The Strange Entities called Luck, Fate and Destiny- 01

This is a 5 page abstract narrative of three lives each a representative of the strange entities called luck, fate and destiny. They come together to produce the climax that eventually changes these three lives, nullifying the entities momentarily.

Page 1: LUCK

The setting sun hung around on the horizon not wanting to drown itself in the orange waters.  Overlooking the marina was a worn out  building of gray blocks depicting that the people within had no intention of making their house a home.And inside one of those little rooms lived Rishi, 26, a struggling theater actor. 

His one room flat was strewn across with clothes, books and empty take-out boxes and like every other day, Rishi woke up to the sight of dusk, bathed by the time the sky dulled and was out by nightfall.
               Being one among the millions that crowded the only street that took him from downtown to the posh side of the city, Rishi looked up and sent a silent prayer to the Goddess of Luck.
'May today be the day in my history that I speak of when I get my first award'
The first drop of rain seemed to him like the blessing of the Goddess itself as he fished out a few notes, and counted the change.
'Maybe enough for today' he thought and hailed for a rickshaw. On the way, he read his crumpled script over and over, using a pencil to mark his modulations. When the fare reached what was in his hand he signaled the driver to stop.
'But you the place is just a little ahead! Let me drop you'
'But I don't have enough money, its ok!'
'You'll reach faster!'
A thought flashed through his mind.
'No. I will not do anything out of ordinary. It could mess up. Luck is a fragile thing'
He waved the rickshaw off and walked the rest of the way. The neon lights and strangely dressed people led him to a little bar. He looked up and scanned the customers that barged in.
'Am I slightly overdressed?' he thought as he realized he completely was. A train of thoughts that followed revolved around how his choices have led him to his place where he was, right now in the stench of alcohol.
'So it has all come down to this' he said as he walked in through the door.


'Excuse me, I'm Rishi.  I'm here to meet Mr.Varma?' The waitress eyed him fully.
'Follow me'
She led him to the back where the scenery fully changed. A properly lit stage and a quiet ambiance made him run the lines in his head with gusto. He almost didn't see Mr. Varma calling him. Rishi hurried over and introduced himself.
'Very nice to meet you Rishi, but we've already finalized someone for the role just 5 minutes back. We won't be needing you this time' Rishi followed Varma's eyes to a tall man standing and laughing.
'Enjoy it while it lasts' he cursed. Though his face fell, he thanked and left with only one thought in his mind.
'That could've been me if I let the rickshaw guy drop me'
Nonetheless, he made use of the bar, pulled out the rolled notes in his socks that he was saving for his big day and drank like a fish.
            When he left, it was half  past 11 and the streets which were crowded were a little deserted.
'Rishi! The Goddess of luck is watching everything! She will not let you down. Every actor has a struggling face, yours is just taking too damn long!' he started off well and ended up yelling.  
'I will not let his become my life! Enough of struggling!' he said as he took another swig from his bottle.Some more self talk and he found himself in the part of town that he didn't recognize. He shook his hand and stared at the clock for a while before it made sense to him that it was close to midnight.
'Ah! They say at the stroke of midnight, everyone's luck changes, refreshes! Really? To hell with it!To hell with all this luck.' he said as he crossed the curb.
And the first ray of the headlights seemed to him like the anger of the Goddess of luck.

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The Writer's Justice

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‘You’re the… the writer! Ac-Across the block!’ she stammered shoving off things from a chair and gestured.

‘I’m sorry… um… can you open a window? I need some air’ Raoul spoke indirectly while he took his seat.

The girl in shadows crossed her toes and stood silently before him.

‘I don’t really have a window.’ Then she mumbled ‘Can’t afford a place with it’

As they sat quietly for the power to come back, his apparent muse watched him keenly during his inspection of her house. The rags she wore, the sour bread on the table, nothing was amounting to his vision of her. When the lights finally came back, Raoul was fetching a glass of water and his heart sped. He didn’t want to turn around and see her fully… see that she wasn’t that entire illusion he imagined. There were other unexplained things happening; things he couldn’t comprehend. Eventually, he did have to turn and to his utter disappointment she wasn’t the picture of ease and passion.

            The first thing he saw was her. Her hair was burgundy not blond; her lips had weird freckles near them; and she sprinted in overalls. His dream muse shattered.

Oh my god he thought. She quickly fixed her glasses and wiped off paint from her fingers. That’s when he realized he actually said them aloud. A few bright colors caught his attention and he glanced away to a window.

‘I thought you said you didn’t have a window?’ Raoul exclaimed as looked at his own loft out of it.

‘Oh it’s not real!’ the young girl went to the amazingly real looking window and tapped.

‘See? Glass. I painted over it. This is the view that inspires me to work’ she rattled showing murals on her walls and designs on her furniture. But Raoul couldn’t take his eyes off her.

‘This, inspires you?’ he asked nodding towards the glass painting.

‘Yes, weirdly it does. The architecture of this building, the angels carved into them… everything about it makes me feel like a creator.’ Raoul smiled.

‘It looks very real to me’    

A few months later, he gets her a window out of which she sees exactly what she had imagined and for him? Well… he realized that after seeing her, the muse was too perfect to bring any reality in his writing. He gave it up to see Heather in all her imperfection doing what she loved.

     Raoul looks out the window to see his actual muse. Overalls weren’t the only kind of clothes she possesses he realizes. And her freckles were washable paint after all. They sometimes meet for a weekend dinner at the café round the corner. And while they eat, she pushes back a strand of her hair awkwardly. They laugh over wine, and debate about artists. Life goes back to cliché and everyday Raoul dines in heaven thinking of her. But if it weren’t for that writer’s block, he never could’ve done justice to his own writing…or to his heart. The past was something he couldn't comprehend, but like many other things in life, he didn't need to for if its meant to be it happens. Even if its in the most delusional way! 

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The Writer's Muse

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Scattered around his chair was a blanket of worded paper sheets. His eyes were sill wide as he scooped them off the floor and stacked them into a neat pile. Then he sighed. What he couldn’t do for weeks, he did within a day. And that was not normal…Especially when one doesn’t remember doing it.

‘I’m definitely dining in hell’ he thought as he methodically ate his reheated frozen dinner. Somewhere he was satisfied with his work, but when he reconsidered if it really was his, Raoul could feel a strange fear creeping. And that’s how he slept through the night, his worries manifesting as the wildest of dreams he’d ever had.

Next day, his muse was there again. She had braided her hair; some strands hung from the imprisonment and she trudged around in a long plaid blue shirt. But like always her face was something he couldn’t call concrete and that made it all the more reason to wait till she showed her straight face.

‘So carefree and…real’ he mouthed as he began his writing for the day. Cups of coffee willed him to stay awake to find out the mystery behind yesterday. But he dozed off again, waking to a similar sight.    

When the morning arrived Raoul draped a cloth over his typewriter, fixed his tie and locked his door. He was finally going to meet his source of inspiration. ‘Tonight I shall dine in heaven’ he thought as he pictured the hearty meal they’d have together and the talks they’d share as artists over glasses of wine.

Dreaming forth, he rang the bell and waited.

‘Come in!’ she called as if she knew exactly who was at her doorstep. Raoul smiled wide counting the possibility that she’d been watching him too. He turned the knob and a draft of cold musty air hit him unexpectedly. The inside was barely lit, a candle or two at every compartment of the tiny room. He could make out a figure against the orange glow, slowly approaching but his mind was wandering restlessly. She was what made him come here but now the frustration was not that he still couldn’t see her.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked meekly her blue eyes judging his expensive clothing.

Raoul couldn’t reply. His eyes darted everywhere. It registered the easel and the smell of paint. What it couldn’t register was the fact that no matter how much he searched, he couldn’t find the window where it was meant to be. 

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The Writer's Block

‘Tonight, I shall dine in hell’ he said with conviction as he drew apart the curtains. Another long summer day… long enough to derive some useful work of expression. However the past few weeks were spent in tossing and moaning in bed all afternoon, caffeine and music at nights and a bunch of complaining neighbors the very next morning. Raoul didn’t seem to get past the first chapter he’d written; often wondering if that too should be deleted. Today he decided to approach his thought processing a little differently.

            For an hour he tidied up his ‘shrine’; a cozy corner desk facing his French windows. He decided to clean a bit around it just in case during a trail of awesome words, his eyes would fall on clutter. Midway arranging the snacks he’d need for inspiration, he glanced out the window and saw her. Across his loft, the morbid households were allocated, but suddenly they didn’t seem so anymore. Her open white curtains brought the glow to the tall wall of congested windows. He’d probably never seen her, and no amount of tracing back brought that ‘something’ that she carried. Raoul slid into his ebony chair while she sat on a wooden stool, legs dangling and hand positioned at her neck. She was examining the canvas in front of her, brush in the other hand. She looked like a prefect picture of ease and passion and yet her lips twitched with dissatisfaction. The more he looked at her, the more words he found to describe her every move, even when she did nothing more than brush back her hair. ‘She is it’ he mouthed slowly running his cold fingers across the keys of the typewriter.

‘She is my muse’. With a smile struggling to spread all over his face, he pulled his chair up close and started typing away to glory. He wrote nothing of her, but every word was connected with the thoughts she invoked. He occasionally applauded himself, and when his thoughts were losing momentum, one look her careless grace put him back on track. He didn’t know why he found himself waking up at twilight, lightheaded and fingers sore.

‘As if one can fall asleep of thinking too much’ he muttered to himself and he fixed his glasses. Her curtains were closed now with soft yellow light peeping and her easel was kept half against the window. But, behind it he could see her twirl around in a flowing dress, ladle in hand. He presumed that she was cooking her dinner. Raoul sighed happily and flipped on the switches to the unexpected sight on the floor. He couldn’t believe it. 

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Letter of Promise

Dear God,

(If you’re choosing to drop in on these thoughts of mine)

I've grown up and I know you've made this world where things can never be the same as it was even a minute ago. So I guess a matter of years is forever out of the question. Yet, I can’t help going back to the times I didn't cherished when it was present and can’t stop the train of thoughts that follow. Tonight I’m revisiting them again, for totally another reason.

          I’m not dwelling on broken memories so you can switch over to another person who really needs you and stuff; but if you’d listen I’d appreciate. There was this one person who opened this world out to me. My eyes were open to see, but it wasn't until he came that I realized I can do something to change it, to live in it, and make it flow through me. He came like a guardian angel, and although I was too young to understand the gravity of the tough situation we were in, I think I smiled a wee bit often because of that person. He taught me to color within the lines, in uniform strokes…to set the table in a manner that we all can reach the dishes. His hands held me firmly as he taught me how to float on water, and how to tell little lies so that mommy won’t know her birthday gift. He’d sing me to sleep at times and because I like being carried on his shoulders, I’d pretend to be asleep after a long drive home.

But just like that when I had thought my learning days were through and when I was yearning to show what I can do with what he taught, he vanished out of my world built on his words. Growing up I realized his lessons went further than coloring and swimming. He taught me patience, trust, compassion and love. I kept going back to those random memories year after year for 12 years now but it has struck me only tonight. I want to be young again like everyone else, but not so that I won’t have anything to worry about. Not so that I can eat all the pastries without worrying about the dresses in my closet. I want to be young again for him to be back in my life.  Because, his shadow was never there like I hoped it to be when I grew to his height.  Because, when I expressed in words and everyone found an author in me, he wasn't there to be proud. And at mommy’s birthdays I am clueless without asking you first what our grand plan would be.  Somehow I coped well, and other guardian angels kept passing by on me…checking if I was living my dream.  And now and then in little ways, I do remember him and remind myself that he belongs fully to my past. He was my glorious past and nothing more. You see, he belonged to that category of people that come ‘for a reason’. And that was to make me believe that I too was capable of my dreams. He was also someone I looked up to, not because he was towering tall but because at that moment in life, he was the father I never had.

P.S- If you did listen to it all; send this to him. He claims I don’t remember him at all when the truth is he never remembered himself saying ‘I’ll always be there, I promise’

Love, (to everyone who seem to think there’s never enough love in their world)

Priya

               

Song of the Sparrow

There  are a few ironies in life,
but no number of explanations would suffice,
to the impulsion of this heart of mine,
for it's an irony on its own, a witch's shrine.

My heart is a great witness to white crimes,
the ones you hope will get lost in the chimes of time,
and though the waning moon casts no shadow,
you speak gently of his days, the song of a sparrow

He sings of your faltering straight face,
of the reluctant hopes you encase,
of your tearful eye as you walk away,
from my smiling mirage, blocking your way. 

Says you've resorted to restrains,
with fading façades at that,
to lock me out in the pouring rain,
from your won tears of guilt in vain.

While he sings all this, so does he scream as well
Of the future memories of a living hell,
I'd abide to the dramatic show,
Where you alone know which strings set me free.

See, my hearts a simpleton,
It never knows what must be done.
Yet it sings the song of the sparrow,
The one you taught, to induce sweet sorrow.

Detachment- A trait

Some are of the opinion that any creative process, requires a certain skill for the result to be truly unique. Others deny that skill, and hold with the thought that having it ruins one's style. So what is this certain skill we speak of? Detachment. Whether or not it is a skill is a matter of perspective.

Detachment is to remain devoid of assumptions and ownership when looking at something. In our case lets consider that it means to keep your emotions away from the piece we write. Why do we say it helps? In some genres, it is well required to be unbiased and look at the content from various perspectives, like writing for the mass. Being detached helps you see beyond your own appreciation to find flaws. Maybe if 1 out of 5 articles has something different  to offer, it fetches you more readers and gives you the versatile title. It might even make you a pro. But here's the catch.

What if, your unique style is the main reason you're a good writer? What if people come to read your style and not what comes out of being detached? Then that would be a problem yes, because your signature style isn't something to be cultivated, its what defines you. Throwing it away for a few more readers is a decision we have to make before we get into the skill. Because when we start practising it too much, all you can see is the objectiveness. Like how an efficient editor can't involve himself in a movie because he's too busy counting the cuts and unveiling the effects, we lose the essence of natural emotions and can only put in what we used to feel.

So we've come back to square one, how to use the skill without loosing ourselves to it and is it necessary in the first place when you know you have a small target group? Detachment, a trait of a good writer or no?