From the still very much under construction novel of mine. Only God and not even my disconcerted mind knows when it will be ready for publication. Until then, an excerpt. Written, on my way to work.
"This is a strange and a colourful land, its hues muted under so much muck and grime. Its people, much like its earth beneath its many layers of the concrete of westernization, modernization, zombification are moist and fertile. And much like the earth, if left untended, they grow wild and unruly with weed or just lie barren, tasteless, insipid. The best of its women are earthy and subdued. And motherly, caring, nurturing while being passionate and fiercely loyal. The rest, consumed by vanity, a plague brought on by modernization and the insistence of the modern world that the beauty of the exterior is more crucial than the interior, are just floating in the wind. Neither here nor there, life is one of convenience to them, love - a matter of practicalities. The true tragedy however, is the fact that they are quite content with what they have come to be today.
I am of the opinion that concrete throttles. The landscape is being throttled under concrete roads, plants and shrubs being controlled by concrete pavings, and grass being replaced by concrete pavements. The trees are trained in how to grow and where to grow. We train them, these century old trees which had been there, centuries before our very existence, how to be in the background, not on the foreground where they truly belong. We train which branches should be grown and in which direction and to which extent. Trees which do not adhere are either chopped off or simply, uprooted, torn off from the ground that they know best. Same as the people of this land. We are potted plants.
True, order is neat and beautiful, but so are the rows or Nazi soldiers walking together in their little killing pods. Disasterous.
Why has it become so very difficult to make friends these days? I suppose, as we grow and as we get burnt over and over again, we become more cautious about who we choose to let inside our lives. And for valid reasons too. I sense the resistance inside, I sense the reluctance. Smiling at a stranger has become oh, so difficult. In our childhood, a mere smile brings us together and we swear lifelong friendship to each other within a matter of minutes. But now, things are different. I suppose we have understood that while acquaintances can be many, friends can be less than a handful. All most people have is curiosity, they have no friendship to offer. And the times that the ones who you have accepted as friends and let into your life have turned around and lied to you, bit you back, hurting you in the process has been countless. And damned be us if we trip over the same stone twice. I suppose all these factors and more have made us more cautious. We are careful about who we let in.
And a simple fact. One cannot befriend potted plants."
"This is a strange and a colourful land, its hues muted under so much muck and grime. Its people, much like its earth beneath its many layers of the concrete of westernization, modernization, zombification are moist and fertile. And much like the earth, if left untended, they grow wild and unruly with weed or just lie barren, tasteless, insipid. The best of its women are earthy and subdued. And motherly, caring, nurturing while being passionate and fiercely loyal. The rest, consumed by vanity, a plague brought on by modernization and the insistence of the modern world that the beauty of the exterior is more crucial than the interior, are just floating in the wind. Neither here nor there, life is one of convenience to them, love - a matter of practicalities. The true tragedy however, is the fact that they are quite content with what they have come to be today.
I am of the opinion that concrete throttles. The landscape is being throttled under concrete roads, plants and shrubs being controlled by concrete pavings, and grass being replaced by concrete pavements. The trees are trained in how to grow and where to grow. We train them, these century old trees which had been there, centuries before our very existence, how to be in the background, not on the foreground where they truly belong. We train which branches should be grown and in which direction and to which extent. Trees which do not adhere are either chopped off or simply, uprooted, torn off from the ground that they know best. Same as the people of this land. We are potted plants.
True, order is neat and beautiful, but so are the rows or Nazi soldiers walking together in their little killing pods. Disasterous.
Why has it become so very difficult to make friends these days? I suppose, as we grow and as we get burnt over and over again, we become more cautious about who we choose to let inside our lives. And for valid reasons too. I sense the resistance inside, I sense the reluctance. Smiling at a stranger has become oh, so difficult. In our childhood, a mere smile brings us together and we swear lifelong friendship to each other within a matter of minutes. But now, things are different. I suppose we have understood that while acquaintances can be many, friends can be less than a handful. All most people have is curiosity, they have no friendship to offer. And the times that the ones who you have accepted as friends and let into your life have turned around and lied to you, bit you back, hurting you in the process has been countless. And damned be us if we trip over the same stone twice. I suppose all these factors and more have made us more cautious. We are careful about who we let in.
And a simple fact. One cannot befriend potted plants."
No comments:
Post a Comment