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Pearls of thoughts, stringed by words, to create stories, poems, monologues and, sometimes, just ramblings!
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
October 8, 2016
March 5, 2016
Writefully Yours
 |
| Like the Sunrise, some things are bound to happen! Pic Courtesy - But.The.Words.Prevailed |
We are changing.
Nah...
We are transitioning !
After more than 6 years with 'Me and My Dark Side' , I have decided to move on.
The blog will now be called 'Writefully Yours'.
You can connect with us on Twitter, Facebook, Google Plus, Prose, Facebook and Instagram.
The links can be found at the end of this post also.
Why?
Quite simply, it is the time to evolve, or at least, try to! One's work shall be a reflection of the evolution of self, the society and its sensibilities. From a while now, I had been feeling, that the brand of Dark Side and the body of my previous works, were limiting the topics and genres I could cover. Joining Twitter was somewhat liberating, as I could express myself with more freedom (while getting into occasional squabbles), but the old school writer in me couldn't be satisfied in just 140 characters!
Why is re-branding important?
As I said, I am Old School. I strongly believe that a blog shall remain true to its soul. While that might limit the spectrum of content on it, it stays true to it's reader base. I have always felt that I am being dishonest to my reader if, just for the lure of "hits", I cater them sub-par content or cover genres that aren't my natural calling.
Natural Calling
The concept of what is one's natural calling, is the essence of the evolution of a writer. It's time for me to be more inclusive. I might succeed or might turn into a spectacular failure, but after 7 years of dedicated writing, I owe myself this chance.
This sort of transition is not the first for me. I transitioned, rather successfully, from Politically Incorrect, in 2010. At that time, however, I started a new blog altogether. But this time, it's the re-branding of the same blog.
What to expect...
- Wider range of topics
- More collaboration
- At least for this year, some Politically Incorrect, posts again
- Call for Guest Bloggers
- Campaigns
What not to expect
- Sponsored posts
- Advertisements
- Posts on senseless prompts and contests
'Me and My Dark Side' gave me the recognition, reader base and a great network of kind and superb bloggers. We support and encourage each other across the barriers of age, gender, outlook, genres and language, just for the sheer love of Writing. In the past year or so, I have been lucky and proud to be associated with one such group on twitter,@blogchatter. The mercurial rise of the group and their tenacity to help fellow bloggers is unparalleled and I wish to continue my association with them.
Connections like these, I would always owe that to my blog. It might sound funny to a non-blogger, how I talk to and about my blog, as if she is a real being, but I know, you, being a fellow blogger get that :) .
Let the love of writing prevail ! Amen!
Writefully Yours,
Prateek Mathur
Connect. Read. Share. Comment.
Twitter - @prateekmathur03
Facebook - Writers' Block
Instagram - WritefullyYours
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Google Plus - +prateekmathur
January 7, 2016
Flowers
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Mallik Ghat Flower Bazaar, Kolkata Pic Courtesy : http://www.pikturenama.com |
Why are you here? What
do you do, again?
I am a documentary film
maker.
Docu.., what ?
Docu-men-tary. I make
films.
Like Karan Johar?
A little different. But
yes, kind of the same thing.
But we never see you on
TV or theater? Why are you here?
I want to make a docu...umm..film..on
the flower market.
Did you see Chennai
Express? Shahrukh Bhai is amazing! Do you know him?
......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
He looked back to get his answer
but turned back midway. That was an abrupt end to the curiosity and questions
of my rickshaw driver. I am sure he was convinced that a man dressed like me,
who has never even been on TV, despite being a filmmaker, cannot possibly know
the King of Bollywood. I am confident I saw a smirk on his face when he dropped
me at Asia's largest wholesale flower market.
Mallik Ghat Flower Bazaar,
Kolkata.
To call something chaotic in Kolkata would be
redundant. But it still has a strange
serenity in it. I have struggled to find such harmonized disorder in the
Mumbais and Delhis of the world. "Order" is an incomplete and mortal story. The entropy of the Universe
would catch up with it eventually. "Disorder", on the other hand, is self
sustaining and ever propagating. It is the closest "absolute" entity
that Nature offers. It engulfs stillness of every moment on its way of becoming
the sole force of the Universe. I hunt for stories in such pandemonium. People
who become accustomed to finding peace in chaos present the most dogged and
honest face of humanity.
It is in this quest that I travel
and explore stories in the busiest, noisiest and, seemingly, unlikeliest of the
places.
And so, instead of making a documentary
about the Howrah Bridge, I came here.
One understands the true
difference between "reachable" and "approachable" in India,
only while trying to create something. Thanks to the over advertised advancement that we have made as a nation, we can
reach to almost every corner of the country. But try making a neighborhood
within your approach to accomplish something, and it's a different story
altogether. So, first order of business was to find my "handler".
But I was awestruck by Mallik
Bazaar. The beauty in this dingy Bazaar was astounding. It was not the obvious
kind of beauty that one notices instantly but the one that grows on you and stays
forever. It was not the high school crush who tickles sensations for a bit, but
the peace of a woman one desires to wake upto for life. The roads were laden
with flowers of every kind. The canvas of Mallik Bazaar was painted in bright
orange by tens of thousands of Marigolds . Roses, Jasmines and Lilies appeared
sporadically like colorful birds in the morning sky. I began to immerse myself
in the tranquility of colors amidst the haphazardness.
Suddenly, a tempo whizzed past me, hurling abuses at me in
chaste Bengali, while I stood frozen in the middle of the road. I realized that
I was in the thick of the action and the director in me was switched on with
that jolt. I started looking for Pushpak, a young Bollywood aspirant, and my
handler, who was to meet me in the Bazaar Eventually, he found me and started
to show me around while I managed my handheld and the stories started
unfolding.
We met Ikhlaq, who claimed to make sales of over ₹10000
in a day but complained about the lack of hygiene in the area. He seemed
worried that he would catch Malaria and wanted to switch businesses. But
another businessman, known by the moniker "Marwari", seemed hopeful. He was happy with the way the
Bazaar operated and wanted to have a retail shop in the main city as well. A
few inquired about the new trend of people ordering flowers on
"computer" and rued losing business to the fake educated types!
After about an hour of recording
and interviews we proceeded towards the largest shop of the Bazaar, owned by a
certain Seth. He had already been
notified by Pushpak and was expecting us. He greeted us with refreshing sharbat with rose petals in it. Seth had been in the business for over
35 years and claimed to be one of the biggest business owners of the city.
He talked at length about
Horticulture. "Not every bud blossoms into a flower. One must have the eye to spot which [one] would, and that simple trick differentiates
me form the rest of them", he bragged. When I asked him how he managed
the supply chain of a fresh product I saw his eyes sparkle. He must be proud of
his business skills, I thought. He proudly told us how articulate he has to be
supplying to nearly all the temples and
mosques in the city. Marigolds to the temples and Lilies to the mosque. No mix up there!
He shouted something in Bengali
and before I could ask Pushpak to translate, 4 children came running out from
the back of his shop. They were all 10-12 years old boys with flimsy clothes
covering them. They were sweating profusely and one look at their hands made it
clear that they must have been weaving garlands. I looked behind them and
realized they had come up from a basement behind the shop. He proudly pointed
at them and said this was his business model. The kids collected the flowers from
the farms in the morning and brought them to the Bazaar. They sorted them, made
piles of them according to the orders. If a special order for garlands or
wreaths or weddings came along, they would make them. Then they carried the
piles back to a middleman who distributed them further. Pushpak told me that
would be around a 50 km trip for the kids per day. Since every corner of the
city was in reach, it looked easy to
the businessman. He paid them ₹30 per day.
I tried talking to the kids, via
Pushpak, but they looked tired, scared and in a hurry. I turned to Seth and asked why doesn't he eliminate
the middleman and maximizes his profits. Seth looked at me in astonishment and
then looked at Pushpak as if telling him how could I even ask that question.
"These children aren't allowed to enter the temples". Seth answered.
"What about mosques? They can deliver there and save you some
money, right?"
"Saab, these kids are not allowed anywhere."
He said that with no remorse. I
looked at the children who had been standing quietly all this while. Something
in me told me that they understood the conversation between Seth and I. They smiled at me and went
back down.
Harmonized Disorder.
On the way back, I had a last
look at Mallik Bazaar. Seth was right, not every bud blossoms into a
flower. The corners of the flower laden roads were littered with unnoticed
squashed buds.
#FotoFriday prompt posts will be put up on the first Friday of every month by team members of #BlogbuddyWritehouse
This week's #FotoFriday1 fabulous photo-prompt
Image credit goes to my super-talented #blogbuddy Anindya Basu
Team #Blogbuddy Writehouse:
November 22, 2015
Signs
Filtered through her dark and beautiful eye lashes, he looked
anxious but at peace. Having just poured his heart out, he looked like a man
with nothing to lose.
A moment ago, he had just labored his way, through shattering
teeth, snapping fingers and quivering lips, to say the three most beautiful yet
potentially lethal words in the English language.
Her lips parted for a brief second, as if to respond, but
she shut them tight.
She raised her baby finger gently,
followed by the synced pointing by her index finger and the thumb.
Then she paused. So did his breath. The Earth too didn't move in
solidarity.
Counting her toes, she slowly
harmonized the movement of her thumb and the baby finger and smiled ear to ear!
Their love never needed words. Their lives would never be the
hostage of communication.
Original Images - www.lifeprint.com
October 16, 2015
New York, New York
 |
| www.prateek-mathur.com |
He closed his eyes, took a deep
breath in and exhaled till he felt his lungs devoid of any air. He did this three
times. He then opened his eyes and stared blankly for a moment only to shut
them again. This time, however, he did it so slow that he felt his upper eyelid
gently caressing his lower eyelid and the eyelashes resting on them. In his
mind he had finally perfected a real life slow motion that this moment
deserved.
He felt calmer and a beaming smile adorned his face. Upon reopening,
his eyes were ready for a mesmerizing view.
That view. Oh, that view.
The sight from his penthouse on
the 57th floor was exquisite. It trumped the lavish indoors that had a private
elevator, French doors, antique furniture, and
oversized, sun flooded rooms. But this was all about the view. That the
view was of Central Park made it even better. The fact that he owned
a $5,000,000 house in one of the most beautiful, stately and cultured
neighborhood in the world capital of these virtues, made him feel like a King.
The Park was bustling with people,
as usual. Those people seemed even "tinnier" from up here. He was one
of them for a long time. Not anymore.
Not
anymore.
This time he looked up in the sky
and burst into laughter. Loud, cacophonous laughter.
Lost in his world, he knew he had
made it.
Every victory, mattered in this
city.
This city. The greatest city
on Earth. New York, New York.
...............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
He stood there as if he was about
to run. With his back arched, right forearm and leg outstretched, he seemed to
be just waiting to hear the gun shot to run for his life. But he remained
still. Motionless. Even when people went past him, hitting and shoving him, his
eyes remained intensely fixed on it. It was the stare match of its own
kind and none of them were giving up.
It growled. He growled back. It
bluffed a jump. He bluffed a run. None batted an eyelid.
He waited, waited and, waited
patiently, some more. The moment the sun came in the right spot, he started to
move frantically in the same spot. Incoherence was his greatest virtue. His
scruffy hair jumping up and down his forehead, his dirty knees, peeping out of
his torn jeans and his bare feet thumping the footpath.
He scared it away, rather, his
shadow on the sidewall did. He always knew his shadow is worth more than his
being in this city.
He jumped and snatched the
sandwich from the rim of the trash can scaring the cat away.
This time he looked up in the sky
and burst into laughter. Loud, cacophonous laughter.
Lost in his world, he knew he had
made it.
Every victory, mattered in this
city.
This city. The greatest city
on Earth. New York, New York.
March 5, 2015
August 16, 2014
Knowledge...
He carelessly threw his bag on the bed. Some books flew out on the floor. He didn't bother. Not needed anymore, school year over, he thought.
She waited for him to leave the room, kept her broom aside,
picked up the books, brought them to her forehead and smiled. They were hers
now.
Knowledge passed on.
...................................................................................................................................................................................................................
P.S. Originally written as a tweet reply to @harshsnehanshu for the prompt "Book".
P.P.S. 50th post on this blog !
P.P.S. 50th post on this blog !
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