I have written many great and enormously inspiring articles. Funny ones. Aggressive ones. Sentimental ones. Subtle ones.
I have written articles about politicians. About film stars. About poverty and abject starvation and hunger and deprivation. About suicidal maniacs and their mental though processes. About social workers who extort money using poor dejected labourers using conniving policemen. About rising fuel prices and about falling car prices. About EMI's and hire purchase and buy-now-pay-later and interest schemes and investment potential and mutual funds and about Securities Exchange Board of India and about money-back and endowment and whole-life and maha-life and about other insurance salesman who make your life miserable on an ongoing basis. About office automation hardware and telephone lines. About mammoth MNC's who behave worse than Government organisations and about thieves who dress up in suits, get paid 6 figure salaries and plot their days work around overbilling your neighbour.
And I have written articles about Cricket. Yes, I love those ones. About Sachin and his fake illnesses and injuries. About Saurav and his fake pride and his fake control on cricket on bouncy pitches against short pitched bowling. About Anil Kumble and the art of bowling leg spin deliveries that spin from leg stump to off stump on a regular basis on a shirtfront wicket. About Dinesh Karthick and dying a silent death without doing anything wrong. About Virender Sehwag and Gautam Gambhir and their sweet short opening partnerships. About Chappell and his gesture of goodwill to Calcutta. About Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar and their many fifties and even more hundreds and their records and their brilliance and their single minded capitalistic aggression and a really short line about how many world cups they won their countries.
And I have written sentimental articles. Beautiful ones. About flowing rivers, and impressive mountains and green pastures and silver streams, and wonderful orchards, and round luscious apples and wicker gates and peasant girls dressed in designer torn gowns tending their flocks of sheep with artistically carved staffs of wood. About dying mothers and penitent sons. About bottles of expended glycerine and overflowing emotions. About tales of heroism, blood, toil, valour and honour. About sacrifice and dedication and girls from villages, who study by the light of their wicker lamps who score exceedingly well and get scholarships from otherwise blunt nosed corporate houses and become a success in their own right. About CRY and Akanksha and little known tales of great honesty and perseverance.
And I have written melancholy articles. That begin with a witticism and dramatically deteriorate into a mess of blurted out platitudes. About my teenage angst and my friends who stabbed my back with notorious regularity. About my girlfriends and the woman I yearned for, for almost 16 years. About my pimpled dreams and my scarring nightmares. About a soldier gazing into an empty piece of paper thinking what he would write to his sweetheart if he only knew how to. About a cow stuck in a wire mesh fence, screaming out in agony.
And I have written some other articles too. But you cannot read any of them. Because the path from my brain to my hands is a long and arduous one. None of the articles survive.
utekkare,
pranay
