... my novel

[My Novel: FM. For a bad writer, what can be of more value than a worse novel? The novel began its journey almost five years ago. It's still being penned down. Cling to it and leave a flood of views.]

*Attention: The page ... my novel has been shifted to a stand alone page, where you can still flood comments. The next chapters of this novel will be published on the stand alone page from now on. All others are as same as they were before.

FM ~ Chapter 0


In all my city-pent yesterdays I was a goofy victim who walked gently "With buds, and bells, and stars without a name".

I am the shadow of a goofy victim of life. “Hi, Mr Goofy!” one may call. During my college years, this Mr. Goofy was pressed to walk differently into politics, though not by entering it by any means. I was just a vision victim. I was without a name. It's not that thinking otherwise was my political view, it was rather a visionary glimpse. I was a captive lord of John Keats. I hummed lines like, “Forlorn! the very word is like a bell / To toll me back from thee to my sole self! / Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well / As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.” made me bleed occasionally. This occasional bleeding built up a house of hunger inside me and threw me into one hundred years of solitude. I got into a habit of risking my life into anything and began a fanatic search in quest of the horizon where the two ideas of what is good and what is bad touch. Then there was a one-sided war between a professor and me that touched down the academic grounds with a fantastic failure. So, this Mr. Goofy laughed to fail and failed to laugh.

Silence passed into me.

Everything went so much inspiring for me when I got the opportunity to mix with the mass and be forlorn. The effulgence of the dullness and the dry sunbeams of approaching winter used to give me a certain feeling of stupidity that I began comparing my years of writing and conflicting struggle of becoming a writer to the strange jollity of a humdrum human life.

In all my city-pent yesterdays I carried two genuine frames – one of my being, another of my becoming.

I passed into silence. Life appeared to be a gamble and a gambler appeared in me. A stupid gambler, who loved more to be ruled out of the team and watch it win than to be included in the team and watch it lose. One day, in front of our mirror, I looked at my declining body – a dilapidated house – an empty house to let – to whom to let was beyond my knowledge. My face was full of face fungus. There was a certain attraction that I felt toward me.

I asked my reflection, “What do you want?” The man standing in front of me husked his voice and blurted out, “I want to be a writer.” I approved of his wish, signed it carefully and then dived into his hungry eyes. Then, another day came. While combing I asked him, “OK, then you want to be a writer. What's there to write about?” He husked for the second time and blurted out, “There's nothing to write about.”
  • Then? Then you still want to be a writer!
  • Yeah, of course!
  • What the hell is there to write about when there's nothing to write about...
  • There is only a feel of subjectlessness left...
  • Subjectlessness! What's that?
  • It's nothing but nothingness.
  • Nothingness. Then, you're going to write about Nothingness – nothingness of life?
  • I didn't say so.
  • You said Nothingness.
  • ... but not affixed by the stupidly related words, “of life”.
  • O, I am sorry then. 
[Here he paused a little and went on murmuring at a slow pace...]
  • Nothingness, but not the nothingness of life. [He paused again and asked gently...]
  • Something on the subject, please?
  • It's not a subject; it's a situation.
  • Situation is also a subject.
  • No.
  • Then?
  • It's a way to subject.
  • Very sorry my dear! The way to subject may also be a subject, as it's here, in your writing.
  • Maybe, it may not always be.
  • Don't play with words pliizzz...
  • I am not exactly playing with words. I have just portrayed the situation.
  • Oho, then Maybe it may not always be is your situation
  • ... and your subject
  • No, not my subject!
  • Why not yours? I suppose it's not mine.
  • It's not mine too as it's not a subject.
  • A situation, I said.
  • A situation, I say too.
[Here I paused a little and went on murmuring at a slow pace...]
  • A situation that I said is the situation that you say. A mutual say or a bifurcated one. [I paused again and asked gently...]
  • What should we call it?
  • A kind of...
  • A kind of what! Please, go on and be my inspiration...
  • A kind of a...
  • A kind of a WHAT!
  • A kind of an...
  • Please don't play with articles!
  • I am not playing with articles. I am in search of a phrase...
  • What the screw it is, pliizzz!
  • ... an adjustment with truth
I played with my mirror image this word battle – word mirroring existence. And during this battle in those unfamiliar years, I lost everything and the most tragic loss of all, I lost my father. No, don't tear off any voucher of sympathy. It's not the losing synonymous to death. It's just a breakup of relationship; – once it was supposed to be as weak as the parting of hair, but, with the passage of time the parting of hair grew to be a defence to excuse the relations once happened to be in between the two opposite sides.

This losing was promoted by father himself and eventually ended up by me. The relationship went lingering and loitering in the dust of time, without a name... I gradually isolated my becoming from my being and my being from my father.


A said...

A deep and painful introspection delving deep into the soul. The struggle to find out the true-self within the being is indeed rigorous. It is quite an arduous journey, with pathos and adventures strewn along its path. Only a few can listen to their hearts and has the guts to chase the dream risking all dangers. Pangs and isolation are inevitable since the journey defies long-practiced beliefs and norms. The inner torment, anxiety and the confusion endured during the time being and finally strong will-power getting over all ills are portrayed through striking word-play. An artist’s life is always lonely because of his visions that goes ahead of time and of his creative skills that has the power to change people’s thoughts and lives.

Saibal Barman said...

As a regular reader of your pages what has always fascinated me is the way words are woven to present a fine texture of expressions...I might have refrained from knocking the bells of my coming over and going as the soup so served was already simmering with much heat of political debates or for those sketches on the canvas of which I have little comprehension....
The last drops of sweat here tempt me to smell it with deeper rhythm...deeper intoxication...the Nightingle sang alone and no one knows when she fell asleep...in the woods, only some fallen leafs remembered her while they sensed of death in the Fall season...and the Ode remained secreted within a silent lyre as a subterranean confluent of flowing passion for exploring love sans any wishes of experiencing or expressing...silence went on honouring itself through sacred solitude in exchanging image with real while the mirror smiled on...in today's world the human relationship remains as the worst casuality...and it lifts its last mask when the frothing soul spills out severed images of a life--nearly dead, yet battling--to paint on what man has to colour his identity...
I loved to read your introspective reflection...

Boodhooram Ignoramus said...

thanks to you. your blog reminds me that i had 'The Book of Nothing' by John D Barrow in the shelf. i forgot to read it. frankly I'm ignorant of nothing and i shall be busy with nothing for sometime.

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