After This What
After this what .What will be my next destiny.The small girl with wild eyes and indifferent deportment who lived the most part of her days in the wilderness of her grandparent's backyard had subconscious visions of a world which was a disconnect with now and then.Or perhaps this is the interpretation of my adult reasoning. May be my brain at that time was as blank as that of the street urchin who unmindfully follows his mendicant parents in whatever they do to subsist and which later becomes the main stay of his ensuing life.The difference between the two being that one could interpret and the other had turned comatose.The little girl tripped along the twisted terrains of her growing journey through life. She was untamed yet full of weird dreams which made her float into the realms of fantasy created by the visions of those great writers who wrote great romances and who wove the tales of woe and joy and filled her subconscious mind with a premonition that she was to tow them some day.She went about her life on two planes.The practical and the private.She guarded this private world quite zealously.She remained suffused in the euphoria of her private readings .It was only some routine professional misdemeanours which disturbed the sublime equanimity of her cherished moments but she let it pass.She could always be seen with a heap of dishevelled and scribbled pages which were replete with cuttings and corrections.A miserable spectacle.But she remained flushed with the efforts which she put in in order to create her own master pieces.She was fascinated more by Hemingway,because his route seemed to be easy to follow. He was more charismatic and took less trouble in creating or inventing the epic tales ,excepting the one which got him the Nobel,and that too was challenged later as somebody's real life story picked by him. And this continued till the starry eyed me -stooped under the hardship of proving a point and not facing the stark realities of life which needed immediate attention. Me and my friends were in the early flush of youth and going round and round the circumscribed periphery of the college grounds where we were posted, dreaming of being catapulted to our final destinations where we will pick cherries and eat puddings for ever and ever.But for me- I perhaps dreamt of my destination to be there in that smutty little enclosed space wherein sat that dreamy man holding the pen in his gnarled hand looking at me but not exactly -his jaundiced look and thin smile craving for liberation from that vice like grip on the lives of others who fed him with their life force to churn out for him his master pieces .
After this what .What will be my next destiny.The small girl with wild eyes and indifferent deportment who lived the most part of her days in the wilderness of her grandparent's backyard had subconscious visions of a world which was a disconnect with now and then.Or perhaps this is the interpretation of my adult reasoning. May be my brain at that time was as blank as that of the street urchin who unmindfully follows his mendicant parents in whatever they do to subsist and which later becomes the main stay of his ensuing life.The difference between the two being that one could interpret and the other had turned comatose.The little girl tripped along the twisted terrains of her growing journey through life. She was untamed yet full of weird dreams which made her float into the realms of fantasy created by the visions of those great writers who wrote great romances and who wove the tales of woe and joy and filled her subconscious mind with a premonition that she was to tow them some day.She went about her life on two planes.The practical and the private.She guarded this private world quite zealously.She remained suffused in the euphoria of her private readings .It was only some routine professional misdemeanours which disturbed the sublime equanimity of her cherished moments but she let it pass.She could always be seen with a heap of dishevelled and scribbled pages which were replete with cuttings and corrections.A miserable spectacle.But she remained flushed with the efforts which she put in in order to create her own master pieces.She was fascinated more by Hemingway,because his route seemed to be easy to follow. He was more charismatic and took less trouble in creating or inventing the epic tales ,excepting the one which got him the Nobel,and that too was challenged later as somebody's real life story picked by him. And this continued till the starry eyed me -stooped under the hardship of proving a point and not facing the stark realities of life which needed immediate attention. Me and my friends were in the early flush of youth and going round and round the circumscribed periphery of the college grounds where we were posted, dreaming of being catapulted to our final destinations where we will pick cherries and eat puddings for ever and ever.But for me- I perhaps dreamt of my destination to be there in that smutty little enclosed space wherein sat that dreamy man holding the pen in his gnarled hand looking at me but not exactly -his jaundiced look and thin smile craving for liberation from that vice like grip on the lives of others who fed him with their life force to churn out for him his master pieces .
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