I know you’re quite tired of reading romance novels that end up horribly. And they’re considered horribly good. Ah, I do not understand why someone has to die. I never will. Which is why, I’m here, narrating my own story. I would like to call it ‘classic’ because my own imagination resonates with my companion’s, but I hope my readers pardon me for the contemporary and not-so-classic language. C’mon now, I’m not the writer after all. I am here to tell you all exactly why I’m loyal to him, and to none of the other killer-writers. I know that you all need a break. But you may have to read between the lines if I go astray, so brace yourself, and help me switch on the best in me. And if I sound boring at some point, please forgive me and move on. That’s what I’m going to teach you. I have learnt this from my dear novelist.
I look at the characters unfolding through my pages, and I am in sync with the writer many a times. But sometimes, when I become ecstatic, he simply twists it into something I would never have imagined. He is pretty fierce-looking, but when he sits to write, he can write incessantly. But this one comes with a proviso. He, like most of his contemporaries, needs a muse, needs a story, needs fantasy and imagination to mull over. And more often than not, he cares about the ambience. A neat table with a huge pile of paper, waiting endlessly for scribbling of fountain pen; or a quiet bench by the riverside at an unearthly hour suits him perfect. He reduces paper to shreds similar to the ones noticeable when a hungry animal devours its last morsel. But I have witnessed his inner turmoil, and I feel safe to say that I’m quite proud of him, even if he does not earn a fortune on it. He seems pretty content with the fact that he is, at the end of (many) days, able to produce something better than he had initially visualised in his head. He does live in his head, you know. He takes me by surprise at times because I keep witnessing shades of him I had never seen before. But I know him too well to presumptuously allege that he’s inconsistent. No, he’s not. This ‘inconsistency’ often gives form to me. And I know that I definitely do not look shapeless. 😛 I really like him, although I get frustrated at times when he sits at home doing nothing, and then it requires an unannounced visitor to bring him out. His imaginative wheels start churning as the conversation flows, and his eyes begin to twinkle when he spots his muse. And when he delves deeper into himself and gets in touch with his emotions, he fills the voids with the most exotic colours. I get a faint feeling of swimming underneath his enchantments which he uses to invoke some lucid dreams.
He seems like a loner, but he has an array of dreams and visions inside. He creates an ensemble cast with the help of his sensitivity and creativity. He works hard on each character, and lives through each one of them. My favourite part is the one where he introduces the mysterious, enchanting lady to her would-be lover. I look at the innocent characters who are completely unaware of the turn their lives are going to take within a matter of a few pages. I rejoice at the fact that I conspire with the writer. It’s good that I’m used to the fact that I was born mute. Otherwise, the novel would never have seen the day. 😛
His characters are not larger- than- life, but they have layers and layers of emotions veiled behind their demure composure. I also like the part where he inextricably links both their fates. He makes me travel in the most beautiful carriages, and take a peek at clandestine dinners at some stolen moments of solitude. I look at the lady and I’m almost speechless. I look at the man and I start to wish I was him. Anyway, my pretty predictable wish does get fulfilled. After a lot of ‘co-incidences’ and ceaseless banter turning into soft whispers, they get so enmeshed into their emotions that they become oblivious to their own. In other words, they fall madly in love with each other. It all starts with the simplest of settings, but it gets metamorphosed into a huge canvas, which gradually gets filled with transient hues which change their shades, once in every few pages. His stories have a chameleon-like edge to them. The characters themselves play myriad roles. But the most interesting aspect of this writer is that he somehow manages to realise that a beginning has to have an end. In doing that, he somehow creates the most believable story. I say ‘somehow’ because I have always failed to even second-guess what is better known as a ‘theme’ or a ‘plot’. His story is more than just that. He makes an unfinished, fluid dream take the shape of a solid, unshakeable happy ending. After all this loyal companionship that he made me promise, I would have despised him had he chosen not to end a beautiful love story on a happy note, but I know him better than that. I know that he would never have killed anyone, even if he was a sadist at heart, because he, somewhere deep down, tries to undo the grieving past. He has the power to do it. He is in control this time, and that’s why he gives free reign to the gamut of emotions that bind the pages together before making them converge to a static point. He wants the beauty to stay for a lifetime, and more. He knows it just as well as Keats, that a thing of beauty is a joy forever..:)