Saturday, August 19, 2017

Tales of Prithvi - Part 1

The land was dry, devoid of water or moisture as far as one could see. The insects that could crawl in absolute barren moved up to the ground. Amidst the drought driven land, stood a man dressed in all carelessness. One sleeve of shirt traveled towards the elbow, while the other stood tightly over his wrist. His pants didnt show any particular colour, but shaded with heavy mud and dust. The big boots clanked on every stone that he walked over. Everything about this scene was a mystery.

The man adjusted the rim of his glasses, and the stickiness of the tape that wound around it  rubbed over his fingers. He let a soft sigh in frustration as he scrutinized the location. . There was no time for broken glasses or sweat that dripped continuously over his forehead.

'Everything is going to come to an end. An end to peace, love, hatred and sweat'

His head seemed numb, but the beads of sweat bothered him. In spur of moment, he placed the glass bottle on the ground carefully, to not scare the contents. He felt his rim to make sure he didn't come in contact with the stickiness again. As he bent down towards the end of his shirt, he noticed the contents of the jar. He smiled.

The feeling that the future of science was stored in the bottle overwhelmed his brain. He considered himself as a child of science, and treated it as his own God. Like all men with faith in a superior , he was in hate and love relationship with Science. His love of science grew from the day he understood the air and water. But, his love was maddening in itselfand there were many instances to prove it. One was from his earlier days where he tried to drown his baby sister into a pool to understand the mass of a human body. Science was his master, the originator and the destroyer.

The content in the bottle fluttered , tricking him for a moment. He wiped his forehead, put on his glass and looked at the line where the sky met the land. The skies were calm with white fluffy clouds distributed in hither and thither.  He was going to change all that.

'Moment of truth is here. When everything is going to be in chaos.'

He had invested a lot of time for this moment, calculating the numbers to make him more than sick. He drew parallels, the pros, the cons and everything that was variable with it. He had shut himself in the drawing room scribbling on every inch of the place he could find. He forgot the food, but never the numbers he wrote even behind his chair. When everything was in place, he was pleased with himself. He felt that his God has sent a sign when he saw the butterfly hosted on his window.

He picked the jar and held it over his nose and saw through the small holes on the bottle. The large beautiful butterfly was fluttering around to indicate that it was ready. He took a deep breathe.

' Man must submit himself to the madness'.

He raised the jar over his head and turned the lid slowly. He immersed himself to every creak of the lid. Finally, the seal was broken, the butterfly was free. It flapped its wings to frantically to understand what the intentions of the man could be. It flapped in the right Longitude Latitude that the man had spent all his time on.

The man watched in amazement, as the theory of butterfly effect was going to be taken out the books. But who would be spared to do that ?

He smiled.

Then the pain in his head which had hurt all this while, grew intense.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Writing ?

How much can a writing take you?

Can it change something that exists or begin anything new?

What is the use of writing, if it can be erased, torn or burnt?

I always could write better, than I could speak. I am just saying in relative terms, not comparing myself to anyone else. But, when I speak, I feel I am a no opinion and spineless woman. This is not how I feel when I write. 

Is it because that not too many people write, but speak better? It could be that when writing, we think slower than when we speak. 

How many writing has made you better? 

How much of it has it saved the world ?

Don’t actions speak louder than words ; even if they are in black and white ? Did we bring about reforms in society using paper as a medium ? I have seen weapons of mass destruction and actions of human acts, but nothing on paper that changed us.

I don't even remember my parents teaching me life by putting things in writing. We all learnt on the go by seeing people act accordingly. Then, why are we insisting people to read more often?

Are we misinformed that pen is mightier than sword ? How has it been ?

I am beginning to feel writing will lose its form , and we all need to spring to action. But I am not sure, because I know nothing else than to write. The words on stronger on paper than from my mouth.