Monday, August 22, 2005

The One Who Flew Over

My father is a writer.
So is my mother.
So was my Uncle.
My sister used to
dish out those obdurate
spaced out poems that
I don’t understand even now.
It’s a genetic disorder that runs in
my family. Like some families have
drooling imbeciles or suicidal characters
walking around aimlessly.
Of course, none of the
above writers ever published what they wrote.
But that never stopped them
from keeping on scribbling furiously.
The best of the cursed lot was my uncle.
He used to write in the night. Rather, type.
Strange stories about weird heros whose
last wish would be to sleep in
the cellular jail in Andaman’s
for one night,
before dying in the burning pyre of
his dead wife. I never
understand any of these,
but these always sounded exciting and exotic
to me and so Uncle was a hero to me.
He used to write on an
old Brother typewriter, while I would
be scrounging his overflowing library, looking
for English paperbacks with dirty parts in them.
Only grandma used to have her feet on ground
and moan time and again that her family
is being ruined because of the writing mania
for pleasure and not for profit.
Not a line brings home a piece of dosa on
the pan
, she would cry out.
Unfortunately, everyone was oblivious
to all these shortcomings.
But the things came to a head when uncle
refused to marry a wealthy guys fat daughter,
and refused the even fatter dowry,
just because she had never read
Chekov and Marx.
Instead, he was believed to be secretly meeting
a poor school teacher who had admitted
of vaguely having heard of Maxim Gorky.
Now grandma got real real mad, took
the poor type writer
and flung it on the dusty road in front of
our house and it was promptly run over by the 1130
nonstop and expired. Probably,
the only typewriter to ever die so.
Uncle went into such a shell shock,
that he meekly tied the knot
on that fatty, and gave up
his writing altogether. As usual,
another hero of mine had let me down.
Secretly though,
I think he was looking for a way to
give up his miserable run with his writing
and grandma gave him his reason.
Anyway when granny died, there was
a big commotion in our household.
No, not wailing their hearts out near
and dears, but everyone wanted their epitaph
on Granny’s tomb. You can imagine the
riotous scene that must have been.
Writers squabbling! That too amateurs…
Finally, my Uncle who had kept away
from all these bickerings, quietly
erected the tombstone with this brief :
“Because she died,
we are alive today.
God bless her.”

8 Comments:

Blogger Chay said...

OMG siggy....that is an amazing story. well I am thankful for that genetic disorder in your family...the scribble-mania :-)

sigh...'the death of a typewriter'...or should it be 'the resurrection of the story teller'?? :-))

11:31 AM  
Blogger Peppy said...

ROTFL ROTFL ROTFL..this is one rocking blog sigs..
"Not a line brings home a piece of dosa on
the pan, she would cry out." ROTFL once.

" but everyone wanted their epitaph
on Granny’s tomb. You can imagine the
riotous scene that must have been.
Writers squabbling!" ROTFL twice.

and for some reason "Now grandma got real real mad, took
the poor type writer
and flung it on the dusty road in front of
our house and it was promptly run over by the 1130
nonstop and expired." ROTFL thrice..may hereditary diseases prevail.

4:27 PM  
Blogger Maltova said...

A nice one, siggy.

Btw, havya ever read Ketan Valand's poems?

5:09 AM  
Blogger sigmund fraud said...

Malts, Whose Ketan ? I am sorry. I've not come across him. give me a link.

6:01 AM  
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6:48 AM  
Blogger 10 cell phone said...

Memorializing a child after pregnancy loss
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6:57 AM  
Blogger buckwaasur said...

lol...so ur uncle had his revenge after all...great one siggy... :-)

5:47 PM  

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