Clean Slate

This little slate of mine,
Been with me
From the beginning of time
The earliest conscious memory 
That I recall
Of its purity
The rich black colour - the beauty
The corners intact - all
The lessons were learnt
With gentle strokes of chalk
Gliding smoothly, with love
Over this little slate of mine

Abrasions of time
The lessons left behind
Patches of grey
The dull hue
Of things that nothing could erase-undo,
Marks, scars so deep -
They would not heal
The little chasms with their mouths open
At times would mock,at times would weep
Chipped corners, 
indelible dark impressions
On this little slate of mine.

Painting it all over again
Hid some flaws, but
Couldn't fill the empty space,
Elaborated some channels
Of the old, familiar pain
Can I trade it with some other?
Can I make it new?
Wash it clear, of all the blue
Erase, let go of all that is untrue?
Restore it, make it whole
This little slate of mine.

Time eroded, time will mend
This is how I would like it to end
till I find the fix
A change
Within, without - or a mix
I would keep it in my embrace
Held close to my heart
This battered, burnt, hurt
Yet integrated - strong..
little slate of mine.

Reality and Fiction

"And then the young woman tells her that the patient, Ashoke Ganguli, her husband, has expired."

I close the book. I look around. The world around is still the same. Everyone in the metro is doing there own thing, completely unaware of the disaster that occurred between the pages of that book. I try reading further, I read a page or two before I reach Rajiv Chowk, I get down. I go past an avalanche of people, trying to convince myself that it was just a character, made up of words, ideas and imagination and it shouldn't bother me this way. 
Words really have the power to move you, don't they?

The Namesake. I've been reading this book for quite some time now. I read it on my way to Rajiv Chowk, daily. In absence of a companion, the monotony of metro rides is nothing short of maddening. For some time, I did nothing in that duration, except for observing people, over hearing their conversations (unintentionally) and wondering why do so many people decide to plug in earphones and block out the noises around and listen to music - why are people not comfortable in their own company? 

Ok, seems even I can't enjoy my company on such a ride everyday and this is where books came to my rescue. On the way back, I have the company of Akanksha, who is my link to the residence memories, to good old days, to college - a familiar face in the crowd. 

Coming back to where I started... I never thought fiction could affect me this way. The character - Ashoke Ganguli, died unattended, unexpectedly, with no one from his family by his side."But he dodged death once, why couldn't he do this once more?" I thought.Because life is like that. Unpredictable. It will seldom give you another chance. And this connection, is probably where, the difference between fiction and reality starts waning.
It starts waning when you come across incidents you can relate to, when you come across sentences that you feel are written, are meant just for you, when you feel the joy and the pain the characters go through and finding something like this just makes your day.
I can still recall the time I read "The five people you meet in heaven". Eddie, the protagonist, served in the army and was shot in the leg once. Years later he describes how his leg still hurt when he used to get off his bed. I winced as I read it and amazed myself when I realised what I did.

And the time I read "Mr. Rosenblum's list." The beautiful journey that a German couple undertakes to blend in, to adjust in the English society, set up in the time of a world war ( I forgot which one). I could connect to it because that's what I have been trying to do for a few years now, trying to adjust in a land far away from home!

I also came across "The fault in our stars." Honestly, I thought the claims of it being tear inducing and heartbreaking were exaggerated. Until I read it till the end. The last line did it for me. I remember walking from one room to another, being unable to understand what was happening to me. After all, it was just a book..a book of fiction.. A few written words.. Ideas and imagination strewn together.. Bound by the sheer hard work of the writer...

Then yesterday, I read this incident of Ashoke's demise in the book and it shook me. Maybe because that is the kind of death that I dread, maybe everyone does. Confronting it in the book for a while was what left me a bit sadder for the day.

I think it is absolutely beautiful and mysterious that we can relate to written words like this. It assures you that people have been in your shoes, they have felt what you feel and even more, that there is hope and most importantly - you are never alone. It is because of this, perhaps that books make such awesome companions. They open in front of you a window to a different world, allow you to travel without moving ( or become your partner on the go) and introduce you to people who end up affecting your lives - at times, subtly and at times, drastically.

And make you feel, that you are not alone, never :)