Of Two Storytellers

Harish Krishnan, recently posted The Story of ‘He’ and ‘She’. It’s a story composed of tweets on a Saturday evening. It is new-art, this form of story-telling; I enjoyed it! However, while he says that the story was written, “when the world around me was sleeping,” it’s not entirely true. I was reading this story while it was being told: live.

When you read his post, you will know what the story-teller was saying. Do you wonder, what was going on in the head of the listener? Here it is, the restless mind of one of the listener who thought of himself as a storyteller too:

It is eerily quiet now. He sees no one around. The promises have meant less than they intended. He takes stock and ticks empty boxes. #fable

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 07, 2012

His lone companion was a storyteller. Who'd listen, but, when two storytellers came together. His ears and his mouth, at loggerheads. #fable

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 07, 2012

Tired of the deaf ears, he settled down; perhaps this time, I am to listen. Maybe, I will learn, how I can lace my stories with gold. #fable

—
Atul Sabnis (@atulsabnis) April 07, 2012

It is fortuitous, that just after I read this most wondrous book about storytelling, this saga of storytelling happens to me.

How to Train an Ink Pen

A letter is due.

It has been for a long while now. It has been promised for a while. And it lives, with its honest intentions and desire to be alive. Yet, it does not “be-come.” The recipient of the letter is special. The letter, therefore deserves to be special. In this need of mapping, it lives a ghostly life. It exists, but it does not. It is true in spirit but it is unable to manifest itself on paper.

And paper it shall be. For this one letter is supposed to be tangible. The rough-smooth texture of paper, the blot of ink on it. When I write it, it has to drag at the tissue of the paper, as I pull ink through it – with curved lines that form the words.

The words that form the sentences.

The sentences that form the paragraphs.

The paragraphs that form the body.

The body that holds in itself the world of the emotions that I experience at this moment – that only you are privy to, my friend. How, shall I do that? How shall I make the dance happen? Because it is not just any letter that I want to write – it is a letter that I want to write to you.

My feelings have dried more than the ink in my pen. They are flakes I dare not touch for they will crumble. In their marginal existence – they carry a semblance of expression. Yet, today, I worked with the dried ink. The basin, water, and some help from me – and I have my Camlin screw-top working. I cleaned it well, water, cloth rags and all. I got out my letter-writing pad and I started writing.

Today is not the day – was the first thought that came to my mind. I was to pre-occupied with my ink-pen. Will it stay true like the other times I had written a letter to my friend? Will it participate in the symphony of my thoughts and the ink on paper? Will it move as effortlessly as my thoughts, once I get started? Does the pen remember how we used to write? Will it allow our usual flourish of the strokes and the tails of the letters? Strong stems and sharp corners? Sharp apices and beautiful bowls?

After the training I realise that it is not just my pen that needs training.

Of the Urge to Write

I deleted the previous post. In retrospect, I realise it is one of the worst that I have ever written. My apologies to the three significant, serious and thoughtful comments on the post – which helped me realise how badly written it was. The comments and their content & intent is not lost to me. In fact they have encouraged me to write more – which is what I had planned for this blog, this year.

In the urge to write, I missed the thought.

The Floor-to-Ceiling Mirror

It was a few minutes after noon. I was about to turn left into Guilford Street from Lansdowne Terrace.

The iPod was playing a tune in my ears that would otherwise seem to young for a person of my age. I smiled to myself, thankful that most people couldn’t make out what I was listening to.

Just as I approached the corner to turn on to Guilford Street, I saw him, an unlit cigarette in hand, iPod plugged in his ears. He gestured for a light. I took the cigarette to my left hand – he thought I was offering the cigarette to him to light up his. There was slight confusion, our iPods still plugged intact. I put my right hand in my jacket pocket and lit his cigarette with my Zippo. He thanked me with a short nod of his head; I acknowledged back, with the same quick nod and smile, and turned left onto Guilford Street.

I wondered what music he was listening to.

*

It was a few minutes after noon. I was about to turn right into Lansdowne Terrace from Guilford Street.

The iPod was playing a tune in my ears that would otherwise seem to old for a person of my age. I smiled to myself, thankful that most people couldn’t make out what I was listening to.

Just as I approached the corner to turn on to Lansdowne Terrace, I saw him, a lit cigarette in hand, iPod plugged in his ears. I gestured for a light. He took the cigarette to his left hand – I thought he was offering the cigarette to me to light up mine. There was slight confusion, our iPods still plugged intact. He put his right hand in his jacket pocket and lit my cigarette with his Zippo. I thanked him with a short nod of my head; he acknowledged back, with the same quick nod and smile, and turned right onto Lansdowne Terrace.

I wondered what music he was listening to.

Story-writing

The clackity-clack of his keyboard continued unabated. The clacking seemed to bounce off the hard walls and echo back in what he wrote. The distant dying laughter of the last party animal didn’t quite bother him, though he sensed the mood of a party unwilling to die. Not much made sense around him – the darkness was enveloping him, shrouding everything that he saw, in nothingness, even though the two sixty-watt bulbs stoically stood their ground. He wasn’t looking at the words, they hardly meant anything – he knew that already – no reason to use the backspace key – no reason to use better words – no reason to make anything sound poetic. He realised he wasn’t sitting very comfortably in his chair, yet not one of the alive muscle in his body made the slightest attempt to correct what they would have to suffer in a few minutes. He wondered if his mind or his soul or his spirit had left his body and there remained only an obedient machine, as if run by inertia, powered by burning itself, feeding the power back, continuing a cycle. Where was that moment when some action would change the course of what was going on? What was the trigger that this incessant typing would stop and wonder how to make meaning? Why was there no reason anymore in any action that occurred? The author, the subject and the environment seemed all to be twirling into a single mass of bone, flesh and entrails. There was nothing to be differentiated, nothing left to identify any element, to know its purpose.

He paused now, looked up at the screen. He looked for long at what he had written.

He saw his face in the mirror-like screen; in between the twirling digital rainbow, he stared hard and finally moved his mouse to get rid off the screen saver.

Of Good Plumbing

Excuses. Excuses. Excuses.

The reason we don’t get talker’s block is that we’re in the habit of talking without a lot of concern for whether or not our inane blather will come back to haunt us. Talk is cheap. Talk is ephemeral. Talk can be easily denied.

We talk poorly and then, eventually (or sometimes), we talk smart. We get better at talking precisely because we talk. We see what works and what doesn’t, and if we’re insightful, do more of what works. How can one get talker’s block after all this practice?

Writer’s block isn’t hard to cure.

Just write poorly. Continue to write poorly, in public, until you can write better.

(Via Seth’s Blog: Talker’s block)

Reminds me of Finding Forrester.

Vocational Hazards

“The good news is, there is nothing positive.”

You may be able to dismiss this as a generally bad sentence construction, but when it comes from a doctor — you wonder what he really means to convey. I asked him straight on – what he really meant – and found out that the ‘good news’ part of the sentence held more weight than the ‘nothing positive.’ Doctors, probably expect to find something wrong – when we go to them and complain about something. That is the nature of their training, I suppose. So, when they don’t find something – they are relieved to tell us that our fears are unfounded.

I was amused.

The one thing I am glad about is that most people I know belong to different industries and vocations. My conversations with them allow for interesting (and often funny) experiences. Where we work, and what we do, almost defines us. In a way it is sad, that you can almost identify the industry a person belongs to – by the way that person speaks. Depending on how you think – it can be amusing (or entertaining, even).

It is a code – a sense and satisfaction of belonging – that makes use certain words, phrases and tones. More often than not, we betray our industry or vocation by the words with which we may, for example, describe – something as innocent – as wine. It is tolerable while we are speaking of the linguistic angle – it is another thing when “vocational attitudes” clash.

So, the next time you meet someone, who uses a lot of industry-specific jargon, think about yourself.

You might find yourself more amusing than the bloke opposite you, who you aren’t listening to, anyway.

Munni Vs. Sheila

A lot has been discussed and written about the better one of the two most popular songs published in 2010/11. This topic is quite delayed now; for obvious reason – it took considerable time to deeply study these two publications, from the various perspectives in which these were presented. This research paper perhaps doesn’t have the same energy and currency that it would have had if I had posted it a few months ago. However, I submit my academic study of the comparative analysis of these two songs that are almost a phenomenon in the Indian ethos.

Munni Badnam Hui vs. Sheila Ki Jawani

Regional Identity

By any means, Munni encompasses a denser Indian ethos than Sheila. Whether it is in the presentation or the language of the song, Munni prevails. Munni sings a song in a single themed (ghagra-choli) costume all through the song: is consistent in her presentation. The costume, if you will allow it, is essentially, Indian. In comparison, Sheila is a world citizen of sorts. She flips from Arabic (Harem Trousers) to pseudo-English shorts and an untied neck-tie to a designer sari (read: I didn’t get enough cloth to design this sari) costumes all through the song. Munni’s song endorses all sorts of Indian products and movie-stars and encompasses other Indianisms (Zandu Balm, Shilpa, Saifu, Cinema Hall, the quintessential Prince Hair Cutting Saloon, and even the country), whereas Sheila epitomises the all-encompassing urban mood of the minority of Emerging India. Munni stays traditional to the original idea of India – in the towns and villages where the real India resides.

Sacrificial Nature

In continuing with the ethical sense of the presentation of these two publications, Munni typifies the sacrificial nature that is inherent in the expression of love. She embodies the needs of the lover to appeal to his myriad senses of pleasure and morphs to become a pain balm, a theatre, an atom bomb, being common, right up to becoming a country. In contrast, Sheila exhibits a certain play-hard-to-get attitude in the her presentation — she is inaccessible — in her own words. She goes on to declare that  no charms work on her, and that the one who woos her will never be able to get her. While Munni has already qualified as becoming a mint for you, Sheila is looking for an easy way in, with only those of you who have demonstrated that they come from money. It is unfortunate that those from the lower economic strata will never be able to “achieve” Sheila. She creates an unattainable aspiration for this segment of the society.

Accessibility & Presentation

Munni, is at all times making a statement of availability, a resume that would be the envy of the best resumes on monster.com (maybe naukri.com, considering the ethos). All through the presentation, Munni makes a compelling case of her qualities, including references from some of the well-known stars in Bollywood. While Sheila makes a similar statement of desirability, her standoffish statement may be the one thing working against her. Somewhere, it evokes desire at a higher level. It has been proved, that to deny competition is a mark of ignorance, and this is an area where Sheila fails miserably. Also, her statement that she would rather make love to herself, may very well go against her, within the Indian ethic and sensitivity (or perhaps work in her favour too, who knows). Finally, in terms of accessibility, you have to consider the location of the presentation. Munni, is out in the audience making close contact with prospects, whereas Sheila is always on stage – which distances herself from the potential audience. For this factor, it is obvious that Munni scores better on the CV value than Sheila.

Conclusion

Having presented this argument, it may still not be clear whether men will choose one over the other. It finally boils down to choice and personal preferences. However, based on the critical analysis that has been presented above, we hope that those who still have a conflicting sense of choice, will benefit from the analysis.

PS: This post is tagged under “Humour”

The Birth of the Reader

[...] the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.

There was a recent tag on Facebook (whatever happened to those wonderful tags on blogs?) about authors who have influenced you. Multiple people tagged me, and I’d like to say that I was forced to do the tag – reluctantly. I have done a few tags on my blog, and I must say – I have enjoyed most of them. I can’t say the same for this one.

Having said that, I am not cursing whoever started the tag. It was done in the spirit of social Facebooking. We all love being a part of a social movement, while being stationary at our desks. There is some futile fun in that, I confess.

The problem with ill-defined tags is that they coerce you into finishing them.

I have been influenced by everything that I have read – and given the times that we live in – influenced by everything that is published – beyond words – audio, video and imagery. I have been influenced with a significant body of work; I doubt, however, if I have been influenced by an author. The one work that has influenced this thinking had this to say:

The explanation of a work is always sought in the man or woman who produced it, as if it were always in the end, through the more or less transparent allegory of the fiction, the voice of a single person, the author “confiding” in us.

I have worked with a group of people who may never be able to articulate this philosophy, but adhere to it as if their life depends on it. No one adds the signature.

I have been further been blessed that I live with my artist friend, who helps me cement this thinking with her ever growing work – always challenging me to seek an artist in a work. The signature of an artist, I have called it once. Society almost demands the definition of an artwork that is defined by the artist’s profile. My primary personal influences, for example have been the Panchtantra and Hitopadesh. Let’s violate the primary premise of this post, and quote Roland Barthes for the third time:

Thus is revealed the total existence of writing: a text is made of multiple writings, drawn from many cultures and entering into mutual relations of dialogue, parody, contestation, but there is one place where this multiplicity is focused and that place is the reader, not, as was hitherto said, the author.

For a person who reads many books used to read many books and is potentially dyslexic, It has been a difficult journey for me to remember authors. Where some body of work has left a lasting remark, I have usually remembered the body of work, rather than the author. I will never be able to quote it verbatim, but I will never forget the message. It is usually the same with music. I remember songs – I can never identify the composer, sometimes not even the singer. This means that I have survived numerous guilt-trips of you-love-this-song-but-you-don’t-know-the-singer-or-the-music-director? kind of accusations. I have persevered many such exclamations, often with difficulty. It took me some time to realise that I am not a Fact-roid. It has taken me a bit longer to come to terms with that. I haven’t crossed page 16 of any book by Umberto Eco. Gabriel Garcia Marquez has been endured with no avail. I have finished four Dan Brown books in less than four days (There was a discount offer from Tesco, so I bought all four). Applied Discrete Structures For Computer Science, believe it or not, is my favourite book.

Two, otherwise innocent, comments on the Facebook tag triggered this post. My list appealed to a few and a few others had questions about a few authors that did not make the list.

Scroll back to the top. and then come back here.

Are we who we are because what we read or because of who we read?

Like, No More

Someday, we will have to wonder what the “Like” button across social media, did to us.

Recently, I was reading a post regarding comments on our blogs. It was a post titled, Are You Making It Hard for People to Comment? by Joanna Paterson on the Confident Writing blog. Some interesting points there, if you wonder why the interaction on the blog isn’t what you expect. If not, don’t bother.

I had a thought about it. I wrote:

I am not sure about this, but I wonder whether all the “sharing links” and the “liking links” are equal culprits. If the end of the post is pretty busy with sharing buttons, folks would rather share (or just *like* the post) rather than adding a comment.

The reader acknowledges your post, but does not leave a footprint on the blog.

Recently, I have been adding quite a few photos on Facebook, and while I am glad that people “Like” my photos, I do get irritated by the constant notifications of people who like stuff that I post. When you think hard about it, a like doesn’t mean much! I am searching for a way that Facebook doesn’t notify me of the likes. Hopefully, I’ll find it.

And even if I cannot do that on Facebook, I am definitely doing it on my blog. The ratings, the shares, the like buttons – will all go away. One thing about blogging that I have enjoyed for a long time, is the interaction — the conversation (though, nothing beats a talk over a coffee or a beer). I have little, but I hope this will rekindle some conversation on my blog. Of course, this doesn’t stop the reader from sharing my posts.

I think, the like and share buttons have become replacements for good expression. They have also become the means of being lazy without sounding so. Clicking these buttons allows us to make our presence felt. But it ends there. And like Amit says, it has become “too commonplace” — too commonplace to mean anything meaningful.

So, therefore.