Tag Archive: Tales


Candle

I burn every night
to provide you some light
so that you can write
stories – each with a beginning new
Every new tale is a purpose well served – for my last moments few

With my help
you write new words
Adding life to characters new
Every night you create a new fate
And I feel empowered that this new world I helped to create

For when this life is over
I will live on
In the stories you wrote
characters you created
My life has a purpose
that seems perfect
Every fleck of light I have
has power immense
For every tale read by your readers ever after
will in each word have some of my essense

Sometimes the map proves wrong

Sometimes the map proves wrong
Distances short, are eventually long
Planned routes, may not be right
Destinations sought, may not be in sight

Waters shallow may turn deep too
Ships may steer on a course all new
Direction less and lost one may be
Caught in a journey, never to be free

Still the journey has a purpose, and that it will fulfil,
Wanderers will find ways ofcourse, there’s always a will
For maps may be faulty, directions wrong
Still every journey has an end, no matter how long

The travel then will be a tale to narrate,
Of experiences new, unknown to the world till date
New maps will be made easing wanderers new
The wanderer who survives the journey will help others too

He tried to write a tale too long…
Lost track in between.. wrote it all wrong!

In a cafe at night, he attempted to complete this tale,
His words he misspelt, his chain of thoughts would fail !
He attempted to write.. a perfect beginning.. and a perfect end,
Neither was possible, broken segments of the story, he had to mend !
That’s the trouble he faced, as a writer always…
Good stories needed high drama, twisted ways…
A single track written, never went well..
Writer’s block creped in…It was every writer’s hell!
Adding new twists changed the plot,
He never reached the end, he had always sought…
He tried to add an impromptu track every time
Even though it meddled with his story, changed the flow of his rhyme !
Old characters he created were forgotten in lieu of characters new
Who were the protagonists now of his story? He himself never knew..
And thus the writer who sought a perfect end
Tried writing a reality, which he could never mend
For every fix he tried, another end seemed a mess
His tale was going nowhere, that was his best guess !

With words he played – my writer friend,
Started incomplete tales with no end !
Closure he sought everytime,
Got distracted though in-between the rhyme !
And so moved on… his random strife…
To write down a story – a complete life !
Though characters new, he created always – couldn’t control their fate !
An end to his writer’s block, is what the characters still await…

Insomnia

Bored he was in the middle of the night

In a dark room.. cold..only AC’s indicator light

tried to sleep..but sleep alluded

As if to avoid him..even dreams colluded

Bored too much.. he tried passing time

Beginning to write another random rhyme

Perhaps a tale…brewing in his mind

Of characters – some new.. some old left behind

Word after word, he spun a tale new

Thoughts too many filtered to lines few

The best part was that he could write the end

Every twist in tale… he would eventually mend

The writer loved this power he had

A different world he created on his writing pad

Reality perhaps lead him to an insomnia filled night,

But in his tales he wrote his dreams.. setting every ending right …

The Clown

Once upon a time in an Indian town

A storyteller wrote the story of a clown

"Vidushak" he named him, spun a tale new

Snippets of the guy’s life… From memories of a life he knew…

 

"Vidh" (let’s just call him that) was once a boy

Who loved puppets.. always had one as a toy

Played with them.. Enacted tales too

Some imaginary.. Some partially true

 

In tales he lived and dreamed as well

His tales were his world.. His heaven and his hell

Through tales he captured people’s attention

Made them feel every intense emotion

 

Soon though the crowd started ignoring him

For though a good puppeteer nobody liked tales grim

He changed his act, became a clown

Decided that his audience will never frown

 

And so his tales evoked a single emotion now

Laughter he gave to the world, hiding his other emotions somehow

For every tear, every fear, every negative emotion he ever faced

Was his forever.. never shared.. never surfaced

 

And thus went on a circus life…

Imbibed in which was a random clown’s strife..

And so a tale ceased…

He flipped through pages reading an old book again
A tragic tale, he knew, ending with the protagonist in pain

Why re-read the same till the end, he thought
Only the high he got half-way in the tale, that’s all he sought

And so now he left it there, a book half-read
For better leave a good tale incomplete, rather than eventual dread

A tale till the time when things seem in place
When an ending isn’t sought, no need to increase the pace

He stopped flipping pages thereafter, leaving the protagonist at peace
A half-story was successful, and so a tale ceased…

What if the roles were reversed ? RL Stevenson’s tale has two major protagonists,

1. The Hero – Dr. Jekyll – The good personality ,

2. The Villain – Mr. Hyde – The bad personality.

This classic tale portrays how Dr. Jekyll creates a potion through which his inner negative personality comes out, the Id takes over the Ego and Super-Ego.

Id is portrayed as negative, raw, villainous, angry – someone undesired in the society and tamed by society and culture by the overlaying layers of Ego and Super-Ego.

Id in its raw form is looked upon as an animal – Mr. Hyde.

What if this animal caged within the Ego and Super-Ego, had a different voice, a different story to tell. In the story , Dr. Jekyll writes a letter, discovered upon his death, telling his side of the tale.
In a different take on the same, Mr. Hyde writes his version:

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“I was always there, more vocal in our youth, before I got subdued again and again. Who am I? I am Mr. Hyde. I am the Id present in Dr. Jekyll. I always was present in Dr. Jekyll. As a young school student, I was the most vocal I could be. Most expressive. I m the summation of all emotions, in all their extremities ever experienced by Jekyll. I am also the summation of all desires ever felt, all thoughts ever occurred, all happiness, all sadness, all anger, all pleasures, all pain. I was vocal in our childhood when I cried at the slightest pain, I laughed at the slightest humour, I got excited at the slightest pleasure, I got sad at the slightest sorrow. I was expressive and free, like a bird in an open sky. In years that followed, more and more interactions occurred. With family first, then with friends, then acquaintances, then strangers, the society at large. Strangers became acquaintances, acquaintances became friends, and friends became as close as family. Jekyll had a place now, in society, in this vast jungle, he felt he belonged to a herd now, a herd of humans, civilization they called it, a society of culture, a society of rules. In it he felt new emotions, new feelings, new desires… I tried expressing them all, for that was my identity.. but he subdued me. He stopped me from expressing. If i tried to cry when in pain, he held me by my neck and throttled my voice. If I tried to express anger at being wronged, he covered me with a sheet and let me suffocate in a blind room. Even laughter was not spared, I had to measure the sound, the smile, the expression.. everything. This change in behaviour.. this separation of me from myself.. of Hyde from Jekyll.. was something I had never fathomed. I realised that Jekyll feared something. Something from the society. He perhaps feared of being judged at every action of his and therefore suppressed my actions to avoid those judgements. He feared an ouster from the herd, the herd he now belonged to, of civilized adult humans, each having his own sense of society and culture, each wanting to hide his “Id”, his inner self from the other, each having their own fears – Fear of been exploited on one’s weakness, fear of been misjudged, fear of ridicule, fear of abandonment, fear of suppression from an external world. To protect himself, he throttled me. He caged me. In a two layer cage, I remained, able to voice myself at times, but not always. At all times I was judged, by not the society, but by Jekyll, who felt it better to kill his inner self, in order to protect an outer image. When he created that potion, when he dissolved that very cage he had built, I felt free again.. Free to express myself, free to let out all the repressed emotions, feelings and desires that were subdued over the years. But they were just too many. What came out therefore was a far more undiluted expression of self, uncontrollable, un-steered and direction-less. Had I not been subdued over the years, I would have perhaps not been so angry, so much in pain. I am but just a part of Jekyll. Good or Evil, I have no stance. All I know is that I am what the Jekyll felt, what he was, but what he never expressed. Normal / Abnormal – that depends on the definition. When I was caged I was “Normal” but perceived to be Abnormal by the society that Dr. Jekyll was scrutinized to. When I was uncaged, the new man that I was, Mr. Hyde was not Normal by any means in in the society, but I as an independent man, free from my cage, free from Jekyll, and I felt normal at last. Would things been different had Jekyll not made that potion ? Perhaps…

But wouldn’t things been better, had he never caged me in the first place… I just keep wondering that over and over again….

A random walk

The writer went on a random walk,
Reminiscing past conversations, re-playing some random talk

He tried to settle a recurring thought,
A warm cup of coffee he now sought

To clear his mind and think straight now
Write some new tale… needed new ideas somehow

Writer’s block, this time, was not the same as always,
His old self had left him, seemed two personalities had parted ways

He was not the same, changed over the passing time,
Yet he kept re-writing similar words, penning almost a similar rhyme

He tried to settle unclear thoughts, clear his mind
Start afresh new, not get stuck up to tales left behind

He had changed, so had life, so must his writing now
He tried to reinvent the same, but his words… his thoughts still needed a change somehow.

That’s the story somehow

Written words…plots…papers…books…all seem irrelevant now…
You keep saying…I keep hearing…that’s the story somehow…
Moments…minutes…days…years…all are memories old…
Yet all the time spent with you, still seems new – a tale always retold…

Time seems frozen with the words you said…
Who knew then, where time will tread…
Not knowing the future seemed bliss…as one realises now
Memories of a not so distant past is haunting somehow…

Stories start and stories end…
Some too twisted…one can never mend..
Yet every tale seems incomplete now…
You kept saying…I kept hearing…that was always the story somehow.

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Note: The above piece is inspired from the below verse written by a very talented writer I once knew :

Lafz…alfaaz…kagaz…kittab sab baimaani hai…
Tum kehte raho…hum sunte rahe…bas yehi kahaani hai…