Other Pamuks

I have decided to write a line or two about Orhan Pamuk because the way he is clamping upon my soul is disconcerting. I love Pamuk because I have a deep emotional association with his writing. I feel he writes only and only to reach out to me, as if to assert that it is me and no one else in the universe that he is writing for. Pamuk is my property. I own him, I own all interpretations of his work and look away when anybody tries to discuss Pamuk. Because they have no idea what Pamuk is. They might have read his novels but only I have lived them. Only I have understood what it is to feel that your thoughts are someone else's too, that he has written them down for the express purpose of saving you.

I feel incredibly relieved thinking of this. Thinking that Pamuk is my own and that those surrounding me have accepted it. Thinking that once the whole world recognises that Pamuk is my personal saviour, they will also grasp the fact that he and I are part of the same mental faculty, having profoundly symbiotic existences. That my disillusionment is valid because he felt the same disillusionment thirty years ago. That my city can burn down because the yalis lining the Bosphorous did too. And most importantly, that I can lie to my father because so did Pamuk when he was my age.

The other day I was revelling in a particular similarity between me and my author when suddenly a voice inside me said, 'Pffft.' It was snide and mocked my fanaticism. And because the voice was mine I decided that maybe I was being illogical. And that just maybe, the right to worshipping Pamuk was not just mine. I decided to start discussing him. I will discuss him more. For all I know, the voice could have been his.

Okay it was not. Stop laughing immediately.

Yellow Light

What Happens in the House

I have come to the conclusion that for someone as lazy as I, a picture blog is the way to go.

Because I have nothing to say

End of Winter

Blankets in the sun.

A Public Affair

This is a story I wrote for our Writing in Practice class. Now that the semester is over, the time is ripe to post it here. We were given five words and had to write a story including those. Mine were: ash, car, black, sunset and rejoice.

Someone once said that the old are in a second childhood. I could not agree more. Memories of a life never lived flood you till you start believing that it is not the wrinkles that make you old, but the weight of the recollection of moments that live inside you. At this age, it is difficult to resist talking about the past. No amount of education or pension can make me forget what I most enjoyed being – a young girl. But this is not the story of a young girl. This is the story of a sunset. This is the story of a sunset who was born a little after 6pm on the 13^th of February many years ago and who died a few minutes afterwards. I was fifteen years old at that time and was bathing in what remained of the dried up river Rufiji which flowed through our backyard. I had discovered the advantages of bathing in the shelter of the ebbing afternoon and was happily scrubbing soap on my woolly hair when I noticed the sunset glistening on the droplets of river clinging to my jet black body. At that age I knew sunsets like the back of my hand. ‘Sunsets are like men,’ I used to think. ‘If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all’. But this one was different. Of course, he was not the first sunset to flirt with me. What made him different was his shyness. I decided to take matters into my own hands.

‘Hello,’ I said timidly.

He beamed for a moment and then said, ‘I love you’.

Whatever surprise I might have felt, I took care not to show.

‘Oh you do?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Will you marry me?’

‘But I am only fifteen!’ I said coyly.

‘So am I,’ he said. ‘But I am going to be older soon.’

Of course, I knew that would die in a matter of minutes. Besides, marriage was a public affair. I could not get married just now. This made me a little sad. I kept silent.

‘Will you at least travel around the world with me?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Do you have a car?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said sadly. His eagerness faded a little but returned fast enough for him to say, ‘I used to, but it broke down the other day and I haven’t repaired it yet.’

I laughed in mock shyness. It embarrassed him greatly.

‘You are beautiful,’ he said finally. ‘Your parents must have rejoiced greatly when you were born’.

‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I am their seventh daughter. They weren’t happy. And anyway, my father left soon after. He has four sons with his third wife.’

‘But…,’ he stopped.

We looked at each other for some time.

‘Will you remember me?’ he suddenly asked in desperation.

I could see that he was dying.

‘Yes, if you want me to,’ I said.

‘I will remember you all my life,’ he said.

He watched me as the sky grew ash-blue near the horizon. With one last attempt to bathe me in his glowing embers, he died. I could do nothing to save him.

Lalala

I am glad I went to Kerala.