Impatient Reader.

It was around midnight when I had the urge to finish the book I started in the morning,

on a bumpy cab ride, I opened the first page to mark it with my name,

the ride made my name look illegible,

a little less elegant, a little less cursive,

the words, as I discovered, were everything that my handwriting at the moment wasn't,

they were elegant,

full of life and what one could call, soul wrenching and thought-provoking,

my delight of discovering a new writer and the romance with his words came to an abrupt halt as I reached work,

after making a mental note of spending a sleepless night to finish it, I resumed my activities,

that midnight, however, was a different tale altogether,

a book I procured so carefully from a second-hand bookstore was nowhere to be seen,

scouring the bags, rooms and areas under the bed yielded no favourable result,

with disappointment writ large on my face, I took to venting out on all mediums I could find,

no amount of coaxing from my fellow readers eased me as I subjected my brain to a great deal of ridicule,

its forgetfulness, recklessness and the mere ability to leave a book in the cab was unforgivable,

but as my plight worsened, I ordered another copy of the book and decided to endure the long wait of seven days,

7 sunrises, 6 sunsets, I calculated, didn't seem long as I imagined engulfing myself in the words of that writer,

so right now, I have a new friend coming my way, sunshine in my pocket, and the thought of living and breathing new words,

I am an impatient reader again.

Respite.

(Originally written for Paragraph.)

On a walk that deemed unfit for a cold winter night, he set off in a direction he never took before. The soles of his shoes were barely firm to protect his feet, but the condition of his windcheater was even worse. The streets were desolate as he paused under every streetlight before he moved any further and the wild wind did no good to his chapped cheeks. For a moment, he wondered if he was going in circles agonizing over the only shelter he left behind. Having no option left and no human in sight, he ran, engulfing himself in darkness and cold. He came to a halt when he saw a distant light. Catching his breath and senses, he approached the light. When he came close, he noticed that it was an all-night library. Glad to have found a roof for the night, he went in to find himself surrounded by large bookshelves and his long-lost lofty dreams. Life and blood rushed back to his cheeks as he held the hardcovers and inhaled the scent of the paperbacks. Maybe the world of fiction did more to the homeless than reality.

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Monday Morning.

There was nothing enticing about this Monday morning. I wore my usual black pants with a white shirt. I applied my usual mascara and tangerine coloured lipstick. I picked my usual coffee and newspaper from the local cafe before proceeding towards the station to board a metro to my workplace. It was yet another mundane Monday morning and I was definitely not looking forward to it.

As I was waiting for a friend to join me at the station, I noticed a man sitting on a bench. He was rummaging through the contents of his bag as he muttered something incoherent. There was something awfully plain about him. Something awfully regular. I spent more seconds gazing at him as he finally fished a paperback out of his bag. He carefully plucked his spectacles from the inner pockets of his bag and drifted into his own world of reading. He was probably unaware of my presence, of people walking around him, of the man selling tea behind him, of vagrants collecting stray pieces of paper near his feet. He was oblivious to the arrival and departure of trains as I was oblivious to everything around me. Not very often you come across someone who pulls you into their world at the very first sight. Not because they have exotic coloured eyes or great hair. It is mostly because they are your own flavour of people.

I wished I could talk to him, though. It would have been brilliant, wouldn’t it? To forego the responsibilities of work and walk to the closest coffee shop with him. We’d eat breakfast and talk about how much I loved Woody Allen movies while he’d tell me how he did not like a particular movie of his. We’d order more cups of coffee while he’d excuse himself to smoke. He’d come back to rekindle forgotten memories and lost conversations; we’d talk about our first loves and first jobs. And when we’d walk out of the coffee shop, it’s a little late in the day and we’d decide to watch a movie. In the darkness of the movie hall, I’d look at his otherwise imperfect features in awe while he’d run his fingers on my wrist sending tingles down my spine. We’d look at each other in the darkness like we’ve known each other for days. I am afraid, for years! In the evening, we’d spend hours on my balcony staring at the sunset while sharing crammed secrets. He would tell me about the girl that broke his heart brutally while I’d tell him about the painful death of my pet.

It wouldn't have been perfect but it would have been something.

My reverie of thoughts was easily broken with a tap on my shoulder. My friend was here and it was time for us to leave. The awfully plain yet the perfect guy was not to be seen anywhere. He must have left when I was tirelessly concocting stories in my head.

As I boarded the metro with my friend, I told her, “I saw the perfect guy for me.”

“And?”

“I should have told him a hi, ” I sighed.

But some stories were only meant to live in our head while I was meant to ruin my life with some more Excel sheets today.

Goodbye To Your Favourite Fictional Characters!

“I like stories about supervillains. They teach children that you can accomplish great things even when the whole world is against you.” 

― G.D. Falksen

I have a really annoying habit of getting attached to fictional characters. Like most of the readers, I laugh, cry, and jump in joy along with them. Ah! The little joys of being an avid reader, right? All good things must end and so do the stories. How does it feel to bid a tearful adieu to your favourite fictional character? How does it feel to bid a goodbye to your favourite childhood hero? 

I agree, a writer immortalizes the character, the protagonists, the villains, and the metaphors. But the book comes to an end. *Sniff* We won't experience the journey of the character again. Unless, we decide to read the book again. And again. 

Who comes to your head when someone talks about fictional characters? Of all the characters I love, Hector of Troy tops the list. Truth be told, it was awful when he dies. I could never fathom why Achilles is SO overrated. There were moments when I felt Achilles was outright ridiculous. I mean seriously, Hector is an epitome of a true hero. 

Sherlock Holmes, my childhood hero, is one character that most of us love. All the followers of Holmes, raise your arms. (Woot! I see all of them raising their arms. Some of them raised both their arms in excitement.) The question here is why, just why did Sir Doyle end the awesomeness of Holmes so soon? There could have been stories, more investigations, more mysteries. More. Just a little more.

Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina is one of the most beautiful characters. I fell in love with her character the moment I read the book. Needless to say, it was very painful to see her go through so much agony. Leo Tolstoy created one of the best female protagonists with Anna Karenina. Such beauty!

Doctoring her seemed to her as absurd as putting together the pieces of a broken vase. Her heart was broken. Why would they try to cure her with pills and powders?

Bruce Wayne! One cannot help but fall in love with him. And we all know how we felt when Bruce Wayne sacrificed Batman for the greater good. We had to leave a major part of our childhood there, and walk out. And we walked out, pouting and throwing tantrums like children. 

Jane Austen's Darcy is one of the most influential characters. Most of the women are SO into Darcy that they want their men to be like Darcy. How ridiculous! Saying goodbye to Darcy is one thing, but asking garbage to turn into gold? Not happening, ladies. Darcy is Darcy for a reason. If all men could be like him, Darcy would have never gotten so popular in the first place. 

I must also say that 90% of my friends wept when Harry Potter ended. They are SO delusional that they claim that it is a sheer injustice. They never wanted Harry Potter to end. They wanted to grow old with Harry Potter. Silly lives!

It is always painful to say goodbye to your favourite character. You treat your favourite fictional as a real person. You talk to it, cry with it, and laugh with it. I am glad I read, I fall in love with so many characters, live their lives and treat them as my own. We must be so glad, and thankful to all the writers who create such wonderful characters that were a part of us, and somewhere down the line, we'll meet more interesting characters. More stories. But the goodbyes are always heart wrenching unless the book is horrid enough for you to leave it mid way.