Inspired by a pathetic simile I read.
Disclaimer: I do not think like this most times.
He smiled confidently as he stepped into the interview room, calm confidence brimming within like an overflowing bog in a public latrine.
She screamed in terror as if she had seen the NDTiwari video unblurred.
The child’s sweet song oozed into his ears, a balm, like the cool liquid that alleviated the agitation in his crotch’s fungal growth.
Christmas was a quiet affair with the family, suffused with a warm fuzzy happiness, like a hand inside one’s own underwear on a cold night.
He frowned and mulled deeply over the problem, rolling it between his fingers, feeling its texture and shape, an unidentifiable something dug from inside his ass and just alluding description.
He surfaced from the perfect dive and floated on his back, eyes shut and at perfect peace, his smooth brown body like a turd in the smooth expanse of the sea.
2. If I have power, I become a tyrant.
3. I have a horror of torture. If threatened with one, I would squeal on anyone. But I have moments when I might not under any threat.
4. Nothing makes my day like a good tea and shite in the morning.
5. I like seeing people laugh.
6. I think kids are overrated. I wish I could say the same about sex.
7. I moan obscenities in my sleep.
8. I do not know myself.
9. I do not dig words like dig.
10. I am good at padding numbers and lists.
11. I am deeply sceptical yet hopelessly romantic.
12. A decade ago, I used to blush.
13. Sexual euphemisms amuse me; vulgar allusions disgust me. My wit abounds in both.
14. I find rapists more abominable than murderers.
15. I am not maturing gracefully.
16. My last grand discovery was the farting sound between my hands pressed to my mouth.
17. There is nothing in this world that I know to any considerable degree.
18. I have dreams of witnessing Nehru’s “Tryst with Destiny – to be followed by my dynasty” live; I see everyone in the grand hall nekked.
19. I am usually proved wrong.
20. I have been loved more than I loved; believed in more than I believe in myself.
21. Whenever I see pierced nipples, I want to yank them off.
22. I find my existence perplexing.
23. When I am dying, I would probably be thinking if I had been a good man.
24. I am fascinated by the way we remember and think. I read endlessly about it.
25. I have hurt too many people.
26. If I were to meet my doppelganger, I would take an intense dislike to him.
27. I meet people of whom I just remember an intimacy once but no details.
28. I was haunted by the character of Ms. Havisham when I was a child.
29. I stop listening when people raise their voices.
30. I respect sluts more than virgins.
31. I say things I mean and then immediately retract that I did not mean them.
32. I do not mean any of the above.
The temperature drops immediately as I enter the campus and the smells of woods and pollen fill the air. A tree-lined driveway curving around a wooded lawn brings me to the side patio of a grey stone building where I park the bike and step inside. A network of corridors opens in three directions: to my left, my right and straight ahead. No one in sight: I walk straight. The corridors shift space as I walk. The width of the walkway expands and contracts; tunnels break into open spaces, walls give way to pergolas lined with colonnade of pillars two stories high, unbroken ceilings to trellis running like rail-tracks overhead and laden with vines; whole section of walls get eaten by climbers, the veins of their branches pressed flat and gray to the granite like fossils; corridors run alongside separated by rows of pillars or green spaces only to disappear around a corner where others meet; they lead to stairways, climb steps to inner passages, run around central courts, drop to an amphitheatre, end in doors – I get lost.
I walk out of the dormitory and stand uncertainly in the middle of the corridor, trying to remember the tortuous route the hostel prefect had taken to bring and abandon me here. No one in sight. Absolutely quiet but for the rustling leaves. And yet, an overwhelming sense of their presence here once – like the wet stains of their shadows which had fallen across the courtyard and this corridor have just dried. A thought – am I dead? I am still ten but I know what it feels to be dying: the dark suffocating passage through its crypt. Is this the aftermath of dying – I wonder. Crawling back to the very world one has left the others weeping behind and denied, too, of their presence forever? Does heaven mean having the world to yourself and yet be condemned to chase shadows around the corner? Mirages baking in the distance, breaking and disappearing in a smoke at the last lap of approach; footprints ahead in the wet sand sucked back in the tide; rooms where the blades of the switched-off fan still turn and the food untouched on the table still warm. What is hell then?
A couple of guards whispering at a nook. They direct me to follow to the end a corridor branching at a tangent and watch for a wide open space boxed between two lecture-halls on my left.
The space is wide, flanked by flights of steps leading to the lecture-halls and opening at the back to a stone-paved walkway melding into darkness. Strings of green lampposts had lit the open passage which had led to here, the phosphorescent light between them seaming passages of radiance and gloom; here, rows of tube-lights bracing the ceiling like girders frame the scene in milky unshadowed lucidity. Again, no one around but a scrawny boy in a black suit, sitting on the steps and arranging a pile of papers on his lap, two fingers hooked like talons crawling along the sheaf, one marking the spot where a sheet is pulled out and the other where it is inserted back.
Time imagined is passage of thoughts. My mind remains numb.
Time sensed is breaking of rhythms; culmination of actions. He pulls another sheet out and slides it back.
I stand still and silent – as if a ripple stirred and sent quivering on the surface of this tableau of limbo and it would dissolve again into labyrinthine corridors. The talons meet and the boy shuffles the stack one last time, lines the sheets – three taps along the short edge on his knee, a quarter rotation, three taps along the long edge – and places them in a folder. He looks up and notices me. ‘Yes?’
The clock starts ticking again.
Love Uncle: I guess you would have to smear some butter on it and then microwave it for ten minutes.Scott and Wendy are a couple. One day Scott returns home while Wendy is watering the plants. They have sex. Daniel and Amanda are their neighbours. Amanda watches Scott and Wendy have it and then goes and has it with Daniel. Amanda and Wendy meet at a supermarket where they have some profound conversation, like how they can't have enough of it, for five minutes which ends in a lesbian dalliance. Scott has sex with Amanda; Wendy has sex with Daniel.
Finale: They all have sex together – except for Scott and Daniel.
| Anouncer: | And now it's time for Novel Writing, which today come from the west country on Dorset. |
| Commentator: | Hello, and welcome to Dorchester, where a very good crowd has turned out to watch local boy Thomas Hardy write his new novel "The Return Of The Native", on this very pleasant July morning. This will be his eleventh novel and the fifth of the very popular Wessex novels, and here he comes! Here comes Hardy, walking out towards his desk. He looks confident, he looks relaxed, very much the man in form, as he acknowledges this very good natured bank holliday crowd. And the crowd goes quiet now, as Hardy settles himself down at the desk, body straight, shoulders relaxed, pen held lightly but firmly in the right hand. He dips the pen...in the ink, and he's off! It's the first word, but it's not a word - oh, no! - it's a doodle. Way up on the top of the lefthand margin is a piece of meaningless scribble - and he's signed his name underneath it! Oh dear, what a disapointing start. But his off again - and here he goes - the first word of Thomas Hardy's new novel, at ten thirtyfive on this very lovely morning, it's three letters, it's the definite article, and it's "The". Dennis. |
| Dennis: | Well, this is true to form, no surprises there. He started five of his eleven novels to date with the definite article. We had two of them with "It", there's been one "But", two "At"s, one "On" and a "Dolores", but that of course was never published. |
| Commentator: | I'm sorry to interrupt you there, Dennis, but he's crossed it out. Thomas Hardy, here on the first day of his new novel, has crossed out the only word he has written so far, and he's gazing off into space. Oh, ohh, there he signed his name again. |
| Dennis: | It looks like "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" all over again. |
| Commentator: | But he's...no, he's down again and writting, Dennis, he's written "B" again, he's crossed it out again, and he has written "A" - and there is a second word coming up straight away, and it's "Sat" - "A Sat" - doesn't make sense - "A Satur" - "A Saturday" - it's "A Saturday", and the crowd are loving it, they are really enjoying this novel. And it's "afternoon", it's "Saturday afternoon", a comfortable beginning, and he's straight on to the next word - it's "in" - "A Saturday afternoon in" - "in" - "in" "in Nov" - "November" - November is spelled wrong, he's left out the second "E", but he's not going back, it looks like he's going for the sentence, and it's the first verb coming up - it's the first verb of the novel, and it's "was", and the crowd are going wild! "A Saturday afternoon in November was", and a long word here - "appro" - "appro" - is it a "approving"? - no, it's "approaching" - "approaching" - "A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching" - and he's done the definite article "but" again. And he's writing fluently, easily with flurring strokes of the pen, as he comes up to the middle of this first sentence. And with this eleventh novel well underway, and the prospects of a good days writing ahead, back to the studio. |
One of the things people like best about Jaipur is that we are completely egalitarian. There are no reserved spaces for grandees, no green room or specially roped enclosure for our authors – they mingle with the crowds and eat with them on a first-come, first-served basis. Salman Rushdie, who made his first public appearance in India since the publication of The Satanic Verses, as well as Bollywood stars such as Aamir Khan and Amitabh Bachchan, have all mixed in the crowds without bodyguards or VIP enclosures. In as hierarchical a country as India, this is all rather radical.
t is this egalitarian ethic that excites the Indian press much more than the literary aspect of the festival. Last year, there was a flurry of press when Vikram was seen eating on the ground as there was no space for him on any of the dining tables, and when one senior Indian literary editor found herself joining the queue for the ladies behind Tina Brown.
But the biggest excitement of the last year was when an Australian volunteer usher rather peremptorily asked two beautiful young women to move out of the aisle as they were blocking an exit, apparently unaware that the women in question were the adored Bollywood goddess Nandita Das and Julia Roberts. To their great credit, both women moved immediately and without complaint.
