No 1 Fan - Part 5 - The Gist

"My mother used to read your book to my little sister every night before she went to sleep. So every night, I'd hear your words, ringing in my ears. To be honest, I didn't think very much of your writing at first. I used to make fun of my mother and sister for reading what I thought was trash. Slowly though, as I listened to your words instead of just hearing them, I realized that there was more, so much more, just lying beneath the surface, just waiting for a discerning reader to come along. The first time I actually read one of your books, I read it cover to cover. It was an epiphany. Suddenly I'd found what I had been looking for for so many years, though I didn't know that I was looking for it. It was like your book just fit somewhere...somewhere deep inside me, in a place where neither man nor God has been, a place where there was nothing but is now so full of your brilliance; full like our plumbing after my Uncle Avranav pays a visit on Pujo."
He watched her rhapsodize in front of him with a mixture of uneasiness and amusement. Never before had he struggled to contain his laughter while desperately searching for a cop, just in case she acted as crazy as she sounded. What made it even more surreal was the fact that she was talking about him like that with...oh good God, she actually had tears in her eyes.
He suddenly noticed that she had finished and was looking expectantly at him. The old uneasiness set in.
"Er... listen...Anita. I really don't know what you're talking about. The truth is, my books don't have any kind of hidden meaning in them at all. See--"
"I knew you'd be humble."
"Um...excuse me?"
"I knew you'd try to downplay your magnificence. I knew it the minute I read Chapter Three: The Rocking-Horse of Enki-Boo."
"And, um, what about  Chapter Three: The Rocking-Horse of Enki-Boo?"
"Well it's obvious once you think about it. That's the Chapter in which you introduce Gilheridas the squirrel. The very fact that you compare Gilheridas' tail to a quill is very telling. Clearly, Gilheridas himself is an allegory for Tarun Rai, the author. You. The tail doesn't just look like a quill, it is a quill, wielded by you, the bard, the storyteller. The fact that you say Gilheridas is little is evidence that you have a tendency to belittle yourself. Gilheridas' voice is soft; in other words, you do not like to proclaim your greatnes in a loud voice. And the final stroke was when you didn't make Gilheridas a primary character, but an inconsequential one. I mean, he gets eaten by a rabid gorilla three sentences after he's introduced, for Christ's sake! Clearly you are secondary to your story, or at least you think you are. If that isn't humility, I don't know what is."
"Actually I said Gilheridas' tail looks like a quill because...well... I've always thought squirrel tails look like feathers. And I made him little because...well...squirrels are little."
"Oh come on now. You don't actually expect me to believe that, do you?"
"I really really do."
"Fine. What about Bawarchi, hmm? Don't tell me he isn't a atheistic metaphor."
"What?"
"A king who became a chef? Clear reference to the Bible where God is referred to as a divine monarch. At the same time there are frequent references to a 'heavenly banquet'. By making Bawarchi a king turned chef, someone who would be expected to prepare banquets, you clearly set him up to represent the Almighty. However, the story dwells on how powerless he is and how he can do nothing without the help of children. Children. A clear indication that you believe in the theory that God is a creation of Man and not vice versa; that without Man, God has no meaning."
"Are you serious?! I haven't even read the Bible! And don't go calling me an atheist in front of my mom, she'll kill me! She already makes me spend an hour at the temple everyday ever since that time she caught me reading..I am not...not...an atheist. I make donations to the local pundit, I fast every Tuesday, I-I-."
"Mr. Rai?"
"Yes?"
You're rambling."
"Sorry."
"Now let's talk about Neha. Obviously a personification of the emancipation of the Modern Indian Woman who isn't afraid to try new sexual experiences and indulge in deviant behaiour."
"What?! She's seven frikkin' years old!"
"Interesting choice of numbers. Seven deadly sins anyone? Anyway, that one's pretty much a certainty. After all, she is riding a centaur on the cover. Half-man, half-horse? And you're telling me that isn't a fetish?"
"Yes, she's riding on a centaur, but she's also riding with her brother."
"Don't even get me started on that. Plus, in the book, she gets a magic staff. Magic staff? Could that be any more Freudian?"
"You. Are. SICK!"
"Her mother's name is Savita? Come on. Does that ring a bell?"
He then sat in stunned silence while Anita proceeded to link the fact that his second book was called Indian Fairy Tales to homoeroticism, the colour of one of his character's eyes to the rampant corruption in the current government and the names of a group of crickets in his latest book to his (supposed) hatred for the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald.
For a while, he listened to her occasionally throwing in horrified interjections and corrections which she listened to patiently and then completely ignored. Then, when the constant stream of deductions became no more than a meaningless flow of words (turtle...Impressionism...dwarf....freedom of press), he started toying with the idea of pretending that his works really were insightful and full of undiscovered worth. But he'd been raised to be honest and, more importantly, he was reasonably certain that if he played along with this girl, his situation might change from that of any B-grade rom-com to something along the lines of Misery.
So it was around the point that she definitively proved that his desciption of a lake in his short story The First Gnome of Chlork was proof of his secret Communist beliefs that he said:
"Stop."

Why?

I know you think you're better than me
And I know I think you're not
I know the things they say about me
They mean nothing, but at the same time, a lot.
I know the words you expect from me
And I know they're what I can't say
I know I've got to cheat to win
I know crime doesn't pay
Like a tight-fisted parent whose face means nothing to you
You look around and then look within
For a sign of the greater things you know are to come
But like an imprisoned, impotent old djinn
Your rage wells up inside you
And I see it in your eyes
I eat but I can't think about you
I see truth in your lies
I know there isn't a ray of sunshine to break
Through me, not this time around
I know that you have been looking desperately for
Those things you wished you hadn't found
I know these words mean nothing to him
That my eyes turn away from hers
I know the evil that lies, lies within
The Ma'ams and the Dudes and the Sirs
I know they can't hear me when I cry in the night
I know it's the day that has dawned
I know you could try but you'd never convince her
That your uncle lies under that pond
She doesn't believe you
Deceive her instead
She's not going to see you
With that chip on your head
Your shoulder is bare, do you know it? I do.
I see it all day in the glass
That looks back at me with tears in its eyes
And whispers to me as it laughs
"What demon possessed you?
What have you done?"
Are questions that are never asked
But all the same
They're the questions that last.

The Tombstone Talks

Here lies the body of Jimmy I. Hives
Kept twenty-four people from ending their lives
Listened to arguments and worries, complaints
That could try the patience of the holiest saints
With his cap on his head and umbrella in hand
Old Jimmy never shirked from lending a hand
When Billy Jean cocked a gun to his own head
"Don't do it" was what Jimmy's soft voice said
When Ricky Burrito said he'd jump from a cliff
Only Jimmy could keep him from becoming a stiff
Nancy Parker slit her wrists at six by the clock
And woke up to find Jimmy had brought her the Doc
Harry Paulson's wife Linda ran off to Rome
It was Jimmy's persuasion that brought her back home
Just in time to see Harry, in his hand was a knife
No doubt about it, Jimmy saved Harry's life
Candice DeMorgan, alone at eighty-two
Says she'd have just given up if it wasn't for you know who
He visited her in hospital, sat by her white bed
Jimmy I. Hives brought her back from the dead
He argued Arnold Van Dyke's case in court like heck
And kept the hangman's noose away from an innocent man's neck
Seventeen hostages owed their very lives
To that passionate negotiator, Jimmy I. Hives
He convinced the lone gunman to lay down his gun
And let them out of that bank, one by one
On his 50th birthday, Jim was in for a treat
Those twenty-four people went over to meet
The hero, their angel who had saved all their lives
They arrived at the home of Jimmy I. Hives
They knocked and they hollered, they rang and they frowned
And finally they got Little Bobby Brown
(Who'd been snatched from in front of a speeding car
By Jimmy Boy who saw it rush at the kid from afar)
To open a window, crawl in and unlock
The door upon which twenty-four people had knocked
He did so, they came in and rushed upstairs
To the bedroom where they stopped, they stood and they stared
Until someone in quivering, grief-stricken voice said
"It's Jimmy...Old Jimmy...Jimmy Hives is dead!"
They rushed him to the hospital where the Doc sadly said:
"Cause of death: overdosed while lying in bed."
You see, poor Jimmy had always fought depression,
He fought a lone battle without any mode of expression
'Cause Jimmy had always been alone
He never ever had someone to call his own
No friends, no family, no wife, no son
Jimmy I. Hives had nobody, no one
So he tried to help others and he never complained
Although in Jimmy's life, it had always rained
But though he saved lives and became a hero to all
That didn't ease his burden, for still no one called
Him while he sat at home, alone, all alone
Staring with dull eyes at the ever-silent phone
So he wrote an apology and paid all his bills
Then lay down in bed and downed a bottle of pills
And so here lies his body, alone on a hill
Undisturbed all year long, that is until
The 31st of December, his birthday comes 'round
And twenty-four people all crowd around
And lay twenty-four roses on that single grave
For the twenty-fifth life that Jimmy I. Hives couldn't save.
   

Welcome

I know I'm interrupting No 1 Fan's plotline (again!) but I thought this was worth a mention.
I'd like to welcome to this blog a certain Ms. Dipin Kaur, who has recently started following it. Why is this of any significance you might ask? Quite simply, she is the first follower of this blog who I do not know personally! Seriously. Yeah, I know, it's kinda sad but hopefully this is a sign of things to come. So I'd like to thank Ms. Kaur for making my day and I hope to get some feedback from her. I also hope you won't tire of my inconsistency and bear with me which seems to have become the most often used phrase in this blog.
Oh and if by any chance you accidentally pressed the follow button and were planning to correct that but won't do so now because you feel it would be embarassing....meh, I'll take what I can get. A pity follower's better than no followers, right?

No 1 Fan - Part 4 - The Reason

<Sorry it took so long people, my exams were on and I kinda lost interest in this plotline. But never fear! I am back on track and hopefully I'll be able to finish this thing soon. Please excuse the brevity of this next part, but it takes a while for me to get back in the groove. Bear with me!>



He looked at the book with disgust. Then he looked back up at her.
"This is why you're here?"
"Of course."
"But it's trash."
"I know it is..."
He relaxed. She was insulting the book. All was right with the universe again.
"...as compared to your later work."
He coughed. His later work? The Red Door was a steaming pile of cowdung, but it was only marginally worse than the rest of his books. As one reviewer put it, "Tarun Rai's one admirable trait is his consistency. Possibly no other writer has managed to continuously and dilligently churn out as much nauseating material as Tarun Rai."
He decided to ask her outright.
"What exactly do you like about the book?"
She thought for a minute.
"Well... I like the subtle way in which you mock democracy's shortcomings. Oh, and the veiled references to your contemporaries is pretty entertaining as well. But what really impressed me was the absolutely unassuming way in which you tackle the subject of your own mortality whilst highlighting the futility of resisting the temptations that come our way everyday."
He smiled. And then he nodded. And then smiled again. He looked into her chestnut eyes, past the lenses of the round spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. And then he asked her:
"What the hell are you talking about?"  

Mobius

I tried to write the next part of "No 1 Fan", but I found I was in the mood for a lil poetry instead. Never fear though, I shall return to the Author's tale anon.
Let me know what you think of "Mobius".


I sit here typing endlessly
Waiting for another chance
A shot, a glimpse of eternity
A tiger with no pants

Feel free to rhyme
It is no crime
For all you see
Is all but me

A terror in the turnip field
Came calling at my door
A letter once with steam unsealed
Can be glanced through no more

Another time
A bog of slime
I feel so free
As the swineherds flee

Can you imagine the bonds we broke?
The supple fields, the brook and bridge?
A stranger in a dark green cloak
A fearsome brow upon a ridge

He comes to take
All those who fake
A way outside
To find their pride

Alas, my memory unbroke
A gargoyle turned to me
And then began to fiercely choke
All that was left of thee

Could I have saved
What critics raved
And ranted to be
A fallacy?

I leave these questions in your hands
I tried to let it flow
As lonely hearts and their respective bands
Show'd unto me the way to go

Green fields of jade
For whom they paid
At this arcade
As mem'ries fade
And horses neighed
The butchers weighed
The flesh; a shade
Watched these fair women wander free
I sit here typing endlessly...

No 1 Fan - Part 3 - The Book

"Look, would it help if I told you why I'm here?"
His head snapped up at this sudden lifeline being thrown his way. He took a deep breath and said as if she'd just asked him whether he'd like her to remove the Great White Shark snacking on his vertebral column, "Yes, please."
"Very well then. This is why I'm here."
She fished around in the jhola she had with her. Finally she took out a book.
It was a rather unremarkable book, much dog-eared with a once bright yellow dust jacket, now faded with age and repeated perusals. The cover depicted a little boy and girl riding astride a centaur, surrounded by a multitude of fantastic beasts: dragons, manticores, ogres et al.
The Red Door by Tarun Rai.
A book that was widely panned by critics shortly before its release, but quickly sold out when it hit stores. Its signature blend of characters culled from a dozen different ancient myths, large, colourful and yet bland pictures, cringe-worthy verses, one-dimensional characters and more than a sprinkling of all-too familiar themes (plagiarism? Maybe a little.) proved inexplicably popular with children below the age of 10 and, more importantly, their parents. More important because whether or not their tiny tot really liked the book, every mother and father wanted their child to read it because it was "safe", "innocent" and, that most hideous of all adjectives, "cute".
And so it sold. Thousands of kids read about little Hari and Neha who find a gateway to a magical world called Jaadupur in their scooter garage, befriend Bawarchi, the erstwhile king (now chef) of the land and, finally, overthrow the evil dragon, Chip-kali, who had long ago usurped the throne (no explanation for why a dragon would want to usurp the throne, considering the local villagers already worshipped it. Not to mention how it did so, considering it was killed by a pair of 8-year-olds. With a broom. An enchanted broom, granted, but still, it's a rather tenuous argument.), after which they promptly and rather annoyingly live happily ever after with their various pixie friends who merely serve as cardboad cut-outs of characters.
He hated that book. Loathed it actually. He would often rip pages out of his own copy to use as toilet paper. He had also taken to ripping it apart in online chat rooms under the name TarunRaiSucks363784 (yes, there were actually 363783 others, probably more), an activity from which he derived a rather sadistic pleasure, especially if the person he was chatting with happened to be a fan. He actually kept a notebook in which he had noted down all the fallacies of the plot ('What happened to the kids' parents? Did they just leave them behind without even a note? Rotten kids.' or 'Exactly why is Bawarchi resigned to live his life as a chef? Do people really want such a lackadaisical, inefficient ruler who can't even find a damn broom without the help of little kids? Come to think of it, who the hell names their son Bawarchi? I mean, come on!!!' or 'Why the Red Door? Nowhere in the book is there a significant red door. The door to the scooter garage is painted white, for crying out loud!' and so on).
He despised it.
Its very name made him shudder in disgust.
It was also one of the first books he had written.