Favorite Literary Characters

‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’  What about two women? My guess is that no one ever lived to tell the tale. So am taking up this ‘tag’ and have to write my favorite five literary characters thanks to Jahnabi and Tania. Sorry for making you two wait.

Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin (Anna Karenina): The co-protagonist of a novel by the Russian Leo Tolstoy. Though Anna herself is a close second she fails to beat Levin. Tolstoy shows what ‘Character Development’ actually is. Teaches you many things, this guy does and I am not talking about Ayn Rand ideology here.

Harry Potter n’ Co: Not even a month since the release of the last book. To not write the name of every major character here would be treachery of the nth order.

Melchizedek- The King of Salem (The Alchemist) : He has a very small part as such in the book, but I think it is the part in us which makes us like the omnipotent and omniscient and gets him a place in this list. Gandalf and Dumbledore fall in the same league. It is the calm sense of purpose and never ending enthusiasm that makes me like them. Though I loved the book, disagree with the ‘Everything in this universe conspires’ crap.

Aragorn (Lord of the Rings): A popular favorite I would say. Presently he reminds me of the brilliantly directed LOTR series and makes me wish that Peter Jackson directs the last HP book, in particular from the ‘Battle of Hogwarts’ onwards. He has things in common with Harry’s character, like all heroes, if you think of it. Though I request you not to jump in your seat saying I told you Jo ripped LOTR and HP is all hype. Thou shall rot in Bubotber Pus if you do so.

Darcy & Elizabeth (Pride and Prejudice): I like the arrogance in them and the way their characters loosen in the same fashion as one sees in real life.

Piscine ‘Pi’ Molitor Patel (Life of Pi): The book is in the first-person narrative, hence one forms a bond with Pi. The final few chapters where he recounts to a couple of officers how he spent 227 days on a boat alone with negligible supplies and a tiger to a couple of men and then tells them a more believable story, though still analogous to his actual one, and his subsequent arguments which included saying ‘People did not believe Galileo about the earth’ portray his genius. A must read I would say. Check out this plot summary from Wikipedia.

Insult of the Day: Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go. Oscar Wilde.

Filed under: Books, Literature

All You Need is a Smile

As promised, here is part two of my story series. If you have not read the first one then it is recommended that you do so, but is not necessary. Highly appreciate criticism in the comments section.

Every thought, every action, every being, everything seemed revolting. The white bed-sheets, the nurses in white dresses, the white paint on the walls. They all seemed repulsive, it seemed to her that that quiet colour and the calm surroundings were teasing her. How could anything ever be gentle or serene. If I could color them I would paint everything black. Yes black with violent red. She wondered if Akrit would have done the same.Thoughts seemed to race past in an intermingled blur. Her paralysed husband, her daughter Sarah, the pain within herself and the damned serenity of the hospital. She wondered why her husband committed suicide. Why there was no suicide note. Was it her fault? There were too many whys and none becauses. It was all too much for her, more than anyone could take. She did not want to suffer more than anyone.  She shouted- something between a cry of desperation and a mockery of what was happening. She broke the machines near her, tried to rip apart any bed-sheet she could find and started beating the white walls. It was the only thing she could think of doing. She was one of the foremost and famous intellectuals in the world, and all she could think of beating those white walls. It was her feeble attempt at revenge, from what, she did not know- life maybe. By the time the nurses came, she was lying unconscious on the floor, midst her own mess.

The doctor asked ‘Samantha’?

It was more than three hours since she fell unconscious and twenty more minutes since she lay awake. Though she did not want to open her eyes. She was not prepared. She believed that she could escape it all by delaying everything. The thing is, no one is ever fully prepared. You may lead the game one-nil from the first minute only to see a couple of self-goals in the last. At last she gave up. She could not have outrun life itself, there is only so much that you can run from.

“I am sorry for the way I behaved this morning, doctor. How is Akrit?”

“Samantha. You suffered what is called a ‘Panic Attack’. Akrit, I’m afraid, has not shown signs of any further recovery and we doubt if he will ever be able to. I am sorry Samantha, everything will be fine. Take care”

Everything will be fine. Oh yes, everything will be fine, why shouldn’t it? Try saying that to yourself when your wife becomes a vegetable, you bastard. She had had her share of drama today and was already feeling sorry that she thought about those words. She was tired, she was sick and she wanted to give up. She looked at herself in the mirror. She remembered the way Akrit used to describe them, as only a writer could and she remembered the way she blushed. Streams of tears now flowed across those red cheeks. Oddly it now gave her a portly appearance of a person who has seen more than one should. Her blonde hair was in disarray- spread everywhere like the ruffled feathers of a bird which desperately wanted to break the chains and fly somewhere far off. It was pitiful, the lost face, tattered hair and those blue eyes which lost their radiance amidst the river of tears. She wanted to end it all, death would be better.

“Hello Mommy”Samantha quickly wiped her tears after-all she had to portray a brave face in front of Sarah.

“Hey dear. Did Nanny give you lunch? Did you watch your favorite Tom and Jerry today dear dodie?”

“Mummy I saw you wiping your those tears. You don’t have to cry, they all are saying that Daddy is fine. But I think they are all lying to me and thinking that I am a little kid. Didn’t daddy say that I am the intelligentest girl ever? Mummy don’t cry, it is not good to cry. Daddy is not speaking. I don’t know why and I don’t like it. I want him to speak. But mumma we cannot cry, we must not cry. Daddy never likes it when I cry, he says that only bad and weak people cry. Mummy don’t be bad. Oh and mumma you keep forgetting Tom and Jerry comes only on Fridays and today is tuesday. Anyways I thought that I should meet you, Granny did not let me come but I slipped through the back door. I am sorry mumma for doing that but I thought that I should be with my mumma. Mumma is more important than Nanny and cartoon. Soweee”

She held her ears with her little white fingers to apologise. Samantha looked straight into her daughter’s clear blue eyes, they were identical to hers. While the mother’s seemed to have lost all hope Sarah’s innocent eyes gleamed with mischievous enthusiasm and hope. They were everything that hers were not.

‘It is Ok dodie’ She could not stop crying.

‘Mumma don’t cry. Everything will be OK.’

Dodie smiled her usual dimpled smile.She felt like a warrior fighting a war which she had no hopes of winning. She realised that life is a game where you don’t get any points for quitting.

‘Yes dodie, it will.’ She said in spite of herself.

Sometimes all that one needs to keep going is a smile.

Filed under: English, Literature, Short story, Story

Just Another Guy: An Ordinary Story About Ordinariness

As usual with all my stories and poems, please provide feedback for the same. Criticism, as always, is highly appreciated. Inputs help in development of skills and help me gauge myself. If you liked this then please also read my last story, if you have not already read the same. I believe the previous story is much better compared to the current one.

Arthur Gold was as an ordinary man. No not an ordinary man who did so and so to become so and so. But just another man. He could well have been the proverbial guy next door. His life averaged around the average definition of the average. The hero of this story is as mundane and quotidian as one could imagine. In fact, to term him ‘hero’ would be erroneous and he shall hence be referred to as the protagonist. This tale is not one of adventure, comedy or tragedy or one with a mysterious murder to solve. Nothing of that kind normally occurs in normal lives.

Most stories start with visual descriptions of the hero (the protagonist in our case). The story excuses itself from the same and assures you that they were nothing special. You would not have recognized his face in the newspaper from someone else even if you would have seen him the previous day. No, he did not look ugly either- for that would have meant that you remembered him. Anyways you would not call being ugly ordinary, would you? Talking about newspapers, his name never graced either the Front Page, Business Page, Sports Page or for that matter any page. Yes a small obituary with his photo would have been published by his family on the second page at his death, just like most people. He was not among the rich and famous, who are envied; nor was he among the poor and destitute who are pitied. He was among them who did all the pitying and all the envying. He had a normal job – like most people. For which he was occasionally late – like most people; something for which he was always shouted at – like most people. In fact nothing in this story would shock you or surprise you. I shall perfectly understand if you do not wish to pursue reading any further. More intelligent authors know about this, and that is why no one writes stories about Arthur Gold or Jane Doe; for there are few who who like prosaicness- in prose or verse. Alas, this story has started and every story, good or bad (or to put it in the tone of this story- ordinary or extraordinary) has to have an ending.

I have already told you that Arthur’s fortunes never changed. He never discovered that he was a wizard on his thirtieth birthday. He never won a lottery, (he had once bought a couple of tickets and never again.) He did have have a college crush on someone, but like most people he never mustered the courage to ask her out. He never received a will from a distant aunt who died in a freak accident. One of his Aunts did bequeath him her property, but that hardly changes this character or story. His Aunt was not rich and she died an ordinary death. It is the Author’s belief that anything unremarkable must always be confined to unremarkable surroundings to remain so. Newton would have probably explained that saying Every action has an equal and opposite reaction and that reaction may lead to other actions. Le Chatelier would have said that change of any of the reactant mixture would lead to disturbance of the product equlibria. Shakespeare probably said something else which probably would be quoted among the higher echelons of the society when discussing things like these. The lower strata, as I previously mentioned, would have simply said ‘What? I don’t care”. Arthur said something which no one cared to remember.

He did not die at the ripe old age of 92 or at the young age of 47. Such was his case that he died at the ordinary age of 76. Adjectives, other than those synonymous to ordinary would never associate themselves with his name. No not even on his death. Reading his file, the ‘Keeper of Records’ who resides in the office next to God’s was thoroughly disturbed.

He asked the Master himself- “Oh Lord! What had he done, to deserve this plight? Why did he end up becoming what everyone fears the most and yet by definition everyone ends up being so- the ordinary? Why was he ‘Just another guy’. Could you not have helped him at some point of the time? Why do the Arthurs and the Janes have to be so?”

Master replied “Romilda Bagshot,whom Arthur fancied in college, reciprocated his feelings, though subtly so. She kept waiting for a proposal from Arthur, but finally decided to move along. Arthur’s life would have been much different had he been with her. Arthur only bought two lottery tickets in his life, one of which ended up being the winning number. I am yet to know why he did not ever look at the tickets which he bought. Arthur was to be given a substantial pay raise and a promotion in office somewhere near his thirty second birthday, but he came late that day. Five years after tha-”

“But sir, then is it not your doing that he was late for office or that he could not ask Romilda out. Are you not the one who controls fates, situations and circumstances?” interrupted the keeper.

“Dear dear, I can hardly be blamed for him forgetting to change the batteries of his alarm clock. Is it my fault that he could not go up and talk to Romilda? The ones who notice the consequences of not changing their batteries and the ones who have courage are the ones who becoming the someones from the anyones“

The keeper, thinking of the protagonist’s life that could have been, merely said “Only if he had…. Only if…How tragic!”

“How ordinary” his master corrected him, smiled; and resumed working.

Filed under: Literature, Short story

Colours: A Short Story.

I like writing down stuff, this is a short story that I wrote some days back. Please comment on this and let me know how you think it is. Would greatly appreciate criticism.

He held the flower gently by the fingers of his left hand as he cut the petals into tiny pieces with his right.He couldn’t remember the last time he was beneath the tree; or even why had he stopped coming altogether to the park, pull a flower and keep tearing it down to small little pieces. There was not a single day, ever since his first day at the university, that he didn’t sit by the giant Banyan tree at the center of the park. He would then pluck a flower from the hundreds of plants which lined the jogging track of the huge park. ‘Good old days’ he said to himself.He was already trapped in the vicious circle, where one dwells in the past to ignore his present and wishes to avoid the future.

He looked at the northwest corner, where there were yellow sunflowers. There were also yellow orchids and blue lillies there. You could find the small white coloured flowers near the fences of the park to the east, whose name he still didn’t know; with the peach coloured roses lying right next to them, he recalled. While in his second year, he had seen Professor Killsman and Proffessor Millen kissing there. Akrit smiled as their aged faces popped up in his mind. He knew everything about this park, well atleast more than anyone ever did. He knew which color could be found where. He didn’t really care which flower it was, “Life is all about the color”- he used to say

.

He smiled as he remniscised about his past. He was going to die in minutes, or even seconds. The arsenide that he had with his coffee, would probably kill him any moment. He started laughing hysterically, a laugh that he had never laughed before. He laughed and laughed till his stomach started hurting and tears rolled down his cheeks. He recollected that he hadn’t laughed properly for a long period of time, and he laughed more. A pink rose caught his attention and he stopped laughing. Pink, that was his sunny colour, he used to pick up pink whenever he was happy.The day he first saw Samantha, sitting on the benches not far from the tree he was sitting, he had a red rose in his hand. He kept selecting red till the day he married Samantha.

This park has been his refuge since the day he came here. He found joy,comfort, solace and peace here. It is here that he used to write his poems, his booker-nominated books and here did his homework. He even found Samantha here. That is why he thought it proper that he should live his final moments here. He started laughing hysterically again, only more deliriously. He wondered if dying at a place of choice really mattered, he asked if anything ever mattered at all . Samantha didn’t matter anymore. Sarah, their six year old blue eyed girl with a dimpled smile and a dreamy voice didn’t matter anymore. He was flooded with emotions, with faces and feelings. Of things done and things which he couldn’t undo. He looked at all the colors of the flowers around him. He had picked every single colour that he could find in the park, to give him company to the grave. He fell, as the world seemed to blur. The final moments of his life spent crying, because he knew that some things did matter. Not the place where you die, or the colour you pick- but some things do matter. A gust of wind swept away all the flowers and the colours. It left only a white tulip which was gracing his serene face.

UPDATE: Here is Part II of the series.

Filed under: English, Literature, Short story