In The Mirror ......

BOOK REVIEW: Love, Me and Bullshit!

The year was 2004!! The paperback revolution in India started in that year itself. With the advent of a new trend of narrating self – experience in colleges – the long starved readers started relating with the dizzy nostalgia of umpteen recklessness of their own post teen days. Or repenting for what they missed. And for the mass, it was relishing the glimpse of their larger than life dream college life. And, in no time, the trend became a style – a shield-like attribute that any IIT/IIM alumni should possess. And, it increased the readership exponentially – the youth of India once again returned to the age old habit of reading novels – hats off to Chetan Bhagat !! and also to Peter Robinson !!

And, in Love, Me and Bullshit! – the author too acknowledged Bhagat’s contribution to inspire him for getting started. But, he has chosen a different path. Perhaps he was not too keen on making his book an “inspiration” for another Hindi movie.

The narrative is set on a time frame of 3 years – that portrays the juncture of any human life – the complexities of desire, love, lust and all that jazz.

Through the eyes of the protagonist, the author gives a vivid description of the inner conflict of a human mind. The mind that feels depressed as a friend gets to ride on his dream – the mind that repents for not chasing a “lion” – the mind that longs for someone to share his biggest happiness of life with – it is actually a graphic narrative of an honest mind that does not hesitate to unleash the feelings hiding in the darkest and the furthest nook of the heart.

The narration of the deep frustration is very real.Raw. It hurts. Itches your skin. The story makes you identify the poet, the philosopher and the beast in you.  It reflects the strength of inner belief in the God throughout.

 Love, Me and Bullshit! by Vivek Kumar Agarwal

The writing is smooth, sometimes allegorical with imageries. I loved the way the author portrayed the essence of love. It has no reason. Not physical. Not platonic. It simply happens and slowly creeps into the highest rung of prioritization of our mind. And, we become ready to sacrifice anything – just anything.

But the story strangely restricts itself only within the inner feelings of the protagonist. Though the readers are highly acquainted – it does not even trod the way of fun and glamour. Although it is humorous at times, the story mostly reflects the gloomy side of human psyche. The conflict within. The author proclaims himself as a victim of melodramatic Hindi movies – but he safely avoided a gripping climax. Be it the same old story – we always love to bite our nails in the climax scene.

But the book scores differently.  It scores in the odd way that inspires one to listen to his heart against all possible odds bypassing all lucre of prosaic grace.

And, in the end it will make you stand in front of the mirror. You will notice the poet in you on your right, aloof – you will notice the philosopher on your left, aloof – and the beast in you is …… well, some things are best when left unsaid. The position of the beast in the mirror I mean!!

From The Crow's Nest.......

"NO EXIT ALLOWED" 

Prologue

“Yaha se bahirgaman mana hai” -- the Signboard read that out to me, loudly and clearly. As I was nodding my head in submission, I realized that there exist many such doorways in our life too -- doors that bear such a similar sign. You cannot go out through these doors. We call such doors as ‘Memories’.

I

Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening -- Dali

As I start writing this article, I constantly remind myself of a painting by Salvador Dali  -- Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening. 


In the upper left of the painting a fish bursts out of the pomegranate, and in turn spews out a tiger who then spews out another tiger and a bayonet. A second later, the bayonet will sting Gala in the arm.
Memories also have such layers -- dark, deep and sometimes, of unfathomable depths.

First of all, memories are like gifts -- carefully wrapped, the ribbons shaking their heads in air like sunflowers in a sunlit field, making a pretty picture; and there is always a sense of mystery and expectation around them -- what will it be? That class VII poem book? The pen I had given to the next boy in the 2^nd terminal exam? The day we won the inter-school quiz contest? That evening when she managed to have a word with me? The night I was caught watching ‘Titanic’ on TV...Endless duels between the What-ifs and Why-nots inside the head.

Then, there are some memories, which have closed doors -- you know who all are waiting for you once you open the doors -- that stick dad used to beat you with, that mathematics copy still bearing the 8 out of 100 in red ink, that report card where you had tampered the 62 to make 82, your walkman which went missing from your bag…enough to give you nightmares till the deathbed. The red walls reminiscent of a horrific past, black and white floors make you smell the acrid flavor of indecisions, broken promises , peels of laughter and unkempt hairs of freedom. You cannot open the doors even if they are ajar…irony unlimited!

And then there are memories which have a closed door with a pretty ribbon as a lock. The ribbon is an illusion of a pleasant gift. A single tug can open the knot -- yet you would dare not -- because, while the door hints at you the skeletons it contains within its brick-and-mortar rib-cage, the pretty ribbon does not have the air of surprise along with it.

II

The boy faces a similar dilemma as he stands in front of such a door. Every day, he tells a lie to himself and finds an alibi to go and stand in front of the closed doors. Every day he gathers courage to push open the door, kick open the door. 

Every day becomes a celebration of failure to him. He pins his hope for the next day as he neatly keeps his wings of Dreams inside his trunk. A strange dichotomy appears in front of him -- he wants to take a dip in all those memories, yet failure sits on his shoulder,vulture-like. He knows a single dip will bring back all those old times -- but it will also open up the old wounds -- blood will ooze out as a constant reminder that he will never be able to realize those dreams. He gets divided every day, only to be united at the end of the day. The doors are better closed because he knows he will never be able to touch these dreams, turn these memories into reality.

Epilogue

While we call our memories each an individual door, they also have a door of their own. That almost creates a Salvador Dali-esque effect within the mind. But who cares? A closed door still has a silver-lining; but an unlocked door, yet which cannot be open, as if due to an invisible magic spell, is pure doomsday. Totally made of stuffs Robert Ludlum used to dream of and Sidney Sheldon used to write of; upheavals of a stressed-out, stretched-out mind.

The boy suddenly finds himself inside the room. The places have been swapped. He tries to run away. The door stops him. He is not allowed to go through the Doors. ”Yaha se nishkraman mana hai”, the Doors said!

The boy does well. He gets two options -- either he has to create a pseudo-reality to convince himself that he is happy and stay in that self-created exile, life long.

Or, he creates a virtual world to that he can come to terms with such memories.

The boy does the right thing. He opens the window and sees there’s apathy far more bloody and gory than his memory. He gets the bigger picture. He accepts the spade as a spade, walks out of the window and dissipates in the crowd.