Writing thoughts

I was thinking that to train oneself as a writer one must try to describe the ordinary day to day activities of a person such as shaving in the morning, praying in a temple, riding a bicycle, cracking a joke at the dining table, or rushing towards food when you are terribly hungry.
It is best to develop skills in writing ordinary daily events in life before one attempts large public events or ceremonies like a political rally or a wedding. It is fraught with difficulty I bet, for one will soon struggle for the right word and turn of the phrase that best describes the scene as honestly and vividly as possible.
Fiction demands such narration, even if the characters are fictitious and the scenes are imagined and the plot is contrived: make the unreal real.

More thoughts

The housemaid observes that brothers are blood brothers only as long as they are under parental care; later they are most unlike brothers.

The good never makes a good story, only the corrupt does.

There is no such thing as lesser or greater evil, except in the eyes of the law; evil it is when the self is corrupted.

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Some thoughts

It is not enough to have a good intention, if it is carried out by wrong means; for means dictate the ends.
There is no such thing as a secret in human affairs; it is merely hidden until discovered, for what is there in the human consciousness, yours or mine, lies hidden and it is only a matter of time - one day or one millennium - before it gets out.
Uncle Sharma says that the church in Mettuguda is a haven for a syndicate of beggars. He says one can see on a morning a person in western clothes comes to the church on a scooter, changes into shabby unkempt clothing and walks out to the streets to beg. In the evening the man returns, changes back into decent clothes and heads back on his scooter to where he came from. Uncle also says that there would be a leader who controls and organizes the people for begging on the streets. If the assigned person could not fetch the target amount, he or she would be in for a corporeal punishment which ranges from thrashing to mutilation. Next time when you drop a coin in the begging bowl or the beseeching palms, drop a prayer for the agonizing soul.
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Indian Summer

It is May; it is summer; it is hot and sweltering; it is the season for mangoes and hot pickles; as the temperature soars the tempers fly; the Earth thirsts for water as the Sun pours hot molten light; the leaves wither and the air goes dry; of an evening thunder and lightning shower promise of rain, but hot winds blow it away and leave everything high and dry; in the day the roads burn and the light blinds; the nights are sultry and find one spent and listless; in May the summer peaks.
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My Notes on Hyderabad

About notes on Hyderabad, I must keep it simple, lively, and colorful with a lot of pepper and picture. I must include a lot of personal element into it to keep it from reading like a tourist book. I must write from memory and research and then add colour from actually visiting the spots that I mention. I should like to title it Hyderabad Old and New or maybe My Notes on Hyderabad. Beginning with the Old it must blend into the New, thereby giving the flavour of the city as it actually is.
The objective is two-fold: to inform and to remind. To inform the reader who is new to the city and to remind (in the sense of bringing back to mind) those who have seen it years ago. It must kindle interest in the new and make the old reminisce nostalgically. With this objective, I must restructure and re-write the notes into moving running paragraphs such that they evince interest and evoke feelings. Happy reading!
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Old Hyderabad 3

After Troop Bazaar in Abids you head towards Sultan Bazaar. On the way you will notice (if you had seen a decade ago) that there have been some changes along the way.
    I will touch upon the things that have resisted the change first. The Rani park has not yielded to the growing and developing city. The lane beside it still leads to the Mozamjahi Market road. The bicycle shops on the opposite side of the road continue to do brisk business. Further on when you come to the 4-way junction you will notice that the Sultan Bazaar is as busy as it has always been - teeming with sellers and buyers and vehicles of all sizes and shapes, except buses and lorries perhaps, pass through its narrow over-crowded street. The road leading to the Imliban Bus Stand, which has been renovated and extended to cater to a large fleet of public transport, is a one-way street leading to the old city on one side and Nampalli and Abids on the other.
    Now I will talk about the things that have yielded to change. The road past the Central Bank beside the Sultan Bazaar is now bereft of the second-hand bookstalls along the Women's College which have served the needs of the students from high school to college for many decades. The place always boasted of books of all kinds; if you couldn't find a book there, then you can be sure it could not be found elsewhere in the city. After eviction the shop owners scattered into nearby corners until a big building came up specially built for them. It is located on the road near where the Sultan Bazaar lane ends on the other side.

Storyline

I was on a vacation, travelling in a train with my kids. There was this woman who sat on the opposite berth apparantly travelling alone. My older son sat quietly by the window. His younger brother struck up a conversation with an old man who seemed to be enjoying it. I looked at the dark rolling countryside and turned to the woman saying, 'do you hail from this region?' because she had got into the train at the previous station. She said yes, she belonged to this place. 'Isn't this a naxalite area?' She said yes it is. I asked 'how do you live here? Are you not scared?' she said no. Born and raised here. she found nothing to fear. 'Have you seen any naxalite?' I asked her. She said yes of course. 'What do they look like?' I asked again. Like any one here, she replied. Nothing marks them out as anything special. I have never met any one who belonged to the naxal infested area, so this woman was my only chance to know firsthand something about the members of this deadly outfit. 'Have you spoken to any one of them?' I continued. Yes she said, they speak like any other person you have met. 'But they are known to be violent and cruel.' I persisted. They are feared by people who don't want them to live and agitate for their cause. For the rest of us they are harmless and even friendly, she said with a smile. After a while the train stopped suddenly in the middle of nowhere. The woman got up to leave. 'Are you getting off here?' I asked a little alarmed. My house is close by, she said. It is my good luck that the train stopped here. And she was gone. A few minutes later some policemen stormed into the compartment and enquired about a woman fugutive who they claimed was a naxalite. My heart beat fast. Was I chatting amicably with a member of one of the dreaded Maoist gangs? A naxal woman who appeared to be quite plain and simple like me had me so completely that i did not for a moment suspect who she was!
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Old Hyderabad 2

In my youth Abids in Hyderabad was the centre of commerce. There was I believe a shop owned by one Mr Abid somewhere near the present location of GPO. However, I could neither know what it sold nor ascertain its exact location. Palace and Sagar Talkies were the most popular cinema haunts and Agarwal cool drinks slaked shopper's thirst. Khatiawar Stores sold dry fruits among other things and chief among the book stalls was Central Publishers. Missionary and convent schools were a stone's throw from Abid's and prominent among them were Little Flower High School (where I studied) and St. George's Grammar School. Our home was close by, near Troop Bazaar on the way to Sultan Bazaar. Elsewhere in the city life flowed lazily, while Abid's always bustled with shoppers of quality stuff. The Hanuman Temple beside the Police Station drew a large number of devotees in the evening. Abids continues to draw crowds of shoppers for jewellery and clothes even though it has lost some of its former glory. The loss is not because it has not changed - it has evolved into an upmarket area - but due to the changing lifestyles and corresponding change in the shopping patterns.
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Writing

Writing conveys more about the writer than about what is written. Writing is the medium through which the writer speaks. Words express thoughts and feelings. So, rather than giving expression to one's thoughts and feelings through the written word, it would be worthwhile to rouse them in the reader. Writing demands a great deal of rigor and discipline from the writer, but expects nothing from the reader. It is in the interest of the writer that the reader reads, at least until the writer has achieved some notoriety or fame. Writer must be terribly serious in writing even when a comedy is attempted. But all writing is intended for a reader. Without a reader, the writing passes into oblivion, like fire in the absence of oxygen. No matter what is written or how much, a page or a book, it is important; for there is no such thing as a casual writer, though there is many a casual reader.
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