Bookish Knowledge

Not too long ago, I decided to finally pick up Kafka. After enduring enough jibes and accusations ranging from elitist to you’re-planning-your-own-funeral, I finally finished a couple of novels of his. Needless to say, the latter of the said accusations seemed a much quicker reality in the beginning.

The good part about how I read Kafka was, I ended up reading in spurts. A good number of days went in between me reading every 100 odd pages, which meant enough time to ruminate over what I’d read. What ensued was that every time I was neck deep in reading one of his novels or short stories, I’d realize a new facet of the man’s work, and a new reason to like it. Every few days, I could tell people how much I love Kafka’s stuff for a whole different reason. The only common factor was that I loved Kafka’s stuff.

And finally, I realized that this is how truly good books function. If you look at it from a very macro level, this is how it generally is. Books that have been loved and adored by fans whose number goes into six or seven digits always have the external appearance of being liked only for one particular reason. . But if you think about it even a little bit and consider the enormity of the cross-section of people reading these books, this cannot possibly be true. In reality, though, they appeal to different senses and different areas of the brain of people reading it. The reason why they all seem to be appreciated for only one reason, are critics.

Critics are in no way intellectuals functioning on a higher plane, figuring out the true intention of the author behind writing the book. Hell, only the author can tell you the true intention. The only difference between book critics and us normal people is that they can express their views, which somehow leads us all to believe that they’ve understood the true essence of the book better than the common man. Not only is this very untrue, it also gives a very convenient opinion that people can flock towards and conform to. I do not claim to be an observer in this; I have been guilty many-a-times of being biased in a particular direction towards a book after reading a review. Of course, most publishers love the critics for this for boosts in sales and whatnot, but I digress.

The bottom line is, a book is meant to lend perspective. Irrespective of the genre, it is meant to add some value to who you are. Whatever the hell you do, don’t let anybody tell you what and how much value you want a book to add to your life. Because that is direct reflection of every moment you’ve passed by. I’m sure I’ve been beaten to the punch in this realization by countless people and that it’s common knowledge. But it’s a whole different understanding when it springs out on you and shows you that the culmination of your thought process has been what many before have said. And at the risk of sounding very clichéd and asking for jokes to be made in my general direction, let yourself decide how you want to enrich your life, not someone else!

Free Coffee

As the darkness closed down upon him, the much talked about vivid flashes of memory started making their customary attack. The sunset on the half-made housing society, Brahmani kites riding the thermals and putting up quite a show for anyone who cared enough, the barges making their daily dough, people celebrating yet another goal in their daily futsal routine.

He wanted to end it all, to give up. He could see no reason, no rational thought behind continuing life as he knew it. He burnt quite a few gray cells in trying to figure out where it all went wrong, and then burnt a few more in realizing that nothing of much avail was to happen through that particular process. Sounds of a sisterly concern rang through his mind, but he was positive the world wouldn’t stop turning. He vaguely remembered childhood tales advocating perseverance, and discerned how trivially he’d let them go. Somehow, the distant memory of walking under a flyover, on his way back home, and clenching his fist in determination and vehicles screamed past him played over and over again. He thought of the many who’d take great pleasure at the consequences, those who’d day would be made. The cellphone in his pocket was a dead weight, pulling him further down.

It would be so marvelous letting go. Something new, the change he’d been waiting for. In difficult times too, there is change. And in change, there is a challenge. Completely oblivious to the rat-race in progress, about a hundred meters behind him, Daniel believed it was time to let go. Fate, although, had other plans. For that was when his cellphone buzzed with the delivery of a text message. The one liner caught him by the scruff of his neck, inches away from the abyss and dumped him back onto the cold hard floor of reality.

“Free Coffee?” the message had said.

He felt the warmth seeping in. The overwhelming darkness felt lighter, and the bad taste in his mouth seemed like it would go anytime soon. He saw beauty around him.

He was soon to realize that in times like those, he was a dent in the happy lives of those who are perfect. If underachiever was not that clichéd a word, he would have thought it. Cold as metal, with all the performing capability of a dodo on tranquilizers. A dampener of spirits. But at that moment, he was happy. There were a few things that could act like global anesthesia, even for a few moments. And free coffee was one of them.

An hour in the life...

11.24 am.
VJTI, Matunga
Mumbai.

What does a guy do, with an hour to kill, in Mumbai's top-notch engineering college with prestige and all that jazz? Puts pen to paper and hopes the words flow like traffic on an unjammed expressway.



The letters appear shakily on the crackling brand new notebook. Though a prolonged absence from actual, conventional writing is one of the reasons, the main culprit is the resting of my arm outside a third floor window, with my biscep acting as leverage and forearm dangling outside during a midnight conversation, with the wind trying to act more like a tornado. I'd talked about cleavages and bases, among other things.

I have to wait for a long time more. I see the senior students strutting in the canteen with a sense of possissiveness. I hear the loud discussions on Orkut, i hear the somewhat muffled girl-talks about the return of an ex-flame. A black and white cat smiles at me as it walks by. I smile back incredulously. I think a girl somewhere is trying to catch my eye but that's just my imagination.

I've been running around for almost two hours now. Hostel fees, Bio-datas in the office, a random line which turned out to be one for the railway concession form. I glance outside on the basketball court and feel a dead hope of seeing a known face. I've already stalked the college to that effect once. Puneites don't usually come on this of the country. They don't like the climate.

I glance at my watch. The impatience is starting to seep in. I feel my feet rhythmically under the table. I think of the person who slaps my thigh in irritation when i do that. I miss her.

I see friendships being bred here in the canteen. Some will last.

This ain't gonna end man! Another damn half hour to go! I randomly think of Ninitha and her accusations me stealing her bakarwadis. I realise my writing's beginning to smoothen out.

I consider going for another walk around the campus. Feels good walking through an array of emotions. The college is a minimised version of the great city it is in, I feel. I drop the walk idea. Jus cuz I can. I minor commotion is caused when a guy almost steps on the cat.

I put my pen down and look around helplessly. Time seems to crawl and itch it's way across. I begin to play Tabla on the table. A few heads turn. Only for a moment.

I realise I've been stealing looks at a certain girl between sentences. I take a long look at her and turn away an instant after she looked at me. I can feel her inquisitive eyes on me as I write. I try to straighten my posture.

I begin dreaming about good old times. Times on the tekdi, in the university. I think about whether they're gonna come back, ever. Thoughts turn to the future. I start missing a certain person a lot suddenly.

I slow down, realising I can kill more time and write neater that way. I recall a joke about killing two birds with a stone.

I'm whistling Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line." A guy two tables away hears it and quick turns around in recognition. I go on whistling. I realise how much I adore whistling. I turn to a new vague tune. I think about the new earphones I need to buy for my iPod. I contemplate on whether to go for Philips or Panasonic.

My watch tells me it's 1 minutes to go. It's started raining outside. I think of getting my third cutting chai before i leave. A guy at the next table is narrating a joke. The girls listen intently, the guys seem uninterested. In another corner of the canteen some people start singing. The girl I was looking at goes upto the food counter. I resist the temptation of following her with another chai as an excuse.

I believe it's time I start packing. It's been a fun hour! I put my pen and notebook in my bag, get in my raincoat and head to the auditorium........