Sunday 26 November 2006

The twelfth day of Christmas...

On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
Twelve Drummers Drumming
Eleven Pipers Piping
Ten Lords a Leaping
Nine Ladies Dancing
Eight Maids a Milking
Seven Swans a Swimming
Six Geese a Laying
Five Gold Rings
Four Calling Birds
Three French Hens
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree

Well, this is something we had to sing during our western music classes, back in the days when I wasn’t five feet tall yet. I loved those classes, but not this song. I mean, the lads were totally against this number, and you can plainly see why. The lasses seemed to sing this song with great gusto, and I suppose this was the first inkling us lads got regarding how materialistic the fairer sex really is…

Well, what put us off the most, I suppose, was the ‘true love’ thing… yuck!!! I mean, talk about true love to a fourth standard kid and that’s the reaction you’ll get.

True love seems like a pretty nice concept now, though… and I suppose I’d have thought the same back in the fourth as well, only I wasn’t dumb enough to admit it… something I failed to live up to in later years… heck, I was the butt of all the schoolboy humour in the seventh standard for saying something as stupid as:

“She’s a girl, she’s my friend… yeah, I suppose you could call her my girlfriend…”

Coming back to the issue at hand, western music classes were so great that we didn’t think of the loss when we moved into the sixth, and we found it being replaced by something called history. We had the greatest history teacher in the world; and we, or I at any rate, never really thought about western music classes anymore. But those songs still linger in the memory, and every now and again, I’m reminded of a stray line, or incident, which brings the upward curve to one’s lips…

I have one question though… just supposing my true love (who is a merely hypothetical construct here) gives me a partridge in a pear tree, or any of the other wonderful avian life-forms mentioned above… where in god’s name am I supposed to keep it? Does that mean that my bookshelf and cricket bat must make way for an annoying bird and god forbid, its family? I mean, I’m sure French hens are thought of very highly by hen collectors, but I ain’t one of ‘em!!!

The strange case of Ghanshyam and a frustrating brick wall.

Ghanshyam loved crowded streets; narrow and claustrophobic preferably. Ranganathan Street fitted the bill perfectly.

Quite naturally, therefore, Ghanshyam decided to take a walk down the street reputed to offer ‘the lowest concentration of air per person per cubic metre’ in the whole world.

The effects of such an arduous journey upon the body and soul can vary from person to person.

On an average, 73 per cent of humanity would emerge unscathed apart from a well-trodden-upon pair of feet; half of whom would lose their wallets. The other half would be richer by a wallet each.

Of the remaining 27 per cent, half suffer minor physical injuries such as those inflicted by the tip of an injudiciously prodding umbrella; or minor bruises arising from four or five people falling simultaneously like a row of bicycles.

The remaining chunk of the pie chart can be further split into two groups – the chaps who shove and the fellows who get shoved.

Ghanshyam belonged to the last category.

On that historic day, events culminated in a massive shove that sent Ghanshyam falling nose first onto something that gave it a hairline fracture.

As a matter of fact, his mind was also fractured. His mind was split neatly down the middle, into two halves, each exactly like the other; and both exactly how his mind had been when it was a whole. A physical corollary would be somatic cell division, about which you may have read exhaustively in school.

Ghanshyam’s physical frame could support only one mind; so the other created a new physical frame for itself, on a planet which for want of a better name shall henceforth be known as PV40153.

This physical frame exactly resembled the one on Earth, except for the fact that it did not have a broken nose.

This physical entity (the inhabitant of the planet PV40153) will henceforth take on the name Ghanshyam.

The other one will be known as Ghanshyam the other.

Which is a bit unfair on the chap, I admit.

Ghanshyam the other woke up in a hospital with a bandaged nose.

Ghanshyam found himself in an eerie new land with two other chaps he wasn’t acquainted with. It was very bleak.

For some reason, just an infinitesimal instant prior to the fracture, his cell memory was infinitesimally frozen, and he had been born with one definite advantage over his clone; in that he had a nose in one piece.

Otherwise things looked very bleak.

This was due mainly to a thick fog that enveloped the landscape. It was a curious bluish green in colour, the sort of bluish green he had in the past imagined the colour of all the dry ice vapour in all the old black and white movies to be; that to others somehow looked just plain grey.

“It’s rather grey in here, isn’t it?”

Looking at the source of this comment, Ghanshyam perceived a short chap.

“No, it’s bluish green, a foggy bluish green.” Ghanshyam didn’t say.

Instead he asked his curious companion who he and his curious companion were.

I began writing this sometime last year, and I find myself unable to go past this point...

Saturday 25 November 2006

Writer's Block

It’s no secret that people can’t just sit in front of a blank Microsoft Word window and zip off a page of geniosical (Microsoft Word does not recognise the word… it tells me I’m probably thinking of genealogical or gemological… well, it exists now, and I shall use it as and when I please) ‘holy cow!!! How did he/she do that?’ stuff. It’s hard enough to come up with a half decent first line. The secret, says Mr. Sean Connery, in the guise of Mr. William Forrester, is to type, and just keep typing.

‘Punch the bloody keys!!!’ he says. Or words to that effect… I don’t remember exactly.

In any case, doing that doesn’t seem to help either. Must have helped Mr. Forrester, I suppose. And what makes writer’s block loom most threateningly is this thing called ‘I wanna write but I don’t know what I wanna write’ syndrome. Which, at this point in time, is affecting me pretty bad.

What I need, therefore, is an idea. I request anyone who might be reading this to keep giving me ideas. Any sort of idea.