The applause.

" The vision of a champion is someone who is bent over, drenched in sweat, and at the point of exhaustion, when no one else is watching."

It was a strange feeling as she stood there; a vast expanse of people stretched out ahead of her. They all stood. She stood glancing back. A million things ran through her head. Her vision blurred, her throat swelled. Yet she was smiling through it all. Smiling till her cheeks hurt, smiling till the tears started rolling down.

A small part of her brain told her she was grapsing the podium till her knuckles turned white. A small part of her told her she was afraid she might fall. Her legs had suddenly lost all their strength: All the strength that she had wound into a tight ball and buried deep inside. It had been the only thing she had clung to all these years…the only thing that helped her hold on just one minute longer. Today it uncoiled…spiraling out of control…it dissolved into a well of emotions…a bone deep ache of all that life had put her through. She’d opened her arms, taken it all and smiled. Today it gave way. Her walls had shattered. She desperately clung to the podium for support. Her vision blurring again and again as the tears welled up and streamed down in a rhythm.

She smiled distortedly at the deafening claps around her. They cracked on to her ears, whistling and sparkling through the air. She let it hurt her ears…the amazing decibel of it…she let it sink in.

It was just like the way she’s seen it in movies. The hero receiving the standing ovation. She’d dreamt of it. She’d dreamt of the glory of that minute. She’d imagined those claps countless number of times…piercing every space…enveloping everything.

Yet she hadn’t imagined the pain. It convulsed out of her. All those crumpled up years of hard ships raked their way out…seeking their escape. That tightly wound ball uncoiled and snapped. They reached out to those resounding claps of appreciation for the destiny she had worked so hard to fulfill.

It racked her very soul as she stood there, drenched in her own sobs. The microphone pierced them out in a higher pitch. She sobbed into it. It echoed her heart out. She’d never bothered to let it out before. They had hummed and complained…suffocated within her. Her sobs had been fighting too long. And she had fought back harder. She’d won usually…but not today. They came out in gasps of agony. It shook her, exhausted the very life out of her as they drained out.

The success didn’t matter. It did not count why they applauded her. What mattered was how she stood there and saw them do it.  Saw them acknowledge her story. Today they saw her raw and naked…crying like a child. It did not embarrass her and it seemed to go on forever. She could not stop it…rather she could not care. She let go and let herself drown in it. The glory of that minute pulsed through her.

She just closed her eyes, smiled a full, fervent smile and wept.   

                                                                                                                 --Angel.

The armour

A small piece I wrote, sitting in the wee hours of the morning...trying my best to sleep. Spurts of writing are the best, I tell you. They clear the haze in your head. Gives us the breathing space, we so desperately seek.

"Someone had once told her…she had a beautiful smile; an aura that lit up an entire room. It drew people to her.  It drew them to the life pulsating inside her. They told her that her happiness wasn’t frivolous however. It came from within. It was bone deep:  A separate living breathing entity of its own. A second soul, very much an individual as it was intrinsic.

They said the happiness awoke something inside them. It was the bizarre origin of its genuine character perhaps that lead to the effect it had on others. It was supposed to have come from extremes of sadness. A strong characteristic strength of survival gave it all the more personality. It was beautiful, her happiness. It radiated with the will to shine, despite life. Life, being what it really is: a tough road to walk on.

Her happiness liberated them. It freed them of their own fears. It helped them believe they could radiate the same way too. She gave them hope and faith by being a living, breathing example, which God had never really been. She, however, was one of them. She was believable. Keeping their faith in her was a better bargain any day. Such responsibility. Such trust.

She wondered at how badly all of us want to believe that we will conquer something in life someday, that we will die happy people, without regrets…without pain and sadness. However, the truth wasn’t pretty, truth being what it is: bitterly honest.

She wondered at the power of denial, the resilience we humans possessed and she smiled. There, standing in the face of pain and suffering she realised she had her armour and her shield. The only thing that was most valuable to her. She never really understood the gravity of it until now; how lucky she was to have her smile. How completely armed she was."

The Critic

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt

That thing you do.

"I have wasted thousands of kisses on you... kisses that I thought were special because of your lips and your smile and all your color and life. I used to think that was the real you, when you smiled. But now I know you didn't mean any of it. You just save it all for your songs. Shame on me for kissing you with my eyes closed so tight."

Faye, That Thing You Do.

Being unwell.

"I don't know how i do it. how easy it is to hide emotions when you're standing in a room full of people. How easy it is to stare at the computer screen ...reliving a time gone by. I don't know how it is possible to hurt so much...without letting the world know. Without them catching a glimpse of what you're feeling inside. How do i do it? why do i not scream? why do i not hit walls? why do i not bleed profusely...openly. hoarsely.

I want them to know. i want them to hurt like i do. i want the world to punish themselves for not knowing. for being so ignorant. for being so vile. for doing this to me.

why do i have to be so bottled up? why do i have to hold on to this grudge? why do i let it slice my insides? why do i wish horrible things to happen? why m i so angry?

This is what you call being diseased. the disease is all here...in the heart."

All about Potty

It was 2001 when I first heard about the boy wizard "Harry Potter". Also, it was precisely two years before when I rolled my eyes as the 'nerd' of my class walked out the library with this impossibly fat book in his arms...

It read "Harry Potter and the Goblet Of Fire."

However, it was precisely three years into the future in 2002, when I walked out the state library with a fat book bulging in MY arms and a big gloating smile pasted on my face. Guess what it read?

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire....ladies and gentlemen! I was hooked.

Nailed. Floored.

You might wonder why I talk about it 10 years down the line, when Harry Potter has stormed the world in full fury and gotten over with it? Now...at a time when Stephenie Meyer's Robert Pattinson is charming the world with his fangs? When voldemort and the 'boy who lived' is so passe?

Well, I'm 20 years old now, its been a long time since I wrote full fledged 25 chapter fan fictions for this Harry 'Potty', wrote numerous fan mails to J K Rowling that I never sent, stuffed my computer's RAM with folder after folder of information and pictures of Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and the others. I should say that I've grown over it. I should say that it was a childhood fling with Rowling's work. But I won't.

I still get looks from my peers when I admit to people I love the novels. Still. The smug faces that look at me when I tell them its still one of the best works I've read...are priceless!

"My god....grow up! It seems you haven't read enough then!"


I'd say I haven't. I've no shame in admitting that. And who wants to grow up any way? As if a dark novel about terrorism and in your face reality is going to end up teaching me a thing or two about life any more than  the boy who flies on broomsticks and saves the day?

However, what I refuse to believe is when people say Harry Potter is a children's novel. I do admit, it started out with just that intention, but by the fourth book, i might rethink my evaluation. I still think Rowling's work is poorly perceived by half the world as a children's book about wizards. Why is it that fantasy can never be taken seriously, as much an idealistic novel like the fountainhead?

If JK Rowling isn't being practical, so isn't Ayn Rand. No offence to the author, I'm a huge fan of her work.
But that is besides the point.  

Arundhati Roy won the booker prize for her exceptional novel "The God of Small Things." It is all about love. Believe me when I say, so is Harry Potter. He isn't superhuman, has mediocre magical abilities, is a love starved humble boy who one day stumbles upon the huge responsibility of being 'The Chosen one'. The ones who havent read it, might assume the ending to be exceptionally extravagant like Neo in the Matrix, as he suddenly realises he is 'THE' one and begins to see his enemies as minute inconveniences and erases them like rubble.

Yet the most charming aspect of the novel is that Harry Potter is never central to the elimination of his enemy, Lord Voldemort. He is a part of a bigger wider web of complications. He is never the sole person responsible for killing Voldemort, he is only there to put it all together. The ending is not about a far fetched magical fight with lots of flashy effects, but a simple conclusion that some people can never understand what the world is really about. It is that simple mistake that Lord Voldemort makes that leads to his death. Ofcourse there is magic involved but when you read the books, it is surprising how secondary that is to the whole story.

The beautiful part is that in the end you don't want to be a wizard as much as you want friends like Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Its not the fantasy but his courage that you end up wanting. You don't awe him for his super powers, trust me he's not superman, but for his humility.

You love and hate him for how real he is. You laugh with him and you cry with him, and he becomes a lot more than just a fantasy novel protagonist. Intriguing, irritating, confused and extremely lucky. Thats what he is. Thats what I love him for. He is by far the most ingeniously written character sketch I have ever come across in a novel.

I still feel the movies have never lived up to the books and never will be able to. They are a supreme injustice to her work. But they have worked wonders for the book's popularity. I, of all the people cant blame them, for it was only after my elder brother brought in a CD, precisely 10 years ago in 2001, for me to watch.

Guess what it read? *smirks*