This is a short story I wrote for a creative writing competition in my hostel and was awarded first place for. The topic was the story should end with the sentence "Shit!". Incidentally, first time writing fiction. Total bomb!
It's hard being a doctor in a small town in an obscure county. Specifically when half the town was hit with a strange epidemic of diarrhea. Asking people about their ways and times of disembowelment was not my idea of glamour when I entered Pre-Med at Oregon. Listening to old ladies offer me their opinion as to why their shit was coming out too fast, however, was something entirely different. At least the former didn't make my stomach want to churn itself out. How I ended up here is a mystery; one I always end up trying to figure out over these lonely lunches in my depressing, square office.
I'm an unmarried, middle aged, slightly balding guy, who's had more than his fair share of girlfriends, hookers and porn. But strangely it wasn't the fascination for the naked female that led me from being a top rated M.D aspirant to a small town doctor on an average pay. It was the clothed female; an eight year old one, to be specific.
I saw Angela on one of my hospital tours, my first to be exact. One look and I knew she was the most delicate thing I'd ever seen. Her soft, curly, brown hair fell all around her face and was being tucked behind her ear by a weeping lady I suspected to be her mom. I was instinctively drawn to the child.
"She has leukemia.", her mother said
"How bad is it?"
"The doctors are giving her two days to a week", she said with a sniff.
"it's an irony" she went on, "Angela always talked about becoming a doctor and setting up her own clinic and t-t-to think she'd end up dying in one..", her voice trailed off and pretty soon, she was in hysterics. I, out of practice, signalled a nurse to take care of the woman.
Turning to Angela, I could almost see her dreams in her closed eyes. I patted her on the head and brushed her hair aside, and vaguely thought about life and death the way it'd have been thought about in the movies. Mine was more abstract though. I wasn't able to put it into words the way they do in the movies.
As if on cue, her eyes opened, big, brown, and hopeful. And suddenly I felt the loss of my sister hit me back with a vengeance. Probably because I'd lost her the same way too, to that stranger called leukemia.
Tears stung my eyes.
She was trying to say something. I could hear her struggle to breathe. Slowly,
"...c-c-clinic...Angela's clinic.." she managed to say before those round eyes closed, hiding me from her.
Something about the serene look on her sleeping face kept me there.
Around ten minutes later, she opened her eyes again. They were almost pleading this time.
"you'll..you'll do it f-f-for me won't you..?" She asked me. I fingered through her hair and I think she saw me nod before she drifted off once more. She drifted away.
Before I had time to think through how I got from there to my clinic, "Healing Angels", my phone rang; insistently at that, snapping me out of my reverie. And instinctively, as I remembered the reality of my diarrhea-hit town, I knew what the call would be about. "Shit!"
Writing about India
This is an excerpt from the article "How to write about Africa" By Binyvanga Wainaina. Amazing article. Sarcastic and angry way of telling people the African stereotypes that are repeatedly used by European author till date."
How to Write about
How to Write about Africa
Always use the word '
Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.
In your text, treat
Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care....... "
And it goes on.
As we laugh about the style of writing and as such, have you ever thought how this very article would be if written about India?
Always include animals roaming on the road and having perfect right of way. Make sure you give disgusting imagery of people defecating on the road, be it men, women or children. India is known for its population so always bring in images of streets filled with people to an insane level where no one can move. Wrinkled faces and bony hands, poor, naked children and roads lined with huts made of straw should always be present in the book. Snake charmers must always be mentioned at least once. Never play upon the fact that India had many scientists and an army among the top five largest. Always mention the inter caste clashes that happen with such absurdity. At least two sentences must be written about beggars troubling rich men, mothers insistent on marrying off their daughters into rich families. And of course make repeated mentions of the "glaring sunshine" "sweltering heat" etc. And remember, there should always be an inherent love story of a forbidden love......
Would that be it?
The difference is, when Wainaina wrote his piece, he was talking about false claims. I was not. 0_0
It was him.
Love like his I’d never had
Love it is I still know not
But Love it shall be for now
For it can be but only Love
Stood against me when weak
“Be stronger” he said
And stronger he made me
And set this Soul free
Stood by me when in need,
A comfort and counselor
When the world was up against
When my world was up against
His hands two my great aid
One hand holding mine
The other my shield; in all adversity
Never to yield
Guide me, he would
Many a time at that
Through anger; through sorrow
From the day till the morrow
You’re too angry, he’d say
You’re too moody, said he
You’re too volatile said he again
And there, that, that would pain
For though the words true
Would cut and bleed
For in the end, t’was true this
For in the end, the words were his
Nurturing a belief within his heart
Nursing a fear all the whilst
Scared for me? Scared of me
I’ll never know, neither history
Many a time his blood I tasted
Many a time he did mine
Though a regret naught I have
T’was that blood gave me the strength I have
Ever to impress; in no way disappoint
I strive along the way
Hoping not lose on the line
And yet end up losing that which is mine
To better him, my sole aim
To better me, his
And strive did we to better
End up losing one another
There learnt a lesson did I
We must not compare; him and I
After all, he is he
After all, I am me
Today we stand, apart and together
Today we stand bested by each other
I hate his love as he does mine
Yet I miss that love I hate, know he’s crying
Random scribbles
"The more one says about oneself to the world at large, the less likely it is that any of it is true.
What your Orkut profile says about you is merely who/what you want to be, and not really who you are."
So said my esteemed friend's Orkut "about me".
And esteemed he was for this boggled my mind.
Is everything we do and say pretentious? Is nothing what is really there? Am I who I think I am? Or am I something different? Is what I'm writing my actual thoughts? Or am I writing something I want you to think I'm thinking? Do I introspect? Or do I WANT to introspect? Which me is real? Is there a real me or a real you? Is anything real?
Then it popped.
What is real? Is what we see real? I didn't think so. If you were walking in the dark and saw a rope and mistook it as a snake, what is real? The snake or the rope? The rope? But for the one second that you thought it was a snake, wasn't the snake real? So what differentiates that which is real? What makes the rope real and not the snake? Is it that, later, everyone told you it was a rope, hence the rope? Then if today everyone told you you were God, is your being God real?
Or is it the constancy of the rope being a rope and the snake having been real for a very little time? Is it lifespan that defines reality? In that case isn't everything unreal?
back to the first question. Am I really what I think I am? Or am I something I want to think I am? Does anyone know who anyone is?
But again we think what is real and what is unreal?
No one really knows.
What your Orkut profile says about you is merely who/what you want to be, and not really who you are."
So said my esteemed friend's Orkut "about me".
And esteemed he was for this boggled my mind.
Is everything we do and say pretentious? Is nothing what is really there? Am I who I think I am? Or am I something different? Is what I'm writing my actual thoughts? Or am I writing something I want you to think I'm thinking? Do I introspect? Or do I WANT to introspect? Which me is real? Is there a real me or a real you? Is anything real?
Then it popped.
What is real? Is what we see real? I didn't think so. If you were walking in the dark and saw a rope and mistook it as a snake, what is real? The snake or the rope? The rope? But for the one second that you thought it was a snake, wasn't the snake real? So what differentiates that which is real? What makes the rope real and not the snake? Is it that, later, everyone told you it was a rope, hence the rope? Then if today everyone told you you were God, is your being God real?
Or is it the constancy of the rope being a rope and the snake having been real for a very little time? Is it lifespan that defines reality? In that case isn't everything unreal?
back to the first question. Am I really what I think I am? Or am I something I want to think I am? Does anyone know who anyone is?
But again we think what is real and what is unreal?
No one really knows.
A girl's day out
Out she came from behind
The cloak of darkness dropped
Emerging into the world
Her Sun kissed her morning
And felt her soft cheeks
The sky looking upon
The trees bow low, their flowers fall
Quick to reach the ground below
Lest her feet tread upon earth
The breeze, to her it rushes
Embracing her within itself
Caressing her hair and comfort
And as night descends upon her world,
The moon gently smiles,
Breeze unwilling to let go
She looks at the sky, the stars
Give her the twinkle in her eyes
Before they close and hide her
Again, forever.
The cloak of darkness dropped
Emerging into the world
Her Sun kissed her morning
And felt her soft cheeks
The sky looking upon
The trees bow low, their flowers fall
Quick to reach the ground below
Lest her feet tread upon earth
The breeze, to her it rushes
Embracing her within itself
Caressing her hair and comfort
And as night descends upon her world,
The moon gently smiles,
Breeze unwilling to let go
She looks at the sky, the stars
Give her the twinkle in her eyes
Before they close and hide her
Again, forever.
Lost
I was on a road, on a journey
The world my companion
A lost couple, a decided few
The rest in blinding oblivion
Among the lost I was, and haunted
I felt, knowing there was a place
There are ways, paths plethora
Not knowing which, to that place, takes.
To the past I was chained,
To the Future, addicted
To the Present but blinded
And in confusion I had drowned
Lost I was, no doubt
Lost I had been, no wonder
For at a point of paths three
My instinct did but stutter
The path first seen was
That well trodden, well defined
Respected was he who travelled
Upon it, that place you reached
Second the path was wide
Less trodden upon it had been
Respect it commanded, though
A survivor yet to be seen
For this path though wide,
Was an infant in age, with none
That had traversed upon it could
Claim of having seen the sun
Whether the traveler would
Fall into that pit of looming darkness or
Reach that place of light and joy
Was beyond our knowingness
And yet travelers it had, a select few
For knowledge was necessary
To guide those curious, chiefly for respect
Some for pleasure, some for reasons arbitrary
And then there lay that path other
That which capture my heart and mind
That lay unworn by foot steps
For respect was not its kind
Overgrown it was, weeds of ignorance
Lay strewn, underneath lay the way
The few who took effort, broke their backs
Uncovered that path, feebly seen to the light of day
That the path that lead you to conquer
Self and other, mind and manner
That the path that enticed my curiosity
Challenged my mind and captured my wonder
At that crossroad did I stand
Looking at those pathways three
Looking behind at the people dazed
Looking again at my choices free
Hands that led me till here point down
To that road new, that road infantile
For they found comfort in my walking
On that road at least a mile
My fingers urged my feet down
That path overgrown, mysterious and alluring
Brave I was to think it a choice, they said
For apparently that wasn’t my calling
Amidst this confusion was a hand another
Knew not to guide me but comfort
A silent promise it bore, either way take you
Holding you I’m there, t’ was curt
That the hand was there made
No difference to my strife
But that the hand was there made
All that difference in my life
Too long I stood at those crossroads three
‘Cos down was I pushed that path new
Respect, said the pushing hands
I was pushed, ‘tis true.
Now I find a way strange, so different
From the rest, alienated felt I
Swallowed by loneliness but deserted by tears
The hand that remained saying, don’t cry.
The world my companion
A lost couple, a decided few
The rest in blinding oblivion
Among the lost I was, and haunted
I felt, knowing there was a place
There are ways, paths plethora
Not knowing which, to that place, takes.
To the past I was chained,
To the Future, addicted
To the Present but blinded
And in confusion I had drowned
Lost I was, no doubt
Lost I had been, no wonder
For at a point of paths three
My instinct did but stutter
The path first seen was
That well trodden, well defined
Respected was he who travelled
Upon it, that place you reached
Second the path was wide
Less trodden upon it had been
Respect it commanded, though
A survivor yet to be seen
For this path though wide,
Was an infant in age, with none
That had traversed upon it could
Claim of having seen the sun
Whether the traveler would
Fall into that pit of looming darkness or
Reach that place of light and joy
Was beyond our knowingness
And yet travelers it had, a select few
For knowledge was necessary
To guide those curious, chiefly for respect
Some for pleasure, some for reasons arbitrary
And then there lay that path other
That which capture my heart and mind
That lay unworn by foot steps
For respect was not its kind
Overgrown it was, weeds of ignorance
Lay strewn, underneath lay the way
The few who took effort, broke their backs
Uncovered that path, feebly seen to the light of day
That the path that lead you to conquer
Self and other, mind and manner
That the path that enticed my curiosity
Challenged my mind and captured my wonder
At that crossroad did I stand
Looking at those pathways three
Looking behind at the people dazed
Looking again at my choices free
Hands that led me till here point down
To that road new, that road infantile
For they found comfort in my walking
On that road at least a mile
My fingers urged my feet down
That path overgrown, mysterious and alluring
Brave I was to think it a choice, they said
For apparently that wasn’t my calling
Amidst this confusion was a hand another
Knew not to guide me but comfort
A silent promise it bore, either way take you
Holding you I’m there, t’ was curt
That the hand was there made
No difference to my strife
But that the hand was there made
All that difference in my life
Too long I stood at those crossroads three
‘Cos down was I pushed that path new
Respect, said the pushing hands
I was pushed, ‘tis true.
Now I find a way strange, so different
From the rest, alienated felt I
Swallowed by loneliness but deserted by tears
The hand that remained saying, don’t cry.
She was there..
I saw her eyes, confused she was
A multitude of feelings played within them
Conviction over powering, or was it passion?
Inferiority passed by, with Doubt
His missus, while strangling all the way
Confidence, his nemesis.
And yet far away, happiness shone,
On a passing thought or a lasting feeling
Is something that remains unknown.
Her lips parted and I saw a waver
Giving way to Breath and
Breath alone, words failed her
A moment this and a moment after,
Her heart strengthened, her cheeks widened
Eyes gleaming, I saw a smile appear
Just when the hope would fade away,
Before the smile could pass, I closed my eyes
And from the mirror, looked away.
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