Saturday, August 19, 2017

She didn't so much respond with blushes as much as she seemed to be consumed by them. It wasn't an involuntary response of pleasure but an overheating of a system about to collapse. It served not to reassure the other watching and waiting for her reaction but rather served to cause worry in the viewer about possible arterial damage.

Her blushes weren't coy manifestations of secrets she didn't want to tell, they were painful memories of feelings she felt too deeply. It was an overhauling of her nightmares and fears set out for the world to see. 

Sunday, August 13, 2017

A Prelude to an Unnecessary Montage.



  She had always been convinced that there was something sinister happening in the life of the woman writing those stories. Everything was so sparse, so barely uttered - almost as if she was reluctant to share even while she wrote a world into existence.  Every story, every character was stark, bleak and always only a trope. Such bleakness should never have happened in the written word which sought to describe. It had to be a function of the person itself that bleakness. Where were the frills that made everything wholesome ? Was this woman trying to appear more interesting than she was or was she incapable of developing anything beyond the outlines ?

It is possible that she was overthinking and the author in question was merely displaying her ineptitude. It was possible, that her flare for the dramatic had imbued this woman with greater character than she merited. But wasn't it better to imagine that the outlines ensconced a meaning rather than thinking that they represented after thoughts and incomplete musings ? It could not be that cruel - the promise that the bleakness conveyed had to have been thwarted by something unalterable! She refused to believe that the bleakness was a cover up for overshot ambition. There must be more, for the little meaning she had surmised could not have been accidental.

And so she thought - thought worlds that her author could inhabit, thought events and happenings that her author could turn into sentences preceding and succeeding the few words that the mysterious lady had graced the world with. She made the canvas richer, livable and obscenely colourful with her imagination and creativity. By the time she was done thinking, she would often have access to something far surpassing in beauty and worth to what she had established as her muse.

In an ideal world, it is possible that these two women would have met - they would have helped each other and the one with words would have had access to the one with the ideas. There would be a great confluence of ideas attended by both without any hint of poverty and a setting straight out of a film attempting to show an opulent artist retreat- there would be teal walls, with mini cakes on silver platters and pretty china with imported tea while the women were artfully draped in authentic tribal prints and carefully smudged ink stains on their fingers would attempt to take them beyond the artifice of this ordinary setting.

It is also possible of course, that the two live like querulous neighbours in a mid range society where they exist in deep, silent hostility. Their arguments are silent but their stares withering and the dislike almost pouring out of the prominent pores on their noses, so thick and pungent it does not envelop but descends.

But I choose to believe that they meet someday and fight over a worthless man while I observe them for silent bemoaning on the nature of patriarchy and use them as an example during a mundane conversation where I loudly proclaim my superiority of intellect. All this while, the long suffering men I imagine I am demolishing with my scathing indictment of 'their' ways will that I spontaneously combust into a cloud of fire and sulphur bereft of the odour that is sulphur's chemical property- such is the vitriol of my constitution. I obviously cannot imagine beyond that given that I have sublimated - I could, but it seems a contravening impulse.