On my lost pages…

‘My Lost pAges’ is about a writer’s lost ages through his pages. It is a postmodern fiction without any conventional form or structure. It has neither a start nor an end. The structure is as of a book that can be read from any page - start to end, reverse or from any pages you wish to start with. Sincerely that is exactly the way that I have read all the books in my life. My favorite writer is Paulo Coelho. To be honest with you, I have not finished reading any of his books except The Alchemist.

I am not a writer in any weird sense, but in this write-up I am imagining myself as a great writer. ‘My Lost Pages’ are the pages this writer, lost from many of his personal notes as well as other works. Hence there are a lot of factual and fictional references.

There is no big thought process or targets while writing it, except the fact that I was writing with a fever of almost a 100 degrees and was unable to go out anywhere else from the room for three days. It was written during those days in the year 2004, in some alien mood that I can’t express now. Till today I’m unsuccessful to get the same mood to frame an extra page to My Lost pAges.

I’m dedicating this work to my family, 18 freaks of M.A Communication, Hexaware friends & that special someone who is my alter ego for past few years in pain and gain, whom I have never met in life but known only through her voice and support.

Cheers,

Cockroach

Page 8

Page: 8

I slept very late yesterday night. My mind was disturbed by the thoughts on a bright-brilliant future. I got a diary from a very reliable friend of my best friend. Poor fellow, he never knew that I have a very interesting habit of wasting my precious time on stories and poems. Vague but vivid ideas are dashing –dancing- in my mind now. The net result of his kind action is that I am losing my sleep for another day. They all call me their best writer. I am not so clear about the idea behind this.

I never cared my readers. A new diary always remained the worst of all temptations. So whenever I get one, I romance with it, make love to it, to produce a new generation of stories or poems. Hence I call her my wife. Now please don’t ask me why I don’t care my readers as long as you see me so possessive about her. I believe that every guy must be a bit selfish in this matter. Well, you are one among those cunning cats. But today I feel that I must speak to you, you being one who spends from your pocket just to waste your valuable time on my stories.

Whatever it is, awards and appreciation from the readers and critics are a must factor for a gentle handsome writer. So sincerely I never tried to correct your mistakes in life. I believe that God created man to do mistakes and learn from the mistakes to be afraid of the mistakes. Moreover I being one of God’s warm and calm creatures strictly believe that it is impossible to correct an individual, his nude naughty ideas and idiotic ethics. I don’t feel it worth talking at this moment. Why can’t we just leave this on him? Otherwise you would probably start thinking of your mistakes and discover yourself one of those mistakes. Then I might lose my job. I never meant to hurt your senses. I have a mild belief that you too have something called self-respect.

We are still living in this world of and for self-respect. A lot of things are happening in front of our closed eyelids. You don’t know that because your retina is yet reluctant to read it and you have a timid tummy, struggling to digest the spicy dish called self-respect. Neither the pancreatic juice nor the bile can help you in this. You have your parents, wife and children to look after. We are simply the Gods on earth. Knowing this fact I believe, nobody should call you wrong. You are the best. You are at least thinking of your family. But here is my friend who is struggling to save others from miseries when his home is on fire. He is good at offering the statues ‘beggar’ to a boy by giving him yet another coin from his pocket. Why can’t he give it to a prostitute who is at least earning from her sweat? Her sweat is sweet…not salty. Now am I trying to give the statues ‘prostitute’ to someone through my words! Of course yes, I am equally bad and insane.