A Cover Story
When I saw JK Rawling's new book cover (aparantly she's written another book) I was amazed how basic it was. It didn't drag me into it and I certainly didn't feel I just HAD to pick up a copy and find out what it was all about. I really didn't!.... and I still haven't. But I couldn't help thinking that if any other author had written The Casual Vacancy with a cover like that it wouldn't have seen the light of day, let alone the contents of my wallet!
So, does the cover really matter? You bet, though there obviously are two rules:-
1. If you're really, really famous and a multi-millionairess writer you can get away with anything people will buy your book even if the cover's rubbish, or even blank. The Beatles White Album is a great example. Mind you the album was brilliant!
2. As an author becomes better known, the title of the book gets smaller and the author's name becomes bigger. Terrry Pratchett is a great example. People buy his next Discworld novel because it's a Terry Pratchett and they know it'll be a cracker.
For us other poor mortals, the design of the cover is most important. It's the selling point and gives you less than 10 seconds to grab the potential buyer's attention and make them what to discover more. No amount of well thought out blurb will do that. 10 seconds, that's what you have to sell your book....hopefully a thousand times over, again and again!
Having launched my first book Leap of Faith (shameless advert and link at the end of this post) I talked the cover design over with the brilliant Tracey Tucker who onentscame up with a fantastic piece of artwork that had the teenage heroine shushing and in the background many of the main story components. The balance was perfect and she managed to avoid the deadly mistake of overloading. Book two in the Temporal Detective Agency series (Trouble With Swords) is coming out in November and (I think!) after weeks of talking to Tracey and Caleb my publisher we've got it right. Once again the model girl (Tertia the heroine and narrator of the story) strikes an interesting pose that attracts the casual browser and draws the viewer into looking at Excalibur, the sword in the stone as well as the Roman Coliseum. An intriguing mix and one that actually represents the book and its plot line.
The cover is important therefore, but seemingly less so as your fame grows. Shame really because I've had great fun helping to design the cover and I'd hate to think I could get away with a cover showing a small box with a cross in it.
Blog on, Dudes!
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
Saturday, 6 October 2012
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 12)
Part 12 of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story set in India.
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THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 12)
I wanted to ask her something but I awoke and realized that it was only a dream. The dream, however, did make me think. My dead grandmother had come in my dream because I was trying to enter the domain of the dead. This meant that the dead could feel the thoughts and actions of the living and could actually come back to the living. Neela Ghosh was making the best use of this principle but she had become a dried up soul in the process. I had to use the other method, the method of the dream-world, to solve my problems. I had to reach that state in which the soul finds its answers to questions intuitively or in the world of dreams. I had to become like those very few individuals, William Shakespeare being one, who could find solutions to the mysteries of life intuitively. These were not matters of the mind or the intellect; they had everything to do with the soul, the self without the body. In a state where the soul awakens, matter, the body, this world, become secondary or even redundant. The intellect can merely get caught up in the realm of logic and sense, but the soul can transcend the world of logic and see things clearly. In such a state the world of the dream and reality become one, or, better still, the world of the dream takes precedence over the world of reality. This was an unexpected realization for me and I suddenly became interested in dreams as I never had been. I began to see the connection between the world of logic and sense with materialism, political power and even bodily perfection. The desire for a beautiful body, or the will for a display of the body’s ability like flawlessly synchronized group-marching or a perfect P T display, these were all activities of a kind. But there was another kind of desire, the desire to know about the soul, the Creator, the other world. This was a yearning that could merge opposites. The ugly could become the beautiful; the fair could be the foul; death could be life. All this could happen beautifully in dreams or in a life that was made of the stuff that our dreams are made of.
I began to read more and more about dreams and then found so much truth that was conveyed through dreams, when they did come. They were great pointers to future happenings. Then one day I dreamed of Neela Ghosh. I saw that I was following her to the wooded patch of land. I saw her son there too. She looked so enlivened in the presence of her son. Her son looked grand almost a god. She sat in admiration of him. He told her that his father was in a poor shape in the world of the dead. He was paying for his sins. He was upset by what he saw happening to him. After all he was his father when they were alive in the world of the living. Neela Ghosh wept to hear that. Then her son told her something that upset her further. He said that he would be probably taking birth again within a year’s time, once again in Alipore. She was miserable to know that. How would she find him? How would she ever know where he had gone and taken birth? He said he would be born again as his soul was struggling to take birth again. But she did not feel convinced by what he said. She wept violently thinking that now she would actually lose her son and her weeping woke me up. I sat thinking of how real the dream was. It had revealed a great deal to me. But it was after all only a dream, I thought, and went to get ready to take on a new day.
Just as I got ready to set out towards the office of the newspaper I wrote for I heard a knock at my door. I opened the door and could not believe who I saw. It was my life standing there in a visible form. She was smiling but she seemed to have come to me in some distress. I kept looking at her face, not knowing what to do or say. She too looked at me meaningfully, trying to read the reaction in my eyes.
‘Won’t you ask me to come in?’
‘Yes, yes . . . of course,’ I said, ‘Come in, please come in!’
Part 12 of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story set in India.
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THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 12)
I wanted to ask her something but I awoke and realized that it was only a dream. The dream, however, did make me think. My dead grandmother had come in my dream because I was trying to enter the domain of the dead. This meant that the dead could feel the thoughts and actions of the living and could actually come back to the living. Neela Ghosh was making the best use of this principle but she had become a dried up soul in the process. I had to use the other method, the method of the dream-world, to solve my problems. I had to reach that state in which the soul finds its answers to questions intuitively or in the world of dreams. I had to become like those very few individuals, William Shakespeare being one, who could find solutions to the mysteries of life intuitively. These were not matters of the mind or the intellect; they had everything to do with the soul, the self without the body. In a state where the soul awakens, matter, the body, this world, become secondary or even redundant. The intellect can merely get caught up in the realm of logic and sense, but the soul can transcend the world of logic and see things clearly. In such a state the world of the dream and reality become one, or, better still, the world of the dream takes precedence over the world of reality. This was an unexpected realization for me and I suddenly became interested in dreams as I never had been. I began to see the connection between the world of logic and sense with materialism, political power and even bodily perfection. The desire for a beautiful body, or the will for a display of the body’s ability like flawlessly synchronized group-marching or a perfect P T display, these were all activities of a kind. But there was another kind of desire, the desire to know about the soul, the Creator, the other world. This was a yearning that could merge opposites. The ugly could become the beautiful; the fair could be the foul; death could be life. All this could happen beautifully in dreams or in a life that was made of the stuff that our dreams are made of.
I began to read more and more about dreams and then found so much truth that was conveyed through dreams, when they did come. They were great pointers to future happenings. Then one day I dreamed of Neela Ghosh. I saw that I was following her to the wooded patch of land. I saw her son there too. She looked so enlivened in the presence of her son. Her son looked grand almost a god. She sat in admiration of him. He told her that his father was in a poor shape in the world of the dead. He was paying for his sins. He was upset by what he saw happening to him. After all he was his father when they were alive in the world of the living. Neela Ghosh wept to hear that. Then her son told her something that upset her further. He said that he would be probably taking birth again within a year’s time, once again in Alipore. She was miserable to know that. How would she find him? How would she ever know where he had gone and taken birth? He said he would be born again as his soul was struggling to take birth again. But she did not feel convinced by what he said. She wept violently thinking that now she would actually lose her son and her weeping woke me up. I sat thinking of how real the dream was. It had revealed a great deal to me. But it was after all only a dream, I thought, and went to get ready to take on a new day.
Just as I got ready to set out towards the office of the newspaper I wrote for I heard a knock at my door. I opened the door and could not believe who I saw. It was my life standing there in a visible form. She was smiling but she seemed to have come to me in some distress. I kept looking at her face, not knowing what to do or say. She too looked at me meaningfully, trying to read the reaction in my eyes.
‘Won’t you ask me to come in?’
‘Yes, yes . . . of course,’ I said, ‘Come in, please come in!’
Thursday, 4 October 2012
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 11)
Part 11 of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story set in India.
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THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 11)
‘Shubendu, what makes you want to know of the dead? By trying to find out about Neela’s son you can become as stiff and lifeless as Neela herself. The worlds of the dead and the living are two separate worlds and the one should not interfere with the other if good health is to remain.’
I wanted to ask her something but I awoke and realized that it was only a dream. The dream, however, did make me think. My dead grandmother had come in my dream because I was trying to enter the domain of the dead. This meant that the dead could feel the thoughts and actions of the living and could actually come back to the living. Neela Ghosh was making the best use of this principle but she had become a dried up soul in the process. I had to use the other method, the method of the dream-world, to solve my problems. I had to reach that state in which the soul finds its answers to questions intuitively or in the world of dreams. I had to become like those very few individuals, William Shakespeare being one, who could find solutions to the mysteries of life intuitively. These were not matters of the mind or the intellect; they had everything to do with the soul, the self without the body. In a state where the soul awakens, matter, the body, this world, become secondary or even redundant. The intellect can merely get caught up in the realm of logic and sense, but the soul can transcend the world of logic and see things clearly. In such a state the world of the dream and reality become one, or, better still, the world of the dream takes precedence over the world of reality. This was an unexpected realization for me and I suddenly became interested in dreams as I never had been. I began to see the connection between the world of logic and sense with materialism, political power and even bodily perfection. The desire for a beautiful body, or the will for a display of the body’s ability like flawlessly synchronized group-marching or a perfect P T display, these were all activities of a kind. But there was another kind of desire, the desire to know about the soul, the Creator, the other world. This was a yearning that could merge opposites. The ugly could become the beautiful; the fair could be the foul; death could be life. All this could happen beautifully in dreams or in a life that was made of stuff that our dreams are made of.
Part 11 of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story set in India.
=======================================================================
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 11)
‘Shubendu, what makes you want to know of the dead? By trying to find out about Neela’s son you can become as stiff and lifeless as Neela herself. The worlds of the dead and the living are two separate worlds and the one should not interfere with the other if good health is to remain.’
I wanted to ask her something but I awoke and realized that it was only a dream. The dream, however, did make me think. My dead grandmother had come in my dream because I was trying to enter the domain of the dead. This meant that the dead could feel the thoughts and actions of the living and could actually come back to the living. Neela Ghosh was making the best use of this principle but she had become a dried up soul in the process. I had to use the other method, the method of the dream-world, to solve my problems. I had to reach that state in which the soul finds its answers to questions intuitively or in the world of dreams. I had to become like those very few individuals, William Shakespeare being one, who could find solutions to the mysteries of life intuitively. These were not matters of the mind or the intellect; they had everything to do with the soul, the self without the body. In a state where the soul awakens, matter, the body, this world, become secondary or even redundant. The intellect can merely get caught up in the realm of logic and sense, but the soul can transcend the world of logic and see things clearly. In such a state the world of the dream and reality become one, or, better still, the world of the dream takes precedence over the world of reality. This was an unexpected realization for me and I suddenly became interested in dreams as I never had been. I began to see the connection between the world of logic and sense with materialism, political power and even bodily perfection. The desire for a beautiful body, or the will for a display of the body’s ability like flawlessly synchronized group-marching or a perfect P T display, these were all activities of a kind. But there was another kind of desire, the desire to know about the soul, the Creator, the other world. This was a yearning that could merge opposites. The ugly could become the beautiful; the fair could be the foul; death could be life. All this could happen beautifully in dreams or in a life that was made of stuff that our dreams are made of.
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 10)
The 10th part of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story based in India.
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THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 10)
The scene was getting very inauspicious and things didn’t seem to be boding well at all. Then the huge monkey came down on the ground with a loud thud and sat very close to me. It smiled at me, its big teeth showing, in an ominous way and I decided to run back the way I had come. For the first minute or so I felt that the monkey was chasing me but then that feeling di
The 10th part of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story based in India.
========================================================================
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 10)
The scene was getting very inauspicious and things didn’t seem to be boding well at all. Then the huge monkey came down on the ground with a loud thud and sat very close to me. It smiled at me, its big teeth showing, in an ominous way and I decided to run back the way I had come. For the first minute or so I felt that the monkey was chasing me but then that feeling di
minished as I reached the border of the wooded land. There I found the woman standing. For the first time I saw some expression in her eyes. She was looking at me furiously, as though I had entered her territory or violated her peace. I was not in the right frame of mind to talk to her and so just kept moving. I left the place as my confidence was shattered. I had made an ass of myself. What an idiot I was, I thought, to have entered an unknown place like that, and without another living presence to assist me.
I had worsened my conditions and now getting to the root of her story was becoming more difficult. I did not know how to make up for what I had lost. I was also losing my confidence as the situation was becoming more and more supernatural. I was travelling from the realms of realism towards a kind of magical realism. Who could have thought that a simple tale relating to a simple woman could take such a twist?
On an impulse I got up and went to the Oxford Bookstore on Park Street. There I asked for books that dealt with extra rational happenings. I liked one that was entitled, Death and Beyond. It was a book about how the dead could be approached. It dwelt at length on the significance of dreams. I returned to my room, had my light meal quickly and lay down on my bed to read. It was very fascinating reading and I don’t know when I fell asleep. I saw a dream in which my dead grandmother came and stood in front of me. This was the first time I had ever dreamt of her. She looked so real that I could never imagine that this was merely a dream. For some time she said nothing but then she spoke in a voice that was a scraped version of her living voice.
‘Shubendu, what makes you want to know of the dead? By trying to find out about Neela’s son you can become as stiff and lifeless as Neela herself. The worlds of the dead and the living are two separate worlds and the one should not interfere with the other if good health is to remain.’
I wanted to ask her something but I awoke and realized that it was only a dream. But the dream did make me think.
I had worsened my conditions and now getting to the root of her story was becoming more difficult. I did not know how to make up for what I had lost. I was also losing my confidence as the situation was becoming more and more supernatural. I was travelling from the realms of realism towards a kind of magical realism. Who could have thought that a simple tale relating to a simple woman could take such a twist?
On an impulse I got up and went to the Oxford Bookstore on Park Street. There I asked for books that dealt with extra rational happenings. I liked one that was entitled, Death and Beyond. It was a book about how the dead could be approached. It dwelt at length on the significance of dreams. I returned to my room, had my light meal quickly and lay down on my bed to read. It was very fascinating reading and I don’t know when I fell asleep. I saw a dream in which my dead grandmother came and stood in front of me. This was the first time I had ever dreamt of her. She looked so real that I could never imagine that this was merely a dream. For some time she said nothing but then she spoke in a voice that was a scraped version of her living voice.
‘Shubendu, what makes you want to know of the dead? By trying to find out about Neela’s son you can become as stiff and lifeless as Neela herself. The worlds of the dead and the living are two separate worlds and the one should not interfere with the other if good health is to remain.’
I wanted to ask her something but I awoke and realized that it was only a dream. But the dream did make me think.
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 9)
Part 9 of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story based in India.
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THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 9)
Now my journalistic story on Neela Ghosh was getting rather complicated. First, she herself seemed to be so other-worldly and now, in addition, she was even associated with a fakir who was far from ordinary. I was not sure how I would present the story in the newspaper and prevent it from appearing like a fairy tale. Of course it would take weeks, or months, before I c
Part 9 of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story based in India.
========================================================================
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 9)
Now my journalistic story on Neela Ghosh was getting rather complicated. First, she herself seemed to be so other-worldly and now, in addition, she was even associated with a fakir who was far from ordinary. I was not sure how I would present the story in the newspaper and prevent it from appearing like a fairy tale. Of course it would take weeks, or months, before I c
ould get to the truth of the tale. I would adorn the role of a researcher till I got to know more about the woman. I decided to write on her under the caption of “The Starched Woman” because she always looked stiff and straight and she was all skin and bones. She never looked this side or that and went straight ahead, unbothered about what was going on around her. Her looks focused on something in front of her, beyond the here and now. She was unaffected by the cows, the dogs, the goats or the speeding vehicles on the road. It was a miracle that she never had an accident. Or, if she did that it remained unnoticed by others. People seemed as indifferent to her as she was towards them. She seemed to have reached a state in which nothing mattered. She had no desire to do anything else apart from going on her mysterious evening walk and her morning drive to the children’s school. Even in her car she looked straight ahead in her typically starched manner.
I was getting frustrated at not being able to follow her unnoticed to the place where, according to the fakir, she would go to meet her dead son. I was then struck by an idea. Instead of following her, I should reach that place ahead of her and wait for her to turn up there. I could then see what she did every day in the mysterious wooded patch. This was probably a better plan of action for me. Of course whether this could succeed still remained a mystery.
The next evening I reached the little forest in which this woman would enter daily. It had a narrow path leading straight into the wooded area. There, in the middle, was a clearing around a tall but slim peepal tree. I found this an apt place for me to sit and wait for the starched woman. Before two minutes could elapse I heard the sound of leaves rustling and thought someone was coming that way. But then the sound became louder and was accompanied by an eerie trembling voice that was difficult to decipher. I thought it was a male voice that had been muffled and brought to the pitch of a female’s. Then a monkey that had been sitting on the peepal tree suddenly made a strange sound that frightened me. I looked upward and found a great deal of commotion in the branches of the tree. Something was disturbing the monkey but what that was I could only guess. Then a huge bull came charging towards me. I had to instinctively move out of its way and I escaped its attacked very narrowly. At this point two dogs began to whine and cry out almost in a human way. The scene was getting very inauspicious and things didn’t seem to be boding well at all. Then the huge monkey came down on the ground with a loud thud and sat very close to me. It smiled at me, its big teeth showing, in an ominous way and I decided to run back the way I had come. For the first minute or so I felt that the monkey was chasing me but then that feeling diminished as I reached the boarder of the wooded land. There I found the woman standing. For the first time I saw some expression in her eyes. She was looking at me furiously, as though I had entered her territory or violated her peace. I was not in the right frame of mind to talk to her and so just kept moving. I left the place as my confidence was shattered. I had made an ass of myself. What an idiot I was, I thought, to have entered an unknown place like that, and without another living presence to assist me.
I was getting frustrated at not being able to follow her unnoticed to the place where, according to the fakir, she would go to meet her dead son. I was then struck by an idea. Instead of following her, I should reach that place ahead of her and wait for her to turn up there. I could then see what she did every day in the mysterious wooded patch. This was probably a better plan of action for me. Of course whether this could succeed still remained a mystery.
The next evening I reached the little forest in which this woman would enter daily. It had a narrow path leading straight into the wooded area. There, in the middle, was a clearing around a tall but slim peepal tree. I found this an apt place for me to sit and wait for the starched woman. Before two minutes could elapse I heard the sound of leaves rustling and thought someone was coming that way. But then the sound became louder and was accompanied by an eerie trembling voice that was difficult to decipher. I thought it was a male voice that had been muffled and brought to the pitch of a female’s. Then a monkey that had been sitting on the peepal tree suddenly made a strange sound that frightened me. I looked upward and found a great deal of commotion in the branches of the tree. Something was disturbing the monkey but what that was I could only guess. Then a huge bull came charging towards me. I had to instinctively move out of its way and I escaped its attacked very narrowly. At this point two dogs began to whine and cry out almost in a human way. The scene was getting very inauspicious and things didn’t seem to be boding well at all. Then the huge monkey came down on the ground with a loud thud and sat very close to me. It smiled at me, its big teeth showing, in an ominous way and I decided to run back the way I had come. For the first minute or so I felt that the monkey was chasing me but then that feeling diminished as I reached the boarder of the wooded land. There I found the woman standing. For the first time I saw some expression in her eyes. She was looking at me furiously, as though I had entered her territory or violated her peace. I was not in the right frame of mind to talk to her and so just kept moving. I left the place as my confidence was shattered. I had made an ass of myself. What an idiot I was, I thought, to have entered an unknown place like that, and without another living presence to assist me.
Monday, 1 October 2012
Humbling
For 30 years I've worked in the IT industry, both as salesman and as sales leader. In my last two roles I was sales leader for a major vendor and headed up their sales operation in the AsiaPac region, then sales director to a vendor that wanted to break into new regions, which I enabled them to do, Unfortunately I sold myself out of a job...something I won't go into.
After a year of trying to get an equivalent job, money became a leading necessity, because no matter how much saving you have they disappear very quickly. For the past 3 months I've worked for a recruitment company that specialises in day-by-day temporary work. Something I thought I'd never do.
Over the past few weeks I've worked in a major depot sorting out container lorries and carrying incredibly heavy boxes before sorting them into product types and sizes, then a number of days as a landscape gardener, during which I shovelled over 20 tons of top soil to create a number of borders in an incredible new garden. Over the last two weeks I've acted as a cleaner / handyman at a public school doing whatever I'm asked to do.... clean the showers and loos, shovel coal, clear drains, replace light bulbs, hoover the floors, mend the chairs, sweep the yard, stop that tap from dripping. And I love it!
The people I've been working with are without exception welcoming, understanding and incredibly nice. Even the boys at the school call me SIR! Is it humbling? Yes in a way it is. I used to earn excellent money in the IT sector and hopefully will again soon, but working with people who haven't been forced to work where they do by necessity, but by who they are has been wonderful. Without exception they've accepted me and become friends. Not only that but some of them have bought copies of my book Leap Of Faith. And no, I'm not using this as a base for advertising my book. Quite the opposite.
My experience over the past weeks has convinced me of the value of a "humbling" programme for employees of companies that have high flyers. Under no circumstances should they be allowed to say who they really are, but the need to empathise with people they would normally meet and would benefit them no end. This may sound condescending, but believe me it's not. It's a necessity. I've loved my last few weeks and probably will do for the next few weeks. Nobody has queried who I am or why I'm cleaning out the loos, they take me at face value and I have nothing but respect for them and strangely look forward to going in the next day again to meet them.
A strange blog post, but then that's life!
Blog on, Dudes!
For 30 years I've worked in the IT industry, both as salesman and as sales leader. In my last two roles I was sales leader for a major vendor and headed up their sales operation in the AsiaPac region, then sales director to a vendor that wanted to break into new regions, which I enabled them to do, Unfortunately I sold myself out of a job...something I won't go into.
After a year of trying to get an equivalent job, money became a leading necessity, because no matter how much saving you have they disappear very quickly. For the past 3 months I've worked for a recruitment company that specialises in day-by-day temporary work. Something I thought I'd never do.
Over the past few weeks I've worked in a major depot sorting out container lorries and carrying incredibly heavy boxes before sorting them into product types and sizes, then a number of days as a landscape gardener, during which I shovelled over 20 tons of top soil to create a number of borders in an incredible new garden. Over the last two weeks I've acted as a cleaner / handyman at a public school doing whatever I'm asked to do.... clean the showers and loos, shovel coal, clear drains, replace light bulbs, hoover the floors, mend the chairs, sweep the yard, stop that tap from dripping. And I love it!
The people I've been working with are without exception welcoming, understanding and incredibly nice. Even the boys at the school call me SIR! Is it humbling? Yes in a way it is. I used to earn excellent money in the IT sector and hopefully will again soon, but working with people who haven't been forced to work where they do by necessity, but by who they are has been wonderful. Without exception they've accepted me and become friends. Not only that but some of them have bought copies of my book Leap Of Faith. And no, I'm not using this as a base for advertising my book. Quite the opposite.
My experience over the past weeks has convinced me of the value of a "humbling" programme for employees of companies that have high flyers. Under no circumstances should they be allowed to say who they really are, but the need to empathise with people they would normally meet and would benefit them no end. This may sound condescending, but believe me it's not. It's a necessity. I've loved my last few weeks and probably will do for the next few weeks. Nobody has queried who I am or why I'm cleaning out the loos, they take me at face value and I have nothing but respect for them and strangely look forward to going in the next day again to meet them.
A strange blog post, but then that's life!
Blog on, Dudes!
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 8)
Part 8 of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story set in India.
Blog on, Dudes!
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THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 8)
I was utterly horrified to see that instead of a human hand he had a snake. Only one of his hands was human, in place of the other there was a snake. I looked at the snake that was a part of the man with feelings that combined revulsion and fear. At first I stood up to go. But then he smiled and said that he was harmless and that his snake had never bitten anyone.
‘Bu
Part 8 of Lakshmi Raj Sharma's new short story set in India.
Blog on, Dudes!
========================================================================
THE STARCHED WOMAN (Part 8)
I was utterly horrified to see that instead of a human hand he had a snake. Only one of his hands was human, in place of the other there was a snake. I looked at the snake that was a part of the man with feelings that combined revulsion and fear. At first I stood up to go. But then he smiled and said that he was harmless and that his snake had never bitten anyone.
‘Bu
t why are you not known all over the world for being so unusual, so extraordinary?’
‘Because I have never been known to show off my hand. I have kept the snake hidden in the sleeve. Those that have seen it accidentally have fallen unconscious or even passed away. I have been extra careful, therefore.’
I began to feel sick with fear and disgust at the hideous looking limb. I made excuse and left. When I looked back, the man was smiling at me. His smile said that he knew I was scared.
Now my journalistic story on Neela Ghosh was getting rather complicated. First, she herself seemed to be so other-worldly and now, in addition, she was even associated with a fakir who was far from ordinary. I was not sure how I would present the story in the newspaper and prevent it from appearing like a fairy tale. Of course it would take weeks, or months, before I could get to the truth of the tale. I would adorn the role of a researcher till I got to know more about the woman. I decided to write on her under the caption of “The Starched Woman” because she always looked stiff and straight and she was all skin and bones. She never looked this side or that and went straight ahead, untouched by what was going on around her. Her looks focused on something in front of her, beyond the here and now. She was unaffected by the cows, the dogs, the goats or the speeding vehicles on the road. It was a miracle that she never had an accident. Or, if she did that it remained unnoticed by others. People seemed as indifferent to her as she was towards them. She seemed to have reached a state in which nothing mattered. She had no desire to do anything else apart from going on her mysterious evening walk and her morning drive to the children’s school. Even in her car she looked straight ahead in her typically starched manner.
I was getting frustrated at not being able to follow her unnoticed to the place where, according to the fakir, she would go to meet her dead son. I was then struck by an idea. Instead of following her, I should reach that place ahead of her and wait for her to turn up there. I could then see what she did every day in the mysterious wooded patch. This was probably a better plan of action for me. Of course whether this could succeed still remained a mystery.
‘Because I have never been known to show off my hand. I have kept the snake hidden in the sleeve. Those that have seen it accidentally have fallen unconscious or even passed away. I have been extra careful, therefore.’
I began to feel sick with fear and disgust at the hideous looking limb. I made excuse and left. When I looked back, the man was smiling at me. His smile said that he knew I was scared.
Now my journalistic story on Neela Ghosh was getting rather complicated. First, she herself seemed to be so other-worldly and now, in addition, she was even associated with a fakir who was far from ordinary. I was not sure how I would present the story in the newspaper and prevent it from appearing like a fairy tale. Of course it would take weeks, or months, before I could get to the truth of the tale. I would adorn the role of a researcher till I got to know more about the woman. I decided to write on her under the caption of “The Starched Woman” because she always looked stiff and straight and she was all skin and bones. She never looked this side or that and went straight ahead, untouched by what was going on around her. Her looks focused on something in front of her, beyond the here and now. She was unaffected by the cows, the dogs, the goats or the speeding vehicles on the road. It was a miracle that she never had an accident. Or, if she did that it remained unnoticed by others. People seemed as indifferent to her as she was towards them. She seemed to have reached a state in which nothing mattered. She had no desire to do anything else apart from going on her mysterious evening walk and her morning drive to the children’s school. Even in her car she looked straight ahead in her typically starched manner.
I was getting frustrated at not being able to follow her unnoticed to the place where, according to the fakir, she would go to meet her dead son. I was then struck by an idea. Instead of following her, I should reach that place ahead of her and wait for her to turn up there. I could then see what she did every day in the mysterious wooded patch. This was probably a better plan of action for me. Of course whether this could succeed still remained a mystery.
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