I was browsing through my older posts some time back. There was this storm at Tajpur that had actually triggered off this blog sometime last year. However, the article did not gather as much praise as I'd have wanted it to.
Then I began pondering: why? It was not that ill-written; the style, though not magical, was definitely not that bad; the descriptions weren't that lacklustre either. Then I realised that I had not poured my heart out as I had been describing the storm, not writing what I was willing to write. My words were possibly held back by inhibitions from a bygone era. For example, I had written
The initial feeling was that of a thousand needles piercing your raw, bare skins. Suddenly I felt like a humongous dartboard, and the very next moment I was somehow metamorphosed into some miniscule object, carelessly shoved away by some unforeseen, indomitable surreal force. It was something I've never experienced before - being ripped apart by a force as powerful as the most ruthless of tyrants. It was like nature's revenge on us, humanists, refusing to acknowledge her supremacy on the universe...
The entire surroundings transformed. We were engulfed in a seemingly white barrier of rain, mist and sand: haze reigned supreme; visibility was curtailed to zero; it was a suffocating, yet delightful feeling of being challenged by some invisible supreme authority, trying to emphasise its stronghold on us, mortals; it was a challenge from there, to fight back, to gnaw our trails back to our tents...
whereas what had intended to write was
The initial feeling was that of her nails digging on the bare flesh of my back. That very moment I realised that she had arrived. Suddenly I felt like a stupid, imbecile plaything in her hands, and the very next moment I was somehow metamorphosed into some non-entity, conquered, utterly vanquished by her indomitable, surreal skills. We are males, the dominant gender; and we have continued to do so for millenia; it was as if the oppressed sex has sent their most capable representative in history to smother me, strangle me, suffocate me as well as ravage, savour, glorify my very existence ...
The entire surroundings transformed. She was all upon me; the storm became her sensuous voice that I crave for so much; the sand changed shapes to form her shapely bosom where men have sought shelter, yet lust for ages; the raindrops turned into her teeth, running over my ribs, spine, neck, giving me goosebumps all over. The massive ocean transformed into her eyes, dragging me in, drawing me closer, inviting me to get myself immersed into herself; the aroma of the rain-fed soil made me kneel automatically: I know I could smell her somewhere, and she needed me to be on my knees, at her service.
It was a battle I had lost from the first moment. She murdered me brutally; the death was painful; the afterlife divine.
Now, what I had written was bound to look juvenille and superficial, wasn't it?
Then I began pondering: why? It was not that ill-written; the style, though not magical, was definitely not that bad; the descriptions weren't that lacklustre either. Then I realised that I had not poured my heart out as I had been describing the storm, not writing what I was willing to write. My words were possibly held back by inhibitions from a bygone era. For example, I had written
The initial feeling was that of a thousand needles piercing your raw, bare skins. Suddenly I felt like a humongous dartboard, and the very next moment I was somehow metamorphosed into some miniscule object, carelessly shoved away by some unforeseen, indomitable surreal force. It was something I've never experienced before - being ripped apart by a force as powerful as the most ruthless of tyrants. It was like nature's revenge on us, humanists, refusing to acknowledge her supremacy on the universe...
The entire surroundings transformed. We were engulfed in a seemingly white barrier of rain, mist and sand: haze reigned supreme; visibility was curtailed to zero; it was a suffocating, yet delightful feeling of being challenged by some invisible supreme authority, trying to emphasise its stronghold on us, mortals; it was a challenge from there, to fight back, to gnaw our trails back to our tents...
whereas what had intended to write was
The initial feeling was that of her nails digging on the bare flesh of my back. That very moment I realised that she had arrived. Suddenly I felt like a stupid, imbecile plaything in her hands, and the very next moment I was somehow metamorphosed into some non-entity, conquered, utterly vanquished by her indomitable, surreal skills. We are males, the dominant gender; and we have continued to do so for millenia; it was as if the oppressed sex has sent their most capable representative in history to smother me, strangle me, suffocate me as well as ravage, savour, glorify my very existence ...
The entire surroundings transformed. She was all upon me; the storm became her sensuous voice that I crave for so much; the sand changed shapes to form her shapely bosom where men have sought shelter, yet lust for ages; the raindrops turned into her teeth, running over my ribs, spine, neck, giving me goosebumps all over. The massive ocean transformed into her eyes, dragging me in, drawing me closer, inviting me to get myself immersed into herself; the aroma of the rain-fed soil made me kneel automatically: I know I could smell her somewhere, and she needed me to be on my knees, at her service.
It was a battle I had lost from the first moment. She murdered me brutally; the death was painful; the afterlife divine.
Now, what I had written was bound to look juvenille and superficial, wasn't it?
and now you know how you've grown :)
ReplyDeleteu r just approaching gradually that very last forbidden line of human evolution...
ReplyDeletespeechless.
ReplyDeletejhorer r bristir eto sundor bornona r hoy e na!!uthal pathal kore dewar moto lekha...
ReplyDelete:(
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