle and learn, I imagined it’s all gonna be fun. I had finished Atrium Part 1 and begun Part 2; I faintly knew what I was getting into. I consoled myself, it's pointless to hurry into things; A caterpillar deserves time before it takes wings. Then a change happened --- teams were shuffled, Some bagged cozy picks, some had their feathers ruffled, That whole exercise, pulled me out of my burrow, Now, leads would freely my precious time borrow. Alas! Atrium part 2 is an unfinished tale; Within a month my bandwidth was put on sale; Of a sudden, to my lot fell addressing comments galore, And a list of SMEs, whose tantrums I calmly bore. Standing next to the SME’s seat, Flashing a smile that could disarm a beast, I prattled and probed and pleaded and...

Challenge: The story must end with the line “ It was less than a second, but it changed everything .” Word limit 150 words. Three days since I ate anything mentionable. Chewing on bones thrown at me, after the family of paupers files out the stickiest sinew with their grinding teeth, does not satisfy my hunger. But, the family thinks of me as a lucky puppy. Leftovers is not a way of life here. I am not a scavenging breed either. The girl picks me, and out in the sun again! Her mother is going to do dishes, and I will have my glossy tail pulled by incorrigible kids. Half-way, a car halts. The lady behind the wheel shrieks, “You were away three days? You blah blah…” The shrewd housemaid hustles me away from her daughter’s hands and, very awkwardly, steers the discussion towards me. I don’t know why. Oh, PETA sticker, two puppies in the backseat, 20-kg Pedigree, my food! I am taken in. I feel sad for the ‘poor’ girl, but it’s cooler inside! God, it was less than a second, but it ...

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...