Nothing really matters

Standard

Ultimately, nothing matters.

All these efforts you put in to make your life happy, your loved ones content – just burns down one day, in one moment’s brisk wind, and then the ashes pile up on you and you choke. Mercy, never comes. What comes is a fourth degree burn, looking at the watery eyes and a face in so much pain that your soul writhes. Yet you are a creature of habit, a slave of conscience that is bound to make mistakes. And ultimately those mistakes form your hell, your doom, whatever you call it.

Better snuff the lights, man, it’s getting too bright in here – said nobody, yet at times the scorching rays of the sun char your skin and you can’t protest. Not because you’re mute – you’ve given it all and you’ve come short. The end result is that you’ve become such an asshole that now the world you built around you has thrown you out to the dogs. You, you alone has to fend of the harshities of life now, all alone, watching your loved ones in pain because of you and then not because of you. Both of them hurt equally, and make you bleed.

Ultimately though, nothing matters. You’re but a cosmic mistake, a blatant blasphemy on this speck of a planet, a vile scoop of soul sundae. Your arguments are invalid and out of date and shape. The long walks through the shopping malls through jungles of amused people makes you realize that they don’t matter either, that they just exist as background noise, to give your story of imperfection some color and a palette, as do you for their novels. Friends are just as convoluted messes as you are, some fake, hiding under a facade, and then some that are truly lost, believing they can save a drowning existence.

But you’ve already drowned. The tar is in your lung, the rotten carcass is already showing. You’ve just put on a new coat. You’re already dead, you just don’t know it yet.

My head becomes lighter, my visions dizzy. The water drops, warm and still poisoned with feelings – from the eyes I am watching. Those eyes mean everything to me, but I know in the end everything is going to consume me, like love does, and leave nothing but dust.

I’m slowly walking towards nothingness, and she is too.

Rust

Standard

Lacquered in a comatose white and gray, the auburn thatched mud houses look like the ruins of a terracotta army, battered by time. But they stand hollow, their windows stolen, their doors eaten by nature.
When the vicious jungle wind blows from the dry riverbed and passes through this necropolis, a howl ensues that tears open the naked breast of the rainforest.

Guineafowls peck little mites from the bones scattered across the plateau. Skeletal hands holding rifles, books, bags.

Or other hands.

A century ago, this patch of dense green had leopards, lions, tigers, elephants, wild buffaloes. Trapped between the bullets of sixty years of ferocious monarchy and the peculiarity of human masculine pride, the animals have traveled to become busts, adorned in the living rooms of the richest.

Time has crushed the biggest of kingdoms. The Kings and Queens have died. Revolution had taken place.

Then the rebels became rulers, and the first thing they did was to put every opposing butterfly to the waiting guillotine. Carnivals were named on dead men and women, their blood gushing through the river. That river has dried up into a valley of rust, where souls without salvation wander.

This used to be a good world. But then good worlds barely lasted.


He loved light. Like the flicker of sunlight that fell on his eyes, making their way between her flowy hair and salwar-clad shoulders, while he fiddled with poetry, lying on her lap.

This city of broken bridges ate small-time love like theirs, people said. They didn’t pay heed. Reckless as the monsoon, their love was devoid of any measured steps.

Five years later, the light had returned in his life. As he was slowly watching her body being engulfed in the pyre, he thought why he loved light so much, only to realize that it wasn’t light that he loved.

On that cold November night, two souls had melted into the darkness.

Only the city remained, ravenously waiting for its next victim, throwing poetry in the air as lures.

17458340_1216251558492354_7671135740612698325_n

Norse Mythology, by Neil Gaiman – a fresh coat of paint

Standard

For People who love mythological stories, the Norse stories are surely a draw. I had an odd thing introduce me to this grandeur – a video game, Ensemble Studios’ Age of Mythology. Later I figured out that much of Tolkien’a lore was actually influenced by the Norse Gods and creatures, and that fact intrigued me even more.
Gaiman’s retelling of the stories – from beginning to the end don’t give you anything new if you are aware of the central themes. It however gives you a fresh coat, a different literary perspective, something which Gaiman has plenty of experience dishing out. With his sharp, measured approach, the stories are cut lean, stripped from all the usual chatter that most writers tend to introduce. Gaiman also lends his lucid way of storytelling, far cry from the campy or dark, Brother Grimm like ways.

I thoroughly loved it, and this book will appeal to even the staunchiest of myth disapprovers. You don’t have to believe in divinities – just enjoy the larger than life stories.

The Wendigo – Algernon Blackwood : visiting one of the sources of Pet Sematary

Standard

Pet Sematary is one of those books that has many uncommon tropes of the horror genre, penned effortlessly by Stephen King in his drunken rage, only to loosen up the dreary influences he received from multiple source materials. Blackwood’s The Wendigo served as one of the biggest catalysts in the early 1900s to have writers incline towards Native American folklore – and before you knew it, a sub genre was born that dealt with only these legends. In Pet Sematary, arguably King’s finest telling of the Wendigo lore of the Algonquinian tribe, the literature peaked at its best, yet to get to the root of where it all started, we will definitely have to give due credit to Blackwood. Derelith, who wrote the marvelous Ithaqua, drew heavily from this psychological thriller of a short story, and in turn ended up influencing the monster that dwelt in the marshes beyond the Creed’s, one who was barely seen but was often heard, one who walked with the wind.

The premise in itself is pretty barebones : but that gives the narrator plenty of time to spin his web and create an atmosphere that is as vicious as it is visceral. Five people break into groups of two and three in some remote American wilderness, hunting big moose. The obscurity of the forest ensures that the stories inside it also stays intact, and something primal lurks in it that the forest protects fervently. It is no accident that this creature, the Wendigo, masks its presence so well amidst the dense foliage, icy terrain and a placid lake that splits the forest into two. You have a hard time for the most part deciding who is the villain here : is it the monster that feeds on fear, or is it the forest that creates that fear?

wendigoorigins

There’s a third perpetrator in this tale : the human yearning to jump into things that they don’t comprehend, a sort of answering the call of the wild, feral, the uncharted – that inevitably brings about their doom. Blackwood is quick to point that out in The Wendigo, that even though the monster of the folklore maybe out there, it is the curiousity of the hunters and trackers that ends up being one of the deciding factors in their encounter with the elusive beast, and as much ferocity nature can conjure, it is also the fate of a few inconsiderate people who run chasing every rare chance an obscure wilderness may present : in their callousness they give life to folklore and legends that are best left unseen.

Unsurprisingly enough, it’s the Indian tracker Dévago who bears the brunt of the abuse of senses – in his change of form from a jocund moose-tracker to something else that is most profound here. Blackwood also throws in the possibility of a possession and its fatal aftermath, but the conversation between a newbie Scot and a veteran Dévago constitute the better part of the story. Punk and others chip in and fill the holes in the plot.

In the end, the sparsely heard song is what remains as a crushing reminder :

“Oh! oh! My feet of fire! My burning feet of fire! Oh! oh! This height and fiery speed!”

There is an undeniable Lovecraftian quality in this story that I absolutely adore. The thrusting into the atmosphere horror, the unseen protagonist, the psychological turmoil, the relentless questioning of human psyche elevates this story into a work of art from a simple narration. No wonder it inspired a generation of writers to spin their own twist on this genre.

Chatwin’s Patagonia, or why I couldn’t finish the book

Standard

There are five or six different types of places in this world in my opinion. Most of them are synonymous with one of your own emotions – remember that I said yours and not the generalized human emotion, because emotions are purely subjective, a customized version atop a common platform. So what Kolkata might evoke in you may not elicit the same emotional response in me. But then there are places that come very close to defying that rule. Places that are either too crowded, overbuilt and infested with civilization to the bones – your days are too sped up there for you to conjure up things in your mind. It’s like a whole array of art installations on a conveyor belt. The moment you blink, the visceral statue of a muscular, dead horse is replaced by a rather jaunty, psychedelic picture of a man screaming his head off.

Then there are places that are so derelict, so devoid, so empty, so abyssal that the small bubble of human emotion just fizzles out in front of it. The absorbing power of such place is unheard of, not only because human beings have not yet stepped on it, but also because of the core ingredients that constitute such an ocean of emptiness has yet to come into contact with enough of our species to form a bond. Hence the stories that are found there are conserved ferociously, almost like the treasures of Nassau, and are being passed from generation to generation with occult like precision.

Patagonia – or where the memories evolve.

Bruce Chatwin, born and brewed in the society that rejected the tribalness in human nature, took it upon himself to fancy a chance in exploring the extreme nomadism that existed in the loneliest parts of our planet. It all started with his childhood fascination for a Brontosaurus bone (in actuality, a giant sloth’s called the Mylodon) that he saw in his grandparent’s home. The bone was found in Patagonia, a large, mostly uninhabited land on the southernmost part of Argentina and Chile that stretches from the prairie like grasslands of the Pampas to green and yellowish lakes to the remote snowladen peaks of the mighty Andes that stretches to Antarctica. To the child, it was a land of never before seen stories, of giant animals and long lost worlds, but he never thought about it before his monotonous work took him to Eileen Gray, the then 93 year old architect who had a map of Patagonia printed on her salon wall. There, revitalized by the nonagenarian’s inspirational words, he flew to Lima two years later on a whim, to find out what that world had to offer.

https3a2f2fblueprint-api-production-s3-amazonaws-com2fuploads2fcard2fimage2f35292fgettyimages-109688655

In Patagonia is a two-hundred page book filled with Chatwin’s recollection of the stories that he collected in his multiple travels. The stories, often criticized as more a figment of his own mind mixed with some truth, are disjointed, experimental, and divided into nearly a hundred chapters that range from a paragraph to two pages. The biggest flaw of the book turns out to be this: the nomadism that Chatwin so wishes to experience ends up being so evident in his writing that he ends up not building any sort of flow whatsoever. You can safely skip pages without any consequences here.

While that is my biggest gripe, there are some more glaring omissions as well. Reading through the chapters felt like Chatwin was aiming for a cheap recipe of storytelling : not investing in any characters that he met, rather swiftly browsing through their daily lives, trying to cover as much as possible. Hence we never get any ramblings of his mind, just a clean, journalism-esque reporting of incidents. This puts him in accordance to his then livelihood and hammers any prospect of getting a Borges out of his diaries.

So after trudging through halfway of this book, I am heavily inclined to abandon my journey through Bruce Chatwin’s eyes. Not like I don’t like Patagonia – I want to go there, I want to experience the lack of emotions myself, I want to feel the vastness of absolutely nothing, the fiendish preservation of culture of the people surviving there, albeit I want to take time to assimilate them all. A fast one won’t do.

Brontosaurus bones or not, the Chatwin Patagonia continues to be one of the best travelogues, popular amongst many book lovers. I agree to this: read this book as a simple travel diary – just don’t expect anything better.

Reviewing “Auschwitz: A Doctor’s Eyewitness Account” : A small sized terror-hole

Standard

I paused several times while reading this book, shuddering at the thought of the visceral scenes of a Nazi concentration camp. Auschwitz-Birkenau had been a slaughterhouse for millions of Jews, Romanies, Gypsies, people political and apolitical, and Dr. Nyiszli writes their plight with the flair of a surgeon. This book, arguably one of the shortest accounts of the atrocities of the Second World War by the Germans, has the precision of a pathologist. Hence the words are not flowery or pretentious; there is hardly any fluff; and grabs the nerve exceptionally well. He understands the symptoms of the Reich. How criminal behaviors were masked with the veil of scientific research and progress is shown time and again in this journal.

But one thing also stands out here in this book – about how people accepted their fate and never fought back. The reason Dr. Nyiszli came back alive from that hell is because he rebelled against the norm – the guineapigging, the shoving to the chambers, the expendable scenario. He saw liquidation after liquidation and yet through those crumbled mass of sanity and devastation, emerged alive.

A haunting reminiscing. Not sure if I can recommend this to people who are more addicted to romanticized accounts of war, but if history fascinates you, this is probably as close to it as you will get.

A Monster Calls : An emotional ride into the mind of a child

Standard

I don’t read English YA novels.

Even with my almost thirty summer long life, I have been less inclined to surf through the pages of Harry Potter or get engrossed in The Divergent; my adventures have been rather haphazard. From William Golding’s spine-chilling ‘Lord of the Flies’, or the rather mainstream  ‘Perks of being an Wallflower’, or the will-make-your-glasses-foggy ‘The fault in our stars’, as a reader I haven’t followed a pattern, or a phase.

Maybe that has helped me more.

The story about this novel started two months back. I consider myself a medium level Otaku, and one of my staple activities is to surf through YouTube going through piles of documentaries, movie trailers, gameplay videos, tech stuff…

…and may be a couple of parkour fail and cat videos.

I saw this movie trailer featuring a relatively unknown boy, a Lord of the Rings-esque tree monster voiced by our favorite Zeus Liam Neeson, a terminally ill mother played by Felicity Jones, and a whooping two seconds of Sigourney Weaver. The movie was being directed by the same man who made The Orphanage, one of my favorite horror movies. Win-win, right?

Then I saw that it was based on a bestselling novel. Sure, every movie these days is, I thought. A casual search on Goodreads, and a few reviews later, I was downloading the book in my Kindle.

And then I totally forgot about it and went with Jack Kerouac for his exhilarating USA road trip. When I was going through my library, the intriguing cover piqued my interest (yet again), and being the lazy reader I was, the relatively short page count gave me a sudden New Year’s boost. I am to read twenty-five books this year, amIright?

A day later, I was feeling as if someone had punched me hard on my stomach. The book challenged the notion of ‘Big boys don’t cry’ and came tantalizingly close to overcome it. A Monster Calls, written by Patrick Ness, is a fruition of Siobhan Dowd’s concept. Dowd, a British YA author, died of breast cancer in 2007. Patrick picked up the idea and gave it shape and out came the book.

The book’s main protagonist, the school kid named Conor O’Mally is going through a rough time. Between a terminal, divorced mother and in-school bullying, between a deadpan grandma and a non-existent, living in a different continent father, he lives and relives his nightmares. There are two nightmares in his life, one that manifests when he is awake, the acerbic lashes of sympathy, and the one that he dreams of – a recurring ravenous thought, the cause of which he cannot really put a finger on. Or he is too scared to admit that he is tired of living a life that is too scrutinized, too scripted, too straight, even though that may be the only thing holding his frail idea of a family together.

Along comes a monster, a wooden, Yew tree on bipeds, one that is intent on telling stories more than raising a feeling of dread.

A Monster Calls. Patrick Ness.

“Because humans are complicated beast,” the monster said. “How can a queen be both a good witch and a bad witch? How can a prince be a murderer and a saviour? How can an apothecary be evil-tempered but right-thinking? How can a parson be wrong-thinking but good-hearted? How can invisible men make themselves more lonely by being seen?”

Conor is apprehensive, as all of today’s kids are, that this is a figment of his tired imagination.

“I don’t know,” Connor shrugged, exhausted. “Your stories never made any sense to me.”

The answer is that it does not matter what you think, the monster said, because your mind will contradict itself a hundred times each day. You wanted her to go at the same time you were desperate for me to save her. Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary. And your mind will punish you for believing both.

Once that veil is removed, the interactions spark a series of events in Conor’s life that ultimately starts to untangle his knotted existence, and many a new secrets are unraveled, and wounds are made and healed. In the end, confronted with arguably the book’s most tearjerking moment, Conor accepts his nightmare.

And lets go. The freefalling Conor becomes the real Conor, devoid of the strings around him, flying high, even though the pillars that he stood on are no longer present. He builds the castles from the sand again, the monster watching and smiling. The brilliance in Ness’ writing is that you never realize whether Conor and the Monster are the same. He hints at the fact that the Yew tree has always been there, watching over their little family, growling to life only when someone yearns for it badly, manifesting itself with a wand of justice that is brutal yet fair. The tales are hence wondrous, and tests the notions of a little mind.

I wanted to cry after reading this novel, but hey, big boys don’t cry. The feel good moments are aplenty here, even though the words are less. Patrick Ness has created a beautiful story here, and I am eagerly awaiting the movie now. If the movie is half as good as the book, it will be spectacular.