I’m moving to Medium

Hi people (if there is anyone who still follows this blog)

I’m moving to Medium. Well, technically, I have already moved to Medium. Last year. There wasn’t any particular reason to move. I was bored of this blog (and name). And I had a new type of content in mind. Medium seemed like a good platform with a very good crowd.

I have tried to be fairly regular on Medium and have published around twelve posts. I have been experimenting with the content and now I’m writing only a specific type of fiction.

Here is the link to my profile, I also write non-fiction here.

Here is the link to the fiction publication ‘Stories from Fawrakh‘.

WordPress was fun. I won’t be deactivating this account, but won’t be posting anything here as well. I hope to see some of you on Medium.

Thanks!
Alay

Fawrakh: A town that doesn’t exist

If a visitor comes and goes but doesn’t grasp what the place represents, can we really say they’ve been there? 

–Cherian George

If there exists a physical representation of the expression melancholy, it is the town of Fawrakh. River Fawrah divides the great town into two parts. These involuntarily created parts, somehow work as a contradiction of each other.

When a visitor enters West Fawrakh, he seems to forget his problems. The grass roads of West Fawrakh comfort his legs with a strange tickling feeling. The air of West Fawrakh is heavy and contains a damp smell in it. And the grass roads and the damp air create an illusion of a ruined city. That is why West Fawrakh is known as the ‘ruined Fawrakh’. The beauty that this ruin contains makes the visitors forget their hunger and thirst. As the visitors advance, these grass roads merge into the cement roads and visitors always seem to miss the lines that separate the two roads. It is when the visitors complete their journey, that they realize that the roads beneath their feet have not been the same.

Spinoza’s Town

When the weary traveller comes to the top of the Misty Mountain, he seeth a town that doesn’t exist. He seeth a town that, risen from the ashes of the heaven, lay there aloof from the world.
The cold seems to evaporate as he sets a foot in the town. The road diverges until it is nothing but an outline of a tree that doesn’t exist.
With the rising impatience, the traveller opens a door to the nearest house.
And he enters a room that seems to imitate his home in his earlier life. And he finds another door.
It leads to a room that seems to imitate the earlier room. And door after door and room after room, he gets stuck in the fantastical labyrinth that swallows him to the heart of the city.

Bombay: A city beyond people

[Traveling makes people more mature than they can imagine. It is during one of these travels that people usually find who they are. I have not reached there yet. But I sure hope I will. Mumbai is a fantastic place. Of course, everything described in here is my personal opinion. And following is just an outsider’s perspective in the daily life that Mumbai has to offer.]

 

“Nothing in the world, no object or event, would be true or false if there were not thinking creatures.”

-Donald Davidson

Like that 90’s medley that never seems to stop, the one that is played on repeat yet always manages to sound original, Bombay works like a moving song that is played every minute in every corner, on every crowded local station, on every roadside Vadapav stall and is repeated every hour, every day and every year. The realization of it struck me as I was traveling in a local train at an off time. I saw people so habituated to clinging to the open entrance of the train in the rush of the Dadar station that even an empty train was not a good incentive for them to sit back and relax. The city shapes people in ways that even they can’t imagine. The crowd that forces people to stand near the open entrance slowly makes the individual feel connected to the spot. The feeling of the train moving steadily and the streetlights zooming by gives an uncanny attraction to the person who is clinging to the pole on the entrance and is almost half outside, looking at the large vehicle that is carrying him to the destination of which even he is never sure of.

A Lunatic’s Poem

When the world will burn,
When the land will churn,
When the lava will fall,
When the wind will howl,
Just turn and look at me.
I will be smiling.

Dystopian Genre and Alternate Reality

That’s how it starts. The fever, the rage, the feeling of powerlessness that turns good man cruel.

-Alfred Pennyworth

There is a range of things that dystopian fiction covers. One of the very reasons of the existence of the genre is the suppressed feeling that is passed on in the day-to-day life. As my dear butler Alfred says, “The feeling of powerlessness that turns good man cruel.” When the masterminds, the thinkers, the philosophers are suppressed, from them spurs the stories that disturb us. And I believe that is how the whole genre was shaped. Obviously, I do not know what the first dystopian novel was, or how it came into existence. Thus, I have to rely on the speculations. But one thing is quite certain that 1984 and ‘A Brave New World’ were the shapers of the genre. Both of the books are classic examples of dystopian mentality.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Books

[The seemingly long title is inspired from Raymond Carver’s short story collection ‘What we talk about when we talk about love’. That doesn’t mean that I have read it. I picked it up from Birdman. Also, these are my views. The word ‘we’ in the title is added plainly for dramatic effect. It contains very mild spoilers, but it will not ruin the effect of those books. Maybe it will enhance it.]

I have this weird habit of opening pictures of random places from around the globe and then just keep looking them until I feel sleepy. Most of the nights, before going to bed, my last Google searches are filled with this sort of websites and images. That’s true. Venice, Barcelona, Santorini, Murano, Vienna, Budapest, Istanbul, Prague, Moscow and what not. And almost every single day I realize that even if I roam around the world for all my life (which is a very risky assumption itself) I am never going to be able to go to all of these amazing places and instead I can only look at the high definition photographs and imagine the feeling of being there.

But then I realize that I don’t need to. For I have books. I have something that can take me anywhere. Instead, I have more than that. I had a chance to go through Fyodor Dostoevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment’ a few weeks ago. I was enchanted by it. Even though Dostoevsky hides names of most of the streets and squares from us, an enticing picture of St. Petersburg unravels in our mind. With each additional street that the protagonist wishes to run on, we add a street in our, rather crude, mental map of the city.

Defying the Unfamiliarity

I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch, but one. An inch. It is small and it is fragile and it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us. I hope that whoever you are, you escape this place. I hope that the world turns and that things get better. But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that, even though I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you, I love you. With all my heart, I love you. -Valerie.

When I hear the genius of Alan Moore bursting through the chaotic melange of small and large sentences, complex emotions and the smoothest flow that I can imagine, I make a mental picture in my mind. When a character in V for Vendetta, goes out of the way to explain the relation between two strangers, it suddenly boggles my mind. It gives me goosebumps. And it persuades me to understand this relation in a deeper and more profound manner.

Death Wish and Dark Matters

It is unknown that we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.

Sometimes I feel Albus Dumbledore’s above quote a little bit far-fetched. It is perfectly true that we are not afraid of dark and death, but the uncertainty regarding it. But to assume that everyone fears it, is a mistake.

When I see Batman or Daredevil running around in a costume, chasing goons, I never cease to be amazed. What is it that drives these people to that way? To the dark corners of their own city, running around in the dirt and doing dirty jobs to make the city cleaner?

Rise of Loki

[Loki is a Viking god of Mischief. He is also a popular character from Marvel comics and cinematic universe. Following fan fiction is my take on Loki’s motivation. The incidents in the story happen between the events of movies Thor and The Avengers. Although, it doesn’t rely on them much. Some primitive information about Loki is necessary to understand this story.]

“Earthmen consider you the gods. The world consists of three concentric circles. The smallest one is called Asgard, in which the gods live. The middle is called Midgard, in which the mortal beings dwell. And beyond the realm of beings, there comes smoke and cold. The smoke and cold contains the land of Jotunheim, in which the Frost Giants stay. Do you know why are you here, Loki the Odinson? Or shall I say, Loki, son of Laufey?”

Loki looked around him. The voice had been chilling. Loki felt something rising inside him. His hands had been numb by the chains. He had ceased trying to rebel the chains. The pain was vivid. Loki had turned blue due to the extreme cold and his legs were aching badly.

“Shall I ask you again?” The shadow said, “Why are you here, Loki?”