Now I know why people write novels. That’s because little stories are unfolding around us practically all the times. The past few months have been quite a revelation for me. Characters, natures, dispositions somehow came to the forefront and I discovered how every being around had his/her own way of dealing with things. Of course, that is not something new. The fact about the diversity of human natures has always been known.
Probably
it’s a part of growing up. Monali – my roommate, has been my tutor in this
regard during the last year – I have to some extent learnt over this year how
one should read between lines, see beyond the surface and learn to look at the
real intentions of people around. Not all that is said in this world is true
and not all that is promised is necessarily kept. In the end, probably
simpletons can find it very tough. You have to be vigilant and diplomatic lest
you are duped. In fact, the name of this blog was inspired from that very
thought long time back – the fact that all of us are nothing but human onions
but probably for a while I found exceptions to the quote and sidelined it. But now
I am convinced.
Right
now, I feel as if I am living in the world of a novelist. Umpteen little
stories are unfolding around, not without a reason. Things I couldn’t have
dreamt about are transpiring and there are another umpteen stories which are
making sense to me now, stories that unfolded way back. Probably that’s why
people write novels. Actually what they are actually writing is nothing but an
autobiography but just wrapping and packaging it as fictionalized accounts. Those
little real stories which transpire are just tinkered a bit, bits and pieces of
fiction are then injected and then the novelist simply threads them all into
one big account in a single volume. Isn’t it strange, the novelist then signs
the novel as ‘his’ creation, whereas his creation is nothing but a replica or a
microcosm of the Real creation.
Some time
back, I stopped reading fiction because I actually felt that I had outgrown it.
It irritated me when the novel would come to an end and I would jump back into
reality suddenly. I would get the same feeling in a movie hall at the end of
three hours. The immersion into the reel world would abruptly come to an end
and leave me dejected. Every time it was like receiving a hard blow on the face
in the end – after all, all that was mere fiction – a lie.
