Adieu old man

Last night I was up till late. I was trying to make sense out of insensible things I created and then I noticed the news article at the corner of my profile. I don’t cry often but, by then, the tears had been let lose. I was crying. Gabriel Garcia Marquez had died, at the age of 87, still young in the works he wrote. The voice of a generation had gone to rest. A final abode for the person who showed us the world that was Latin America, when few others would. He succeeded too, with his novels, he made images that would capture the minds of thousands and thousands across continents. So, I would message my teacher from the States telling him how I cried at the end of “Love in the Time of Cholera” and though his perception of love is different he would know what I referred to.

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The thing about books it, there are thousands and millions ¬†of books out there that help you grow as a reader. There are very few books that would make you grow as a person. Marquez wrote those books, that forced us to look into ourselves and question, and he told stories like an angel. I remember when I was teenager, I had just suffered a painful break up. It broke me inside. For throughout life I had been told that school relationships and everything would work out, that we had only one true love, and that someone would arrive on a horse any day now, to save us, to take us home. So, when I sat crying on my bed, trying to find the reason why I didn’t deserve love, I ended up reading “Love in the Time of Cholera”.
Did it change me? Perhaps.

Mostly, it left me with more questions and thoughts than I could care to understand or answer. Yet, his poetry hit me hard, it hit me and it made me see things in a different perspective. It left me with hope and tears. Florentino, Fermina, they were closer to me than I could ever hope any character to be. They were mirrors you could stare into and something of yours would stare back. Yes, his writing was not easily read, yes, I encountered problems in following the narrative, but, in my heart I knew that i could read him easily. Because at the end of the day, the guy was a storyteller. It did not matter what story he wrote, of gunfire, or of romance, he would write it with mastery that left you agape, with wonder racing through your mind. And at the end you were left with a story that touched your life, and characters you would never forget.

I feel like I have lost a mentor in the writing world, that I have lost someone who was vital to my growth. Possibly because his stories made me grow up, they were my introduction to an adulthood of sorts and I have never really looked back.

And perhaps after years when i face gunfire, I would remember the moment I opened his book and got lost.

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Persistance

Ruby went outside and stared for a while. It was a bright day and Kolkata was waking up. She had seen most things already now. She just wished that she could walk out and not come back.

She walked out and switched on her mp3, she was beginning to recover somehow.

The beats started playing in slow motion as she boarded the taxi.

There was a new life to be had, to be seen and she was the one who had to live it.

 

A/N: I cannot write, I just can’t. Am sorry, I do not have any ideas anything. I just, I have been crying since morning and I have no sense of emotions so please spare me the “it’s too short” comments. I might be doing a Marquez post today

Omnipotent Sorrow

Ruby zoned out as the panorama passed by her with amazing velocity. If she were a dogs she would have liked to put her tongue out the window but, she could not now. So, she just looked out as the taxi, a passing yellow color on the darkened streets ran through the place. Kolkata, The city of joy seemed to be blurring away as the cab caught speed. it was a piece of old architecture along with the city itself. The new cars were everywhere, all from the airport, ferrying passengers to their respective places. She was the only one in the taxi that looked so old.
She looked at the driver for a moment and then lowered her eyes. She did not wish to talk, she just wished to go back now. She felt that she had been wrong all along, and that a small phone call might still repair their relationship. Still, she did not know how to apologise.
“We’re here ma’am .”
The driver’s voice roused her from her stupor and she hurried outside. The people helped her with her luggage and there she was. A nice hotel at the heart of an old city with thoughts of a person she had left behind by miles and miles. She wished that she could cry more.
She ;looked out of the window and saw the first semblance of morning light. The various people started working in the street. The hawkers set up their shop and the cars whirred away lost in their own thoughts. They did not care that a woman was sad in the hotel.
The hotel boy gave her some provisions and then again she was alone.
“Ma’am if you need anything, please give me a call.” The 20 something boy had told her
Well she did need someone but, she was unavailable in here. He was so far away. Why did sorrow hit her when she thought that she had gotten over it? She did not know.
She started planning out her holiday. They had included so many things in her package and she could go to all these places. She watched the swirling lines and words she had written on notebooks, it made her feel safer. She had a plan this time, and nothing could go wrong.
Except.
She started crying again, the thoughts were plaguing her mind at the time. She could not escape them no matter how hard she tried. it was like everyone had come together to hurt her. And they would do so too, no matter how hard she tried to redeem herself. it was all in the plan she did not understand. She wished that she could mourn.
The cacophony on the street continued. Some lady across the street shouted curses at her husband as Ruby buried her face in the pillows. This was not an escape. it was just another more elaborately designed cage made to cause her sorrow. To remind her that she had left behind one of the few people who ever loved her true.