I had looked forward to a dream. Something I was so in love with. I yearned, I waited everyday. Yet when I had it, it was all in pieces, broken apart.
And then, when I least expected, I had hope. Smiling at me and saying, “here here, I am with you.”
Even when nothing made sense, I know soon it all will.
Ernest Hemingway, apart from being a novelist and storyteller, was a journalist. His style of writing is definitely different from other novelists and for that matter, other journalists. He has focused more on the storytelling nature than on a piece of news. A news article should, a century later, be obsolete and of no use whatever. But the way he has presented the news is such that even a century later they can be read and relished.
By-Line is a collection of the articles he wrote for daily correspondence as a journalist. They have been brought together not only because of historic importance but because they make a good read even when it is read out of context. These articles and correspondences highlight why the author was celebrated and criticized at the same time. His style of writing is very peculiar and yet leaves the readers in good taste. It mostly talks about fishing, hunting, and war.
The first impression this book had on me was “Sarcasm”. The humor and sarcasm together make the articles a delightful read. In many places, one is obliged to think twice before coming to a conclusion as to what the author is trying to say. Multiple meanings can be derived from the text and one has to think which one would make a correct inference. It might tempt every reader to give a shot at sarcasm; such is the beauty of the articles. The descriptions are very vivid and one can very easily visualize the scenes depicted in the articles. Apart from the common life, it also includes war correspondence. The gruesome killings and bombings, blood, bodies torn apart. The insight into the war is too deep.
It would be very safe to say that the author has created a niche for himself. His way of description and visualization. The sarcasm. Also, what sets him apart in writing is the personal feelings and emotions he talks about. Nowhere in the book is a narrator used, or a protagonist is speaking for himself. It is all about his emotions while he goes through daily life. And at a later stage, to war.
The book is tempting in the manner that it provides an unbiased insight into life, as it was a century ago. Also, as the book is non-fiction, whatever is written can be taken for a fact. That happened somewhere in the world at some point in time.
The book has transcripts from two wars, the Spanish civil war, and WWII. Both these accounts present the society at such times and the torments they have to go through. At many places, the author describes the shelling and bombing of streets. The rubble and how everything is raised to the ground within minutes. The way people rush out of streets, the panic is all very relatable. In a WWII scene, the author describes how the soldiers were being waved at while passing through a village. Similarities in the context of conflict can be found and the account is very relatable to us as a society. The behavior of the crowd on the funeral of slain warriors, the mourning and the sacrifices can all be found in the book. The way they make a journey towards Paris in WWII seems very similar to the incident where the Jammu highway was blocked and as a result traders and truckers and preceded towards Pakistan the other side of Kashmir. The travel, changing of ways to reach the destination and the killings in between, everything can be found. Though the incidents and events in both the places vary, the emotions are very much in sync with what an average Kashmiri feels like.
The book is a good read to anyone who enjoys sarcasm, first-hand accounts, of wars and hunting. And life in general. It can even prove worthy for people looking at historical aspects of things and trying to establish familiarity as to how a war trodden nation would look like. It contains fascinating accounts of his time in Africa and how he went game hunting. If it does not prompt one to engage in hunting or fishing himself, it does let one enjoy the same in the comfort of one’s room.
After the talk; prospects of loss,
death, and grief
Of life without
I sit in a garden
Looking for a four-leaf clover;
calming my storms
You stirred inside
We are told that the ladies who are the easiest to look after are the most blessed.
The question remains, do we treat them as the blessings that they are said to be? Do we treat them as they should be?
Or do we, because of their low maintenance, just neglect their needs?
Because they do not make a fuss and create havoc every time their needs or wishes are not fulfilled, do we overlook their needs? The things that make them happy? The subtle forms of care and love that could overjoy them?
Do we forget doing the things we would for other people because they might just start throwing things in our face? And because these ladies make no such nuisances, do we just ignore them? Take them for granted?
Or for that matter, any person who does not explicitly counter our ways, or do not make extravagant demands, do we take all such people for granted?
Planning things, eating out, conversations, or anything for that matter, any plan, we never consider these “low maintenance, considerate” people.
Is this what someone’s consideration is worth? Is this how they should be treated?
Or are we waiting for them to snap and move away to start looking at them and looking out for them? Or caring for them? And if we do, would it be what keeps them with us? Happy and content?
Or would they have moved too far before we realize they have given up on us?
Over the past few days, in many of our conversations, I was asked whether I was hurt. Whether what was said didn’t go well with me. Whether it was offending. Or angered me. For that matter provoked any reaction within me.
Somehow nothing anyone said had any effect, any impact on me. As if nothing mattered. As if nothing was said in the first place.
Had I attained maturity? Or is it some other level of numbness? Numb to the extent that nothing pricks, nothing causes a reaction, nothing stirs me up! Why?
I remember in my childhood my sister was not ticklish and I used to call her inert. After all these years, am even I insert? Non-indulging. Not feeling.
Have I lost my neurons?
Have I internalized and normalized everything to the extent that nothing matters anymore?
What have I done to me?
It was a beautiful day. An amazing company. Shared laughter. While one conversation was leading to another, he asked: “What plans do you have for yourself?” “None”
Plans. Unknowingly he had now touched the raw nerve he talked about a few days earlier. Plans. What she wanted to do with her life. Which direction she wanted to choose. What paths did she desire to walk?
Very few people had bothered about this. Her desire. What she wanted to do with her life. And yet, amongst those few people, her family never featured. It was twice that someone wanted to help her. That the destination had been fixed, so let’s find the path together. Let’s walk together.
There couldn’t have been any sound better than that sentence. “I will show you how to.” And it still remained a mystery to her. Was it her naivety or was the person too convincing? Or was she too desperate to arrive that she drank from all cups offered? Never differentiating, never trying to probe whether it is water or poison.
A part of her did feel poisoned. Cheated. Like being promised of a dessert and getting a toffee. The path promised did exist but it lead elsewhere. Her desire, her dream, her destination was too far from the path she was trodding upon. A part of her always grieved. Maybe she should have probed more. What fun was it walking with people who wouldn’t even understand? Who mocked her? Her passion? What did they know? Had they themselves ever yielded anything from their labor of love? Just how could they?
And here she was, with another hand to take her there. The path seemed better. Familiar. Things she should have been doing for long now, but wasn’t. But a part of her was still hurt. Still afraid. Still wondering where this rendezvous would take her to.
I had cried hard someday,
“Where are you,
Call me back!”
The promise of “I am Near”
There was no voice reciprocating
no condolence, no light
I knew no better
The promise of “I am Near”
Shattered, in pieces
I yearned for light
I called, “When?”
The promise of “I am Near”
All the forms of care I knew
communication, touch
the yearning of His caress
The promise of “I am Near”
I had thought of fatherly strokes,
His hands on my head
Ah! my innocence, expectations
The promise of “I am Near”
And days later, I looked beyond
tears that had blurred vision
Ways He had reached out
The promise of “I am Near”
That sudden song I never heard before
That poem titled “Sawaal”
That recurrent dream, giving solace
The promise of “I am Near”
A sudden thought of hope,
A distant ray of light
The hand that said, “I am”
The promise of “I am Near”
No, the ways weren’t what I thought
He didn’t stand in front, embracing
physically He was never there
The promise of “I am Near”
And yet, all I could see was Him
in every breath, His presence
Managing my affairs through someone
The promise of “I am Near”
It was easy calling one special.
A few words of appreciation.
Introduction.
It was easy to get through.
A naive heart.
Attachments
They all said love empowers.
How you yearn the beloved. Happy.
Distance never matters.
Did they not ask a yearning heart.
The pain, trauma.
Watching beloved associated with another.
The smiles they would share.
A life time together.
Why didn’t someone mention the pain?
The dull ache when you see beloved with someone else?
Happy. Oblivious to your pain?
Why?
There are so many times we complaint, complain and give up. Curse. Blame. And do nothing else. Nothing at all to change the current circumstances. To change the present.
It feels so good to be in the crowd, to relate to people, to whine along with them that they forget their own identity. They forget that this whining can end simply by taking one step away from the crowd. By not following what everyone is. By taking that risk of being talked about, ridiculed and mocked.
But that comfort zone is too dear. To the extent that we sacrifice dreams for it.
Why could we not that that extra step, that one step of agony and reach out to our dreams? Why give up? Why not bear a little more pain and achieve it rather than sit down nursing wounds?
Someone has written,
“Bus itni si doori, yeh mai hun ya manzil
Kahan aa ke phoote hain pairon ke chaale”
But, instead of lamenting and crying on the wounds, could we not take a few steps further, achieve that we started all this journey for and then nurse the wounds. In Glory?
I was listening to someone
talking change
How your dreams, your why matters
How it all falls in place
I look around
people with money on mind
how they desire
banknotes!
I wonder, WHY?
was this motivation?
A session for searching self?
I find myself crying!
My heart is somewhere else
Somewhere weaving verses
listening to dreams
A literary paradise
I peek at this sea of people
craving security, finances
I feel lost
I belong elsewhere
I crave that music, verses
delicate, woven intricately
piercing one through and through
An aura of peace.
I want to cry my heart out
the devastation, heartbreak
I sit silent, pretending
lowered head, dilated eyes
A mere physical presence
My soul, peace somewhere else
The inability to freeze time
insanity of desiring forever!
