Hi there,

If you have got here to read something that makes sense, I can assure you that this post is incomplete,incomprehensible,boring,lengthy and runs with no script whatsoever. I guess thats what makes it a good reading. It also happens to be my 50th post; which frightens me at times for I wonder as to when did I start thinking verbally ?

About verbal thinking and visual thinking ( It took me around 10 seconds to get the word “visual” as the only response my mind gave me were random images !) well, that needs a little more thought for it to be penned  down, but that may happen shortly. for now –

This story is purely fictional and bears no resemblance to anything/anyone alive or dead.

It was a perfect morning. The decision to go to shamadurga was well thought and what better a day than a Sunday, considering Monday was gona be a holiday. But this Sunday was different. There was a celebration that had been planned and not attending was frowned upon by the others.

Knowing very well how the others thought of Siddhartha, he decided to go for this camping trip. What better way to celebrate than going out and enjoying the wealth of nature. At least it’s better than throwing acid on each other, posing with disfigured faces for pictures and finally posting them on facebook to personify perhaps the most misused word ever, Fun.

Siddhartha knew there was something different about the way he thought of and looked at things. He did live in the moment and dint care much about what was to happen or what had happened. Although telling stories of his past amused people, Siddhartha wondered as to how none of the others had a similar childhood. It wasn’t pried that he saw in this but a certain level of surprise. At many occasions Siddhartha was ridiculed, his ideas rejected his comments unattended but none of this ever bothered him. Maybe it did a little, enough for it to make it here, but somewhere deep down him he knew he was doing the right thing. The only grounding he had for this were the principles that were instilled in him, most of the times by force, at a young age.

He had sentiments. He was emotional but knew how to control them to a certain extent. When uncontrolled he saw himself doing somebody’s work in their absence. His ideas about relationships and about love, at least he believed so, were radical and sometimes awful. And who could blame him. He being the right brained lefthander couldn’t understand how to people decided that they could live together for the rest of their lives. Life. That was another of Siddhartha concerns. He dint understand it quiet well and wondered if he ever would. Every time he found something that hinted at answering this, he realised it was not the ultimate. Siddhartha also had a knack of explaining things at lengths sometimes drifting away from the original intended idea and somehow getting back having sketched a couple of tangents.

What happened at shravanadurga is not the plot of this story. What happened on his return from this sacred place where nature had still managed to keep itself untouched is more interesting. The others as he called them were waiting at the café entrance with an agenda. We must boycott Siddhartha.

Looking at disfigured faces with colours that resembled a Persian pot, sidharth couldn’t help but think of the foolishness the others had stabbed themselves with. For some reason these faces looked a little more disfigured on this very day. Maybe it was because of the absence of a smile that was persistent on all their faces. If the whole idea of throwing acid on each other was to have fun, why it is that no one is smiling, Siddhartha thought. Little did he know that there was a plot that that been set up, a judgment to be given, and a nib to be broken.

“We need to talk to you”, said one of the girls whose face had a large green mark resembling the silhouette of someone’s palm. This form of celebration is nothing but a license to flirt Siddhartha thought. Siddhartha asked her what it was about to which the girl put her head down made a quiet gesture to the crowd waiting for someone or the crowd to unanimously say something. Finally after a while one of the boys in the crowd shouted out loud. “It’s about you Siddhartha, you are the problem.”

Siddhartha was excited beyond measures. This would perhaps be the first time he was the subject of discussion. Somehow he thought this discussion would help him understand himself better. He walked down with the group to the café and noticed something that made him a little upset. The crowd got smaller and smaller as they walked to the café. More the people, more the thoughts, more answers is what Siddhartha thought.

The crowd finally reached the café and announced to Siddhartha that his behavior had changed and that he had suddenly become a little annoying. Very annoying one of the girls in the group whose face now looked even redder almost creating a color pallet between red and cream. Siddhartha wondered what it was about him that the others found him annoying. What could it be? Was it his questioning nature? Was it his way of stating facts that may have seemed a little impolite? He questioned to the crowd as to what was the reason they believed he was annoying.

More to come.


4 Responses to Uncategorized

  1. Gunjan says:

    ‘The only grounding he had for this were the principles that were instilled in him, most of the times by force, at a young age.’

    I was talking about this to the person/s who instilled them in Siddhartha as they were worried about Siddhartha turning over a new leaf and changed.
    If you haven’t read Fountainhead, please read. And just remember, they probably burnt the man who invented fire in the same hearth/stakes..
    Siddhartha should follow what he has always..

  2. nij says:

    the most misused word ever, “Fun”

  3. notnarayanshankar says:

    For all the questions I was asked,some dint make it to this blog cause some thought that all that written in this post was “something” I am going through as you read this.

    Let me assure,confirm and reassure that there is no such “thing” going on. This is purely a work of fiction. I let my mind wander.This is perhaps my first attempt at writing fiction. Maybe fiction is a heavier word to use !

  4. gunjan says:

    the first work of fiction reflects the writer..somehow.. you may not want it.. you may very particularly write something different, but subconsciously things seep in which turn you in!

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