Looking back, ramblings.

Sometimes I am really comfortable living in a semi-joint family and yet at times I miss my lonely, wannabe writer life of yore and when I yearn for those alone moments I take walks, as must every artist- sometimes through the alleyways of old Calcutta, sometimes in the newer backyards of my neighborhood. I have loved all sorts of loneliness except the ones from which I can't get out; the loneliness of a big city like ours is rather sweet- strangers offering words of wisdom, the rich and poor surviving in harmony, the hustle and the bustle, and yet you can be alone among millions. What's sweet about it is the possibility of not being alone, of casual conversations of identifying with the agony of the millions (and since I transcend all neighborhoods both the first world and third world agonies), and the best kind - of knowing that you go back to a house full of people at the end of the day.

Conversations in the Pub

B. Hey man, you good?
A. Do I look like?...
Have I ever told you about the story of the surgeon?
B. What story?
A.That he was ugly and alone and filthy rich but he could get no girl he liked for himself, he had no game but he had high standards, coz you see he was fucking ugly...so the doctor had an idea, he finally chose a girl and the girl chose him back, but this chick she was fucking fat..not the kind the doctor would want..
B. But fat doesn't mean unattractive does it?
A. It fucking is...the time and place you live in..
B. Ah, I see. So the girl was fat.. but
A. Yeah, she was, but the doctor had other ideas..he took her and performed a-what they call a bariatric surgery, cut her fucking stomach into half.. and in a few months her wife was a 10, a skinny Naomi, and you would think, what the fuck, masterstroke...win-win.. but here's the catch..
B. ..she left him.
A. Fuck no, that would be such a cliche...also if it we're a post feminist landscape there would be no such surgery...but she died man...
B. What's the point?
A. The point is he was no surgeon, he was a fucking butcher that's what it was..
B. Still don't get it.
A. In a society with no laws, no rules- there's no difference between a doctor and a butcher.. that's what. And if you can't protect your best..you don't deserve their best.
B. Your story is so fucked up man, but I get your point.

Where do stories begin?

I have spent most of my boyhood and adult life in apartments whose windows open upto a sky, and a sky that's hazy through winter and blue and white in the rainy months of July-August, deep azure in Autumn. I don't recall how the summer skies look in my city. The Sun is too bright, and I hardly ever look up. The skies of my life have been populated with falcons, parrots, crows , stars, clouds, thunderstorms, some lonely migratory albatrosses, and more than often aeroplanes. Even before I had stepped on an Airplane I have had dreams about it, a recurring dream of an aeroplane crashing somewhere in my private sky- fireworks, tragedy. I have had such illogical fears about flying that I would do certain ritual things before I step on to a flight. I do that every time I fly alone, and mostly I fly alone with strangers hugging my surroundings. 

This recurring dream was certainly not the reason for such fears, but I could trace it back to here- may be a Jung or a Freud will have other opinions but as far as I am concerned these dreams have always provided me with material to work on, to write and share, to color my life with an ordered chaos, to imagine and reimagine- metaphors and metastasis. I worship what I imagine (my God is different than yours). 

This is where stories begin. A plane crash, 1945. Should I navigate my dream to unlock history or should I just adorn the myth that surrounds us from time to time? How do I write that book ?