The Ringmaster's Daughter - A review.

Petter is a special child. Not because he has some physical disability but, because he has got an immense gift. The gift of imagination. The gift that renders him helpless in distinguishing between ‘recalled reality’ and ‘recalled fantasy’, he engages himself in a business both profitable and perilous. He starts distributing his ideas and plots to intellectually challenged individuals who make a living out of building novels around their borrowed framework. With time both wealth and recognition comes to know of Petter. But, his is an extraordinary life. A life riddled with imperfections and anxieties. A troubled childhood combined with a deep sense of isolation makes him commitment-phobic. Though he loves, he loves with a fraction of himself always held back in reserve. Almost in anticipation of a setback.

Maria, the only woman amongst numerous flings who he comes to love truly leaves him for a life in Stockholm. She gives birth to a daughter he is never to know of. Life with its glorious uncertainties moves on for Petter and unexpectedly comes full circle in the most inopportune manner. In times that prove to be both difficult and dangerous for his existence Petter discovers love again. But, this time in the arms of an intriguing stranger in an unknown land. A tortuous road to rediscovery and revelation shatters Petter and takes the reader along with him to his nemesis.

‘The Ringmaster’s Daughter’ is a book which narrates the life of a precocious child with such chosen simplicity that the reader is left asking for more. Jostein Gaarder, in this studied documentary of human nature draws unbiased portraits of characters victim to destiny and circumstance. Though at some places the reader is bound to feel a shade distracted by the advent of a plethora of concomitant tales yet, he is left sumptuously served at the closing paragraphs. He is sure to discover the very intent with which the digressions were designed. He is sure to close the book basking in the glory to have finally read a book which is not didactic on morality but rich in content.

A beautiful book which I am sure will find equal favor with my reader friends.

THE DEVIL'S REVENGE

A sharp pain sprinted across his nerves.
He awoke from his nightmare
Where he only ran.
And ran.
From nowhere.
To nowhere.
A faint light
Like a lure wrapped his vision,
Teased him
And urged him on.
To where he never knew.
It looked like an unending dungeon.
Deep like the womb of some hideous witch,
Dark as the caverns of the lair of death.
And like avarice incarnate in search of gold
He trudged along.
Dug at places where humans slept
And cadavers mocked in shadowy grins.
All along his eyes.
They were his only light.
As in darkness they burnt
With a primitive glow
Giving him strength, shutting his senses
To more sinister predators of night.
The Devil waited.

As in love and hatred
As in life and death
As in pleasure and pain.
He ran wild and blind.
The thorns of the bushes slashing his flesh
In careless cuts and brutal bruises.
He replied the paining numbness with a divine smile
Hanging off his lips.
Lips as red as a crimson gale
He was no human.
He was no ghost.
A tear drop welled somewhere.
An agony swelled
In Hell.
And a rose blossomed.
A star cracked
A child cried.
He ran.
A reckless black-curse of lunacy.
With hair askew
Feet bloodied
And like a fear unleashed.
The Devil waited.

Time coughed blood in spurts.
Doors opened.
Doom beckoned.
And in a thin stream of flesh and blood
Life escaped to its last refuge.
Like a heathen crawling
Like an insane craze
Like a winding road.
An endless nightmare.
Sweat poured from within
And his heart raced.
He opened the portal of his fate
Where bent on his knees
He kissed the lifeless hand.
And disrobed the dead
To lay a wreath
On his lifeless child.
The Devil grinned.

TALES FROM FIROZSHA BAAG................. A REVIEW

A book which blends the essence of story telling with a clarity characteristic to novels ‘Tales from Firozsha Baag’ will remain etched into the creative recesses of my mind for its disarming simplicity and absorbing diction. Moreover, Rohinton Mistry brings to the narrative an unmistakable veneer of humane understanding and compassion - a welcome leitmotif throughout the book. It proved to be a book both provoking and nourishing to the mind famished of good literature in recent times.

The book is a collection of short stories which chronicles various facets of the lives of people living in a Parsi housing complex. The different blocks of Firozsha Baag and their tenants lend their lives to the lively paint-brush of Mistry who with his masterful strokes inspire awe with aplomb amongst his readers. From the fretting Rustomji who resents boys playing cricket within his earshot to the jovial raconteur that Nariman Hansotia is, from Najamai and Tehmina of C Block who share a grudging symbiosis to Jehangir Bulsara and his travails of adolescence, Mistry unearths all in his own soulful rendition of life in its truest form and honest colours. His portrayal of poverty and need in the Bulsara household is as true as his juvenile mischief while narrating the playful atrocities committed by Pesi padmaroo and his cohorts.

A colourful collage of inter-related short stories, ‘Tales from Firozsha Baag’ resonates with the troubles and tribulations, dreams and disillusionments, memories and monomania of an entire community marginalized over ages. My personal favourite was the story ‘Exercisers’ which in its blissful tactlessness described the pleasuring volatility of teenage love, its unformed edges stained with emotional outpour and the searing despair at the end of it all. After reading the story my heart went out to the unsuspecting naiveté of Jehangir and his tryst with the wondrous phenomenon of love. To me this was the swelling point of the book and then it just ebbed a bit like in a play with a mistimed catharsis. Still, I relished the book with gay abandon and would recommend it to all with the sincerity of an avid aficionado of short stories that I am.

A zillion “Thanks” to a dear friend who recommended Mistry to me..... And another zillion for the one who took the trouble to find this one for me from the literary labyrinths of BCL.

I loved it well.

SCATTERED PAGES.............

The gust of wind tugged at her hair and while she pushed away the strands whipping against her eyes, the sheaf of paper loosened from her grasp and took their turns at tossing and turning in small whirlwinds around her. She immediately went down on her haunches to pick them up and was struggling to collect them against the insolence of the blowing wind. She was slowly getting frustrated at her repeated attempts at gathering all the sheets being foiled when suddenly she felt a towering presence swooping down on his knees beside her. Without even knowing who she had for company at that juncture she felt a sense of relief. The papers were then quickly gathered without much of a struggle and finally Anjali could look up to see the face of the person who helped her in her pursuit. What she found was a man in his early thirties, neatly dressed in formals with a smile that had a quality of pleasantness and affability. Quickly mumbling her “Thank you” in return, she disappeared into the corridor.

Anjali Parekh was the English lecturer in St.John’s college for almost six months now and already the students loved her. She was not the usual ‘dry’ lecturer who went through her copious collection of notes in a hurry nor was she one amongst those who had no interest in her students. In one word she was ‘involved’ with her students in a constructive manner. Boys admired her for her candour as did girls for her aura of unstated strength .Her first day in college as lecturer cemented her place of pride within the students. She in reply to a jab at her dress made by one of the ‘usual ruffians’ in the class turned back and gave such a resounding and emphatic reply that jaws dropped and everyone knew she was a ‘no nonsense woman’. So, they listened to her with intent and approached her with caution. Same was the mood in the staff room too. She quickly made her presence felt all around although being polite and submissive in her approach throughout.

She stepped into the staff room after delivering one of her lectures on Byron when suddenly she realised the person sitting opposite to her was none but the man who had helped her gather the scattered sheaves of notes in the morning. She was about to say something in appreciation for his help and to explain her hasty exit when Prof. Sharma interjected, “Anjali, this is our new Professor of History, Mr. Druv Pathak. He has just joined today.” He introduced Anjali with glowing remarks which embarrassed her no ends. Then he asked her, “Would you be kind enough to show Prof. Pathak around? He was my colleague in Janakilal College, so we happen to share a long association. Would you mind?” Anjali readily agreed to the proposition and escorted Druv to the class room where he was scheduled to deliver his first lecture.On their way Anjali felt his constant gaze on her and as was her nature withdrew into her private domains of coy temerity. Meanwhile she also noticed the unusual look of jaded expense on the face of Druv and somehow felt strange. At the entrance of the class room she said, “Here is your class room for the first lecture for the day Prof. Pathak. I will take your leave now. Good luck.” She was about to turn to leave when she heard him say, “Call me Druv. Will you Anjali? I am sorry but, can I call you by your first name?” A little startled by such forthcomingness she somehow managed a whispered “Sure.”

All her way back she debated the kind of person Druv was like and atlast decided to drop the issue from her head when she realised its triviality. Still a feeling of inexplicable buoyancy lingered in her heart without much of her consent or will.

It was almost dusk when Anjali stepped out of the college gate to board the usual bus to her place when she realised the person standing next to him was none other than Druv. He was talking on the phone unaware of the fact that Anjali stood right in front of him. After a while when he realised her presence he promptly went up to her asked her if she went back home everyday by the same route. “Do you mind having a cup of tea with me, Anjali?” Anjali, both anxious and unsure could not think of an answer when she found to her utter surprise Druv rushing her into a bus. She boarded the bus and found relief in the fact that the bus would take her to her home too. She enquired where he lived and discovered that it was not too long from her home even on foot. “A brisk walk of five odd minutes” she thought to herself “and I would be home in no time.” On disembarking from the bus she saw Druv’s flat to be in a neat locality dotted by gardens. On entering the flat she found it to be in a state of utter disarray, a sign of house without a proper manager to it. Then out of nowhere a small kid of about six years old rushed into Druv’s arms calling “Daddy, why are you so late today? I came back from school a long time ago and Seema didi is not ready to play with me ......” A young girl came out of one room and took the child by his hand inside to finish his unfinished plate of rice . The child struggled and refused and it was only on his father’s persistence that he agreed to finish his food. He was chubby and sweet and teeming with life and vitality. She noticed another unique thing about the child. He had a gurgling laughter which was loud and hearty yet soothing to the ears as it rang with the sincerity of innocence. Druv turned back to her and said in a hushed tone, “That’s my son, Vipul.He lost his mother at his birth and...”A sudden surge of emotion seemed to choke him completely before he again regained his composure to complete his sentence. “And now he is going to lose his father too.” The impact of these heart rending words and a contemptuous smirk that accompanied such devastating a news plunged Anjali into an unfathomable whirlpool of incoherent emotions.Druv tried to diffuse the situation by small talk and levity as he immediately realised what his careless revelation had done to his ‘one day old colleague’ .Anjali could stand no more of this staged drama and asked Druv “What is it with you? Are you ill?” He said that he had cancer in his lymphatic system which was incurable.While she left the house she saw Vipul run to his father’s arms and through the closed door behind her she heard his gurgling laughter. She could not stand the pain she felt and she rushed out in uncontrollable tears welling down her chin. She cursed Druv for the agony he had inflicted on her in a single day’s acquaintance.

* * * * *

The door bell rang with a touch of impudence. Anjali woke up to the present from her reminiscence of the past and opened the door. As soon as she unlatched the door a sporadic entry of young feet inside the house greeted her. Within no time the whole house was resonating with bursts of laughter coming from the other room. Anjali sat down to have her cup of evening tea when a sudden surge of gurgling laughter distracted her. And its element of inherent innocence gave her a sense of joy which was amazingly both painful and triumphant. She sipped her cup of tea and looked up at the two framed photos on her drawing room wall with a smirk which meant a lot, only to her.

THE END.

ODE TO A DRINK

Shining within slender shapes,
Luring all my lust
Clouding conscience between drapes
I ascertain, “I must
Savor it to satisfy
My inner Devil’s crave.”
Flabbergasted, I do cry.
Mirror makes me brave.
Tumbling off the smoothened edge
I pour my heart with it.
“Give me not that crooked gaze
And don’t you contradict.”
Now dejected, I feel whispers
Mock in frigid noise.
Fomenting the breathing scars,
Muffling inner voice.
My indulgences not in pain
Nor cruel memory.
Inebriated, not insane
I sing to reverie.
I forget if I am broke
Or fortune is my slave.
Tired hands in pockets poke
To find a gaping cave.
Half awake, half careless
Inattentive to loss
Hiding in my carapace
Courage gathers moss.
Slipping into world I own
I touch my floating dreams
Ambling down a fancy-zone
I wish if I could swim.
The river of my fantasy,
Me lonely in my boat
As ‘nother glass of ecstasy
Goes gurgling down my throat.
Dripping with a fluid glee
Feeling for my peer
Spicing up virgin whisky
With a touch of beer.
Looking confused to my eyes,
They ask if I am fine.
In lasting languor I surmise,
“I love my glass of wine.”

COMING BACK TO MEMORIES ................

He saw her at a distance, approaching him at a leisurely yet labored pace only hand-pulled rickshaws could offer in this city of colonial ruins. Through his deep seated spectacles he slowly followed the changes that had set in her face, her figure, her persona. What he saw he committed to memory in his usual harmlessly surreptitious manner.

She looked about her age. Forty-nine that would be. Time had stroked her hair with its grey fingers and the taut outlines of her placid face made apparent that she had asked for more testimonies of age than these. Her face bore the look of a woman-in-charge. A lady who knew what came next. Yet, there was a whiff of disenchantment in her elegant movements, in the settling of her sari, in the caressing of the errant tresses and in the manner in which she faced the worldly audience.

There was a sense of quiet assurance in her eyes.

-Those eyes he could once die for.

He took a few steps back and from behind the refuge of a road-side stall his eyes followed her. The rickshaw passed him uneventfully, jingling its bells, raising no alarm.

-Only a whispering reminder to people on its way to make way.

He took to the by-lanes now. Long, meandering and as lonely as him. He remembered how it was the August of 74 that had brought love in his life. Their lives.

And how it all faded suddenly. For good.

Now, back to the city of his birth after almost two decades he was roaming the roads in search of his past. A past he then wished to bury in the endless murk which met his eyes every time he crossed the nullah. He aspired to reach for the skies then.
To challenge the very limits. His meager livelihood combined with an ambience of constant need cemented his faith in ‘money’, the things it could buy, and the attendant relief that his restless heart so desperately sought those days.

Still, escaping the watchful eyes of his determination to prove his mettle , dodging and hiding from his near-Spartan resilience to rediscover himself love happened almost noiselessly, and he was more than glad it did.

Madhurima Sarkar, was vivacity incarnate.
A girl to whom good books and good food made for life in entirety an affair with a boy whose only claim to popular notice was a ‘Grecian frown’ was almost unbelievable. But, from the very day they met both of them in their most private moments of childish premonitions knew this could go far.

And yes, it did.

For four long years they shared their life. She was the inspiration behind his stories and

she felt her heart aflutter while singing a particular stanza that made intimate identifications to her own life inevitable.

Life with all its lyrical thrills unburdened itself on these two souls.

The fights occurred often with a loving regularity bordering on trivial issues.

The reconciliations proved tedious yet rewarding.

And then the rifts surfaced. While her family sough out suitors with a religious zeal, he could do nothing but wander the streets in search of a solitary job,

-A face-saver, A ‘something’ with which he could bargain his life in return.

But fate had other conspiracies brewing. Amidst tears that were a continuous stream of suppressed grief and sobs heart-rending muted with the screaming conch life augured a ‘new-beginning’ as a story reached its end.

A neo-natal death of a love was well mid-wifed by society. Onlookers of this incident lamented 'fate', enjoyed the sumptuous wedding-feast.

He walked the lanes in search of some momentary solace. And found none.

After weeks of desolation and unforgiving bitterness he came back to the realization of the void in his life. The void that now surrounded him till he could gather himself to do something about it. So he did. He finished his course, worked tirelessly in the day while the midnight oil grew weak from his nightlong endeavors at mastering borrowed books.

On the 23^rd of April 1981, from the stairs of a prattling train he bid goodbye to his past of misery and misfortunes.

Today, back as a near-affluent NRI to that very city, he could not help but look back in mournful retrospect. He turned back at the road he had traveled unmindfully, engrossed in his thoughts. And as he approached the nearby grocer for directions to the main-road, a white smoke billowed from an adjoining window which he hardly noticed amongst the gathering scene of daily chaos.

-The window that had filled the eyes of a girl with myriad colours, all of whom seemed dull and vacuous amidst the flourish of her sweet remembrances.

-The window that had muffled her soft sobs from homely disagreements with the inviting hum-drum of the outside world and its activities.

-The window that had made the rain and the clouds, the sun and the spring a delight to watch within its restricting frame as she drank in all their aromas and ecstasies.

-The window that for twenty-one years breathed life into the numbing nothingness amongst the din of worldly worries that accompanied everyday.

-The window to the kitchen of Madhurima Sen Gupta, who once was a Sarkar and loved a boy who sported nothing but a Grecian frown on his face.

'Harry Potter and The Order of The Phoenix'

Got to see ‘Harry Potter and The Order of Phoenix’ today. Though I am not a Harry Potter follower by any means (have still to read a book on him), I found the film ......hmmmm.......quite ‘enjoyable’. The story starts with the interference of the Minister of Magic in the affairs at Hogwarts, and a sort of cold wave of suspicion runs through every character of eminence. Minister Cornelius Fudge believes Dumbledore is set to overtake him and for this he is secretly organizing his own army of wizards. So he sends his trusted lieutenant, the detestable Dolores Umbridge who promptly introduces a reign of draconian laws and suffocating regulations in Hogwarts. She gives one the creeps with her eerie smiles and Elizabethan frowns. In one word she is instantly ‘hate-able’. Full marks to her.

Then the expected turn of events is initiated as conspiracies are unearthed. He-who-should-not-be-named is named with gay abandon. Talking letters, Centaurs, giants, broomsticks, secret chambers and fireworks brighten up one’s mood for a while. The first-half drags a little. The second part is no respite as a sort of detailed narrative is attempted by the director, perhaps driven by a sudden realization to stick to the story. Almost in a military-camp manner.

Yes, Harry gets his first kiss (God knows what’s so sensational about it?).

And as a gross mutilation/diversion of/from the story Cho Chang is nothing close to beautiful. Leave alone being the most glamorous girl in the world as given in the story.

Then like a teenage fling it all subsides midst the gathering clouds of war.

And here approaches the moment I was eagerly looking forward to.

The Showdown.

But naahhhh, nothing like that.

Dumbledore steals all the thunder from Harry. He wards off Voldemort and saves the day.

Sirius Black vanishes into oblivion (he dies in the wand-skirmish) and Harry loses his only family left, his beloved godfather. The story ends with happy faces and an enlightened Fudge who dismisses Umbridge. Dumbledore is re-instated and ‘The Prophecy’ discussed.

THE END.

I actually came out of the theatre trying to convince myself that I had liked the movie. But I hadn’t.

No qualms about that.

But who cares?

I would have thumped my forehead in mock-disdain if I would have had to pay the astronomical150 Rupees (considering non-multiplex rates in my city are much cheaper) for a second day show of the film.

God be thanked that it was a dear friend of mine who arranged for the free-passes.

CURTAINS' CALL

Curtains blue, Curtains red

Curtains at my bedside said,

“Would you like to see the world?

Or, Will it stay dark instead?”

My eyes still in their dreamy blur

Could hardly see or decipher

The meaning of such simple words

I could not help but surrender.

I opted for the world outside

As light came rippling riding tides

They blinded me for moment’s sake

I stole a blink till they subside.

My curtains just did blush with gay

As now they could rest for the day

To wait for some unruly wind

That might come whistling midst mid-May.

Curtains floral, Curtains coy

Kissed and danced with winds of joy

And smelled the virgin rain on soil

That often goes for God’s envoy.

I looked at patterns etched at them

Like ancient truths they had no name

And as I looked past them I found

The world outside looked just the same.

Its That Sinking Feeling Again.

The last 48 hours has seen torrential rainfall in Kolkata. And among millions, yours truly has also been an unsuspecting victim of it. I can attest to the fact that I, in my twenty years in the city, have never seen such unrelenting ire of the rain-Gods being unleashed with such grievous malice. The major streets are all flooded and the lakhs of people residing in low-lying areas are under inescapable house-arrest. Stray commuters forced to report to their workplaces are either braving knee-deep water to wade and waddle to their nearest islands in the name of bus-stops or are getting themselves stranded being ill-informed of the ‘road-ahead’. Everyday there are half-a-dozen reports of deaths due to electrocution or collapsing of mud-walls. I shudder at the thought of life in the villages now that city-dwellers of this major Metropolis are busy hurrying to the nearest patch of highland.

Now let me narrate my eventful tryst with this Fearful-Phenomenon last Tuesday.
Lured to the connoisseur’s paradise (called Park Street in this city) to be treated by my oldest and dearest buddy I reached my destination in a state of zombie, disregarding the knee-deep water in Central-Kolkata streets (traditionally a safe place during monsoons. I found it flooded too, to my surprise. So you can imagine the extent of the Floods.). With a sumptuous lunch safely tucked within our stomachs we blew good-bye kisses in the air and said Adieu. Now, I had to go to some place infamous for its water-logging capacities to the south. I had to pay double the rickshaw fare both ways as the rickshaw-puller paddled through wheel-deep water at a place where the last semblance of demarcation between land and sea was lost due to the downpour. When I was on my return-trip the skies opened again and to no one’s respite there was more of water and less of transportation. Taking temporary shelter under the roof of an already crowded sweet-shop I could see the steady rise in water-level in the clogged streets and the panicky commuters struggling to latch onto the next auto-rickshaw. Even the major-roads were under water and where I unboarded from the auto, the very sight gave me a shock-of-a-lifetime. There was waist-high water and all forms of transport had shut down. I was left with no option but to join hundreds of others in their wading-expedition. After a tortuous, filth-filled murk-waddle and after seeing ten-odd rickshaw-pullers turn down my route owing to bad-road, I finally managed to get hold of one who was willing. And God be thanked for that. He declared it would cost me thirty rupees due to inclement conditions which was understandable and going by the extortion-spree of their trade in this weather was also quite a reasonable bargain. I was overjoyed for I had estimated I would be set back by something around seventy rupees and this was a winner coming my way. I quickly climbed onto my rescue-chariot and the man (my savior of sorts) paddled-struggled-trundled-waddled-walked-paddled me to my home. I was immensely grateful to him and continue to be so. And this post of mine is only but a fleeting tribute to him. I gleefully handed him forty rupees and he was quite happy. A lazy smile lit his face which so often conveys both gratitude and happiness in people who toil their heart out to make a living. I duck-walked the rest of the road to the warm comfort of my home. And as I write this post, looking out through my window, it is still raining. Sometimes coming down in bucketfuls, sometimes in a light drizzle, sometimes in a reckless deluge. It’s almost like a marathon out here. Cold, calculated, measured and most dreadfully assured and inevitable.

God help us Kolkatans if the skies decide to play a Budhia with us.

Let there be light.
And yes.....some clear skies too.

LUST ACTUALLY.....................

Behind those calm eyes breathed a desire which could put all seething magma dwelling inside the earth’s womb to shame. She knew lust craved reciprocity. Her own did. She could feel the air between them getting charged with an emotion she had still not recognized. Undone by a shock of confused frenzy she was sure it was ‘lust’.
‘Lust’ it was for sure. Only that this hitherto unknown emotion came with no manual to be handled and she was too unsure for a trial at this momentous a juncture. She could not think of experimenting with him. He was too precious.Too suave. Too alluring.Then suddenly she sensed his trained polish melting and felt the same feral restlessness in the black of his eyes. Eyes which said nothing yet held a plethora of confounding challenges for anybody who tried delving deep into them...in order to find some meaning.

Something moved somewhere.....and he yielded. Coming forward in a motion that could only be driven by some primitive motive, he accosted her.

“ Would you like a drink”, he asked.

DREAMS OF DARKNESS

Light of the day
Can’t take them away
Darkness brings them close.

The foliage sway
Leaves wither away
Dreams come in a doze.

Sky littered with stars
Wise clock clobbers
Punctuated by some rain

Nature does repairs
Then why it mars
Sweet melody of refrains.

Night lures to sleep
Brings vision in heap
To give respite from all

The undead weep
Of agonies deep
Lighthouse appears small.

The gloom off goes
The east sky shows
A wine glass filled to brim

The crimson red
Spells life in dead
Night evaporates with dreams.

A WALK TO REMEBER

It has been a long time since I have taken to writing anything distantly substantial and today is perhaps my day to make amends. My blogspace till date has consisted mainly of poems, which I wrote without much of an intense thought or fervour in my childhood days. Today I look forward to do something much less creative by convention but in no measure less engaging in pursuit. I have just finished reading the book named “A WALK TO REMEMBER” by Nicholas Sparks and this is but an attempt to put the essence of that book in my own words.


The story is a first person narrative of the author in retrospect where he looks back at the time when he was in his senior school, at seventeen, and how a chain of events completely changed his life forever. From the reader’s point of view the book is not captivating from the onset but rather on the lines of a slow documentary which keeps the reader interested by its element of descriptive detailing. The time-frame the story belongs to puts it in the 1950s of America. North Carolina makes up for that idyllic setting as its springs and beaches fill up the senses of the avid reader.

Landon Carter, the boy in the story, belongs to an influential family of Beaufort, a small town where he was born and brought up. He goes to the senior school and gets elected as the student council President. On the eve of the ‘Thanksgiving day’ party he finds himself without a girl who can accompany her. Desperate to save his face he debates with himself and finally opts to approach the ‘ugly duckling’ of the class, Jamie Sullivan. She is someone who never gives a ‘no’ for an answer and hence complies. Their association is furthered by circumstance as they both meet again in their drama classes. Jamie, born to the righteous minister of the church embodies all that is ‘good and giving’ to the human race. She is not only kind in disposition but is also caring and good natured even to an ill-mannered ruffian. As the story unfolds, Landon gets to know Jamie from close quarters and discovers newfound respect for her and her virtues .In the process he also learns to be a giving person as he helps her to raise funds for buying Christmas presents for the children of an orphanage. They both identify themselves with the poor children in the orphanage because of their individually exclusive childhood which was deprived of parental love in one way or the other. A busy father in case of Landon and a mother who left Jamie at her birth to the care of her father forever. Landon, in simple terms transforms from being a boy to a responsible man in Jamie’s company and he pleases himself in this ensuing process.

Sparks weaves absorbingly a commentary of delicate human emotions, of tender, innocent teenage love and with ease takes the reader in his fold in no time. He not only makes the evolution of love inside two young hearts look credible to the reader but also draws empathy from them as to how this love finds its way to be actualised without even overtly asking for it. Slowly, the inner beauty of Jamie finds appreciation in Landon and he learns to adore the innately beatific qualities of Jamie and her set of values. Landon sees the angel that she actually is as time progresses, taking him unknowingly to graduating adoloscence.Gradually as the love blossoms between the two, the reader is lulled into a false sense of languorous bliss which is promptly dashed by a calamitous revelation by Jamie. The monotony of a ‘happy ending’ eludes the reader to his dismay and bewilderment.

Landon is shocked to discover that his love is dying of incurable leukemia. There is a terrible sense of loss that quickly eclipses the impending joy and happy ending the reader is to expect. Instead there is an excruciating wait for death and an abrupt end to what would have been ‘a lasting love story’. What comes as a twist in the tale is the realization in Landon that the only thing that can make Jamie happy is her 'great dream' of a grand marriage ceremony coming true and he does exactly that. He urges GOD for an unlikely miracle and through every passing moment senses the immense love he has in his heart for Jamie. A newfound respect, affection and longing for his lady love so compellingly overcomes the naiveté of youth that he decides to marry the dying Jamie. In the church the attendant crowd experiences to their great grief and relief a marriage of selflessness and passion which, sadly, is seemingly ephemeral. The WALK down the aisle with her father, which Jamie so longed for was at last a reality, against the sinister travesty that fate had so mercilessly designed for her. LOVE had had its say and it resonated in the thunderous applause that spontaneously greeted their union as if certifying the validity of true love though its protagonists be not as timeless as the concept itself. That WALK down the aisle for Jamie was almost a victory lap for the lasting faith in love that humans have and in recognition of what it can do to ameliorate hearts.


The book not only makes for absorbing reading but also is a tribute to the selfless teenage love and its inherent innocence that the world is so rapidly losing in its strides towards more ‘immediately realizable indulgences’. An absolutely exhilarating piece of writing which talks of the power and beauty of simplicity, virtues and surrender, the old school style. “A WALK TO REMEBER” is made ‘a read to remember’ by the fluidity of narration and the unassuming transparency of the eager emotions of youth that are essentially palpable when kept simple, lucid and subtle. The imagination of the reader is enduringly engaged; almost with mischievous intent by the author, at the very end, when he makes an oblique reference to the ‘miracle’ that he was made to believe in by the end of this story. As to what that ‘miracle’ was, I can only gleefully conjecture, at the expense of my rationale, as will many more readers be tempted to, for really this walk remains one to be remembered. If not forever, then for some time at least and that is where the author succeeds in his pursuit.

THE WAR WITHIN

My face is too deceptive
It mystifies most
My heart sobs to self-relief
As face holds a toast.

Laughter echoes & rebounds,
Still that throb of pain
Wrapped around by the sound
Of melodious refrain.

Reminds me of who am I ,
Whom I was meant to be .
My conscience my alibi
Desires –wait and see .

Dreams to me are meteors
They brighten the night sky
Then tantalizingly lures ,
Within a flash they die .

Few or none does have the eyes
To read what lies beneath.
Joyous smiles eclipse sighs
While the agony seethes .

Time spoils the festive mood,
The face always wins at last .
Heartbeats might know –“To brood,
Erodes youth & charms too fast .”

In this conflict within me
My heart or face , no one reign .
To conclude I laugh , you see –-
“ Out of joy , or out of pain ?”

THE PROMISE SHE KEPT

It was the sun of spring
that flashed into my ever sleepy eyes.
It was morning , beaming with life,
And to add beauty to that
There she lay , still untouched by the rays
Yet, adding her own radiance to them.
There she was beside me ,
to be with me for life and further,
Leaving behind her sphere of ' knowns'
To walk with me , my arm she caught.
Into our future of certain uncertainty.
To share my fate. " Innocence ", I thought.


Her scent was in the air.
Her feel made everthing glow
Glow with an overwhelming sense of care,
love , belonging , compassion or else
- Only she could know , what lies
behind her throb of docile turbulence.
A man can only conjecture
in mere amazenent or disbelief.
For me it was the pleasure of both ;
- Enmeshed , entangled , entwined
Confusion can be pleasant sometimes.
My sub-conscious did remind.


Ecstatic with a feeling of assured affection
Which my heart never craved for
Because it was too exotic for a wretch.
To me , only a silent promise would do.
A patient ear was my need ,
Eyes brimming with empathy , I wished.
A comforting smile was enough.
A look of promotion - a bounty.
Simple, These may seem to some.
But, perhaps the most precious were they
Of all priceles gifts on offer. They come
only to the fortunate , they say.


Again humbled by reality
Exiled from my world of fancies
My vision narrowed into my little room.
The world outside , the sky through my window
seemed too small for harbouring my elation.
The clouds no more appealed to my eyes.
Sleepy eyes , still recovering from the truth
that defeated all past fancies
by its element of pleasing suddenness.
Floating clouds seemed so lifeless , defunct.
Tufts of misery drifting away.
The white in them could never satisfy
my craze for colourful confetti today.


Still, sitting on my morning bed
I felt a satisfaction clotting inside me.
A loser in battle , but a victor within.
I now possessed 'The Gem' I wished
to treasure for my life , and further.
She gave me a reason to live.
To ' Live Life', rather than spend days
Counting one out of the stint every night.
How strange it now seemed.
That one life could change another.
Give it purpose and direction.
Passion is miracle. They strike together.


I was too lost in the blue of her eyes.
Eyes- that disarmed me helpless.
Inspired me to be patient in counting
The numerous waves that came and went
Of emotions , both subtle and obvious
Sweeping the shores of those two "blue seas".
My eyes now narrowed down
Away from her asking gaze
To her. There she lay , all smiles and joy.
Snuggling against my bruised chest
which still housed a battered heart
Tired but beating , throbbing in silence.
Deprieved of zeal , bereft of warmth
There I lay - Disillusioned. Still tranced.
For her promise was so true
And blessed by that ethereal omen
That promised to follow me through.

A BRIGHTER NIGHT

Confused in my misery,
At last , I behold light.
Having felt the gloom of dusk
Wishing a brighter night.


Lavish, Grand - it need not be
with full moon and birds that sing.
Enough will be candlelight
If some joy, to me it brings.


None on earth may ever know
How much pain my each smile costs.
Battling with my vanquished self,
Pretending that I never lost.


Only GOD and my heart knows
My soul seeks eternal light.
For I have seen more gloomy dawns.
Tonight, I wish a brighter night.

LESSONS FROM NATURE

The flowers are the same I know
Still they seem so pink to me.
My head tells me -" illusion ".
My heart tells me-" Love, may be!"


Forever, the sun burnt bright
Shining as it always was.
This morning, it's pleasant light
Perhaps, is for noble cause.


This breeze seems to talk to me
Giving me some wise advise,
-" Love the things that come for free
Instead of ones that come for price ".

The lazy pace of brook suggests
The seas are even made of drops.
Between tides, the sea too rests.
It's the brook that never stops.


The Great Banyan will not reveal
Of what matter is it made.
That makes it grow so strong and tall.
Yet so humble in its shade.

In these lessons nature taught
Most timeless I can recall
" The basic joy of life," I thought,
" Before the self, in loving all ".

FRIEND

" A friend in need
Is a friend indeed ".
- A proverb widely read.

Few think of them
" It's all the same;
What difference has he made ? "

With truth to start
And jokes apart
A friend should be " the one ",

Sheds with you
comforting dew
At times when there's none.

Obliged to help
A selfless self
He knows you more than much.

He makes it feel
" The bond of steel "
You treasure his loving touch.

You know, he knows
And friendship grows
You owe this gift to LORD.

"The gift of gifts"
When fortune rifts
He has those blissful words

-Of wisdom , care,
the need to share
Pave their way to your heart.

You always knew
There can be few
Who are a "class apart".

The child within
cries out and in
When he is not beside

Parted my miles
Still those smiles
Bring back memory's tide.

When time permit
You sink in it;
Applaud, " the perfect blend-

Of human, divine
And forever mine,
My darling, My Good Friend".

FEARLESS

FEARLESS

The morning-light that brings to life -
The treasures of the day;
The fearless mind to that awakes,
Proclaiming , “ come what may!”.

Harping on the missing zeal
And thoughts depressing –
Is no way to live a life ,
But living like a king .

What others do or others don’t
Does bother him the least .
Fired by that inner will
That dares tame the beast .

Sorrow seems to aid him now ;
For once it was his foe .
-“ Disenchanted ” of all love ,
for every thing must go .

Humans, if he was God ,
Would never have the mind ;
To overlook a hearts appeal ,
Though, it be this blind .

Seasoned by the treaded path ,
Tempered by his flaws .
Courage be his only shield .
“Death” - his only pause .