Even a sentence, when told with honesty and courage, is an epic.
That is why I have never been able to write a story. Evlo ezhudhinaalum the words seem wasted into a coagulate mess. Kozha kozhannu vaandhi edutha maathiri.
I still want to write a story. I know I’ll come back and hate it and wish for something else to have happened as I stand over the mess. Aana ezhudhanum. In fact, you are already part of that ritual, reading the inchoate literary fetus.
I looked up the meaning of the word story and reject it. Yaaru sonna storyna ipdi irukkanum, apdi irukkanumnu? The very audacity to try to define what makes a story makes me angry. Illa. Poi solren. The truth is I am afraid. I am afraid that I won’t be able to tell a story if I follow rules. I’ll have no excuses then.
Everyone has stories. Everyone’s story is worth its weight in gold in the hands of a good writer. So does that mean, an unwritten story is not a masterpiece till a genius comes and writes it down? What nonsense. The story was right there. We were blinded by some definition, purist structure. Fuck that. Any story can exist and even the shittiest story will have its zealot admirer.
Pinna ezhuden, pei pidicha maathiri alaraama nnu kekkalaam. Adhaan ezhudhurene. Excruciatingly. Thodanga theriyala. Mudikka viruppamilla. Ezhudhi, ulmanasula thonuna andha aazham tholanjurumonnu bayam vere. Adhunaala thaan I co-opted you into the process. You are reading it. In fact, the story has formed, flashed, affected and perished in my mind. What is happening now is the aftermath of capturing it. Adhu vere. I scream at my inability to even understand why stories need to be written.
If I keep tripping over every single obstacle, ripping and raging over each of their existence and meanings I shall forever be here. Not moving forward.
So I’ll talk about the story. Why? You want the actual story and not the pitch of the story? Yaen? Kelen. Stories are boring. Trust me. Someone writes. Someone reads. Cooked up and sieved and spiced. I’ll just tell you what I had in mind. Let there be as many stories as those who read this. You might think, naaye, don’t cover your inadequacies with some meta shit.
But padiyen, please.
Feelsa irukkanum. Padicha veriya azhanum. Apdi ezhudhanum oru story. I want the ending to feel like you are walking into waves to drown and die. That’s all I want. I don’t care about the start. It could be a gory scene of an animal giving birth for all I care. Jodorowski movie maathiri the words can flash fuck your brains leaving you dizzy. Luis Bunuel padam maathiri.
Paathirukkiya? Semmaya irukkum. Posterae apdi irukkum. Un Chien D’Andelou. Google pannaama ezhudhinen andha title.
Ippo correcta illayannu theriya, I am googling it. Un Chien Andalou. Extra va “D'” pottutten. I’ll let it be. Oru maathiri literary exhibitionism maathiri idhu. Idha edhukku structure panni? Let the mistakes stay. They are the story of the story. I hate it when the stories stop evolving. Edho, oru dhadava printla vandha, thats the final form nra maathiri it is baptized. If the story came to the world in its final form, birthed into existence in the final form, I can understand. But they have been grown into that final form artificially. Naamale, edit panni, research panni we bring it to a stage where we give up and say, this is it. I refuse to take that as an endpoint. Why should our laziness and limitations put an end to an entity that cannot be ever dead?
I also want that story to be textured. Rough, smooth, slimy, glossy. It should be bright. It should be dark. First person narrative. Somehow I feel writing in the first person makes the narrative fearful. It is easy to write as an omniscient narrator, distancing ourselves from our thoughts and saying “look… it’s not me.. its the character”. Oru morality play. Oru save-your-ass card against society.
She walked in, naked, dripping wet, leaving a trail of shower water on the white tiles. As she sat down to comb her hair in front of the mirror he locked her mouth from behind her, her scream muffled within her throat. The whites of her eyes fracturing into red veins from lack of air, as he watched her legs kick, twitch, stiffen and finally collapse.
First personla idhayae ezhuthina, we get into the character. There is an eeriness to the scene, because, without exposition, we become the killer. We are watching her walk, feverish in our silence as her soon-to-be lifeless body, alive for now, walks close by. We are charged with hate. We are clasping and clenching and flexing our fingers, letting our eyes roam over her back, her legs, her hair. We don’t even take the time to notice how her hair slaps against her back wetly, her hips jiggling in her unselfconscious walk, her bangles clanking as she runs her towel between her legs, drying herself. Maybe there is a red haze of erotic frustration. And in a fury of motion, the pain of her biting into the finger in her death throes only intensifies the rage to crush and stave off her breath, watching her eyes flash with fear.
Ennada, 80s manivannan movie maathiri irukkennu paakkuriya? Irukkalaam. Enakke thonum. Evlo ezhudhinaalum, idha engayo, evano, nammalavida nalla sindhichirukkaannu. Even scarier, engayo, evano senjirukkalaamnu. Can my story, any story, match what happened? Are we forgetting that in reading a story, we are getting the ersatz copy of life?
Adhe maathiri, sex. Epdi ezhudhanumnu theriyadhu. Enga podanumnu theriyadhu. How much is the right amountnum oru idea vum illa. In my mind, only the overwhelming adjective used to describe the sex is clear. Raw. Adhukku munnaala, pinnaal enna venaalum pottukkalaam. Gratuitiously raw. Explicitly raw nu. Like a mastercraftsman, in my mind, I’ll have interspersed the work with sex. Aana, when I write it out it will laugh at my attempts. I know it. I’ll try to thrust it into the story, massage it into the crevices till the work is unctuous and wet. Then there’ll be food. There’ll be flying plates of rasam full of curry leaves crashing into kitchen walls, thrown in argumentative anger. There’ll be mutton curries and vathakkozhambu and creamy curd being mixed into multi colored balls, wetting the insides of the palms of the feaster. Montage dhaan. Mandakkulla. But do you get the idea? Why? I don’t know. Somewhere in the story they’ll feature. Mutti pottu, kaal verala konjura maathiri oru feel venum.
Pala bhaashaigalukulla pichu pichu vecha identity onna kondu varra maathiri oru kadha ezhudhanum.