Picture Story : Chapter 2

She didn’t have to open the note to know what was in there. She held the note close to her nose. She could smell the tobacco off his fingers. He still smoked. She smiled and nodded a little before opening the note. In long strokes of cursive writing it said, ‘Do you remember?’
The handwriting, the peculiar scent of cigarettes mixed with a light scent of cologne screamed his name. He didn’t have to sign things to make his presence felt.
She remembered. Of course she did. Those evenings, as the sun set on the lovely beach by their house. She remembered lighting up candles. They had electricity of course, but her grandma preferred candle light. The shadows danced on the chipped walls of their once beautiful mansion. The shadows hid the cracked walls and chipped paint.
‘The candle light makes the house look regal,’ her grandma would say. To her, a teenager about to enter college, the pretence was annoying, but she played along. She also swore that she would one day be rich enough to fix those chipped walls so her home would look like it did back in her childhood.
She remembered switching on the radio in her room, and as the music echoed within the four walls of her room. She dreamt of roses, gardens, pretty dresses and pretty jewellery and fancy things. And she dreamt of a prince charming… She’d lose track of time as the radio played tune after tune for her to dream to. The radio was made redundant the day he walked into her life. He was everything she dreamt of… And she had never switched on the radio until that evening that he walked away… The radio brought back her dreams and with her broken heart, she found those memories impossible to deal with.
She walked out of her room, down into the den. She opened an antic closet and pulled out an old chest. She clicked the chest open and rummaged through some stuff. Bottle caps, rag dolls, ribbons, little books and finally, that little transistor radio. She placed it on the table and stared at it.
Why was he doing this to her? Why was he taking her back to a time she had buried deep in the folds of her memory… Why?

Picture by: @nomadwanderer

Click here to see @nomadwanderer’s photographs. She’s awesome!

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Every Picture Tells A Story- A new project

Ever since Phil Collins came into my life, this song title has fascinated me. So here I am, borrowing from @nomadwanderer’s lens… She takes the pictures, i tell the story… Let’s see where this takes us…

Project Picture Stories: 1

She clicked the lock open before walking into her room. Something felt different about the room. She laid her bags down on the ornate love seat and took off her sunglasses with her diamonds studded fingers. She carefully folded them and walked over to her dresser where she placed them… She let her fingers run across the smooth edges of the antique dresser… She smiled as she looked at her make-up, perfumes and jewellery neatly lined up… And in the corner was a small photo. The only woman in this world, she wished she could be.
She glanced at the photo and then at the mirror. She looked similar to the woman in the photo and yet so different. Age had left its marks on the corners of her mouth and eyes, but there was a sparkle in the eyes that she had protected from the cruel hands of age. She looked at the photograph again.
The woman wore black against a black background, making her seem like a floating body.
She looked at the mirror. She was wearing a similar black boat necked dress. But she was missing the beautiful neck piece. She touched her bare neck…
The bare neck was a reminder…
She made her way across to the bed as she hugged herself. The room was a little cold… ‘The heating must be off,’ she thought to herself. She sat down on her bed and hugged herself as she let out a wistful sigh. She hated thinking of the past, but then…
Suddenly something on the table by the window caught her eye. She looked shocked, bewildered and happy at the same time. She walked over to the table, too afraid to touch it. She didn’t want it to disappear. Her hand almost went up to the necklace that lay staring at her. Her diamonds and sapphires seemed pale against the rich green. The green, locked away from the clutches of time, devoid of any marks of age… The green that had adorned her neck when it was smooth like porcelain, begged to be worn… She pulled her hand back and touched her bare neck again… There were wrinkles. Time had touched her, but her memories- they were just as fresh as the green. Then she saw the neatly folded note below the necklace. And she knew…
@nomadwanderer’s picture came from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kaurwakee/4218839653/

Journal Rules

Ground rules for the journal:

  1. Write every day, even if you have not written for the novel, write as to why?
  2. Tell yourself the truth.
  3. Write about the influences. Film, music, books, art or people that triggered off the want to write.
  4. Thou shalt not lose passion
  5. Thou shalt not forget the goal. A finished book by end of December
  6. Thou shalt ignore people telling you, you cannot do it
  7. Start the first day by reading random pieces written before.

Yehi Hai Write Choice Baby, A-ha!

Enough random thinking. It will still continue, but from today, the blog will see posts about creating my second novel. I plan to do the following things by the year end:

  1. Be brutally honest about myself, to myself:

Satyadev Dubey once told me over a cup of chai at MIG club, ‘Lie to the world, but don’t ever make the mistake of lying to yourself,’ It’s about time I took that advice seriously. I am honest with myself but to put it down in words is to crystalize it, frame it up and make it permanent. I am not going to be scared of it.

 

  1. Delete the delete:

Negative self- image might help me improve and all, but the negativity about my own work makes me destroy most of the things that I write. From now on, delete does not exist. I will write, and however crappy I think my writing, I will revisit it later and craft it to reduce its level of mediocrity.

 

  1. Worker harder on the hard work:

Working hard is simply not enough. I will work harder at working harder.

 

  1. Reflections can be beautiful:

Maintain a writers’ journal so I can reflect on the process of writing.

 

  1. Share:

Being nervous about sharing my work is bad for my health. And a lady with bitten nails doesn’t exactly look gorgeous. It’s my work, I will share it. So what if someone hates it!

 

  1. Do Doddle Do:

I am always guilty of talking rather than doing. I won’t just write these things, I will do them.

Off to start with the second novel. To piece together silly little pieces of the puzzle I have strewn across the different corners of my mind. To piece them together, to bring alive each character and to be the schizophrenic writer I love being. I am off to be restless, to explore where the story goes and where it comes from, to feel the pulse of each character and to be haunted, consumed and bewildered by the story I want to tell. And my readers, darlings, you have a choice, to be involved in this mad mad mad journey over the next God knows how many days. If it sounds too boring, let me know. I’ll sneak in a fun bit or two, but I really *need* to do this. 

Let the madness begin: drumroll!

Beyond ‘now’

Searching for a new horizon

Beyond the sea, beyond the one I see now

Painted a new colour

Scented with a new odour

Of sweat and tears

Hard days and hard nights

Proving myself yet again

A new struggle, a new future

A new present

But the past remains the same

The past is me,

The past is who I am

And what defines what I’m meant to be…

Good Morning

A continuation of the earlier post

———

It was one of those mornings where he hated waking up. He was dreaming of something vague but he wasn’t sure. He forced himself up anyway. He walked to the balcony and glanced at the sky searching for a hint of sunlight. The dull sky totally matched his state-of-mind.

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath, looking within for inspiration. Suddenly he heard someone honk right under his window. She came to his mind. The tiny girl trying to maneuver her big car in the homeward bound traffic. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would have happened, had he knocked on her window. He couldn’t help but wonder how many ‘what if’s marked has life.

What if he had knocked on her window, what if she’d have smiled back and said ‘hey’, what if she thought he was a creep and looked away. The ‘what if’ was making him restless, so he put on his shoes and stepped out to take a walk. And just then the first rain of the season poured down on him. Bringing with it, he scent of wet mud and lush greens of the seasons.

Horn Ok Please

She had driven all the way across town for a meeting, which didn’t happen eventually. The terrible traffic wasn’t helping her foul mood. She was sick of her being stuck in first gear. Her knees were hurting out of the excessive driving. The tiny rickshaws kept cutting into her lane, adding to her agony. She just wanted to get home and rest.

She didn’t notice the guy in the car next door look at her. She tried to focus on getting some song on the radio, but they were just playing songs she didn’t care about. She rested her head on her steering wheel in frustration.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he knew it was rude to stare, but she was adorable. She was restless in her big huge car, shifting gears even when the car was stationary. He felt a strong urge to just roll down his window and knock on hers. He shook off the thought and smiled. He forced himself to look away. She was just driving a car next to his, she could be married or she could be a mother of 5 kids. He wasn’t the type to flirt with random girls. In fact, it was a long time since he had checked out a girl even.

While he was lost in his thoughts, she had driven away… He looked at where her car had been and shrugged. What if he had knocked on her window?