MY MAIDEN NOVEL THROUGH NANOWRIMO - FIRST 3 PAGES

THE UNIVERSAL PROBLEMS: WHO AM I TO SOLVE THESE?




Where to start is always a problem in narrating a story. Be it the smallest incident on the way home, or the story heard during lunch at office or the story one read in a magazine just about the day before.



More than solving this problem it is very important for me to remember that this is not a problem so unique to me. It is a universal problem.



But there can be problems so specific to myself, I will not be able to search for this 'universal' label and fix it on them. (Is this what they mean when they say 'Fix it!'? In a way, it is good to have certain problems unique to oneself; as such problems have a decent chance of becoming the 'Plot'! And the 'Plot' is what a very vital element of a novel is.



In case, just in case, you read a full novel and narrate the story, you would in all probably say this is somewhat the plot. You will start telling the plot, remembering certain characters that impressed you and perhaps you will take a pause, reflecting on the experience you had while reading the novel, which would make you wonder as to how to express to a person who has not read it. Between the reader and the listener who has not read, there is an experience that defies expression. In case the listener wants to complete his experience of the novel, listening to the same in the words of another person would not suffice. He needs to read the novel and experience herself. For all you know, from the same novel, she is going to get an experience so unique to herself.



Have you ever wondered how this is possible? A novel more or less carved in stone by the author, evokes different emotional responses in its readers and perhaps even different emotional responses in the same readers in different occasions of reading.



Even the author is no exception to the phenomenon, as and when he becomes his own reader. He is certain to undergo different emotional responses, at different points of time or at different stages in his life.



Have you ever wondered why this happens?













I have always wondered. Not just at this phenomenon about novels. About life itself, I carry this wonderment. Same events and truths of life evoke different emotional responses in me. I am sure when I read novels which I read in the past – and of course, there is a big 'if I read', I am going to experience a different stream of thoughts and emotions. I keep evolving. And even the minutest change in the evolution gives me a different perspective of life, values, circumstances and what happens to people in different situations.



The paradox is at each stage of evolution, it appears everything has assumed finality about itself, as though there is nothing more to evolve. At each stage of evolution, the creation is so complete in itself. This is the greatness of the creator. There is nothing incomplete in His creation. There is nothing imperfect. And at the same time, everything evolves into a new creation. Everything gets novel and there is no dawn comparable to a previous one, no two sunsets are same and no two moments, reflections, expressions and stories can ever be same. Therefore, I believe deep in my heart, what I write down through this great Nanowrimo vehicle will be novel. It is bound to be. In case, I complete this and you happen to read – even if you did not find it novel, please read again, when you read again, certainly it will evoke a different emotional response from you. I swear I am writing this for You. Who else?



Where to start is a universal problem. Therefore, there is no anxiety about it. What to tell and what not to tell is another universal problem. There is absolutely no perfect blend for this. As the right judgement is always in hindsight, even if there were a solution to this universal problem, the practice would have been to ignore it and pick up the solution at the end of the story. Therefore, I will not indulge in being wiser. I am going to be indiscreet in telling you what ought not to have been told as well. I am sure indiscreet authors are read better. There is no guarantee of my becoming an author, but there is a fair chance that I can achieve the 'indiscreet' label handsomely by writing, or rather, telling a story in detail, by failing to exclude the 'ought not to have been told' stuff as well.



Now we have an exceptional understanding and our expectations are well set, sort of. – I would profoundly thank you before you change your mind on this. This is the right time to tell the story. I am going to take you all to a different decade perhaps when internet was not there, phones were not every home at least in a country like India and mobiles were not even imagined. It is a time when people used to be connected by meeting in person. And if they did not meet frequently enough, they used to miss each other a lot and make a big issue about it. Families, friends and relatives were all expected to meet during festivals, marriages, births and deaths in the family. Celebrations and condolences were equally important. Being there with your near and dear was a value with which compromise was just not done. People were not conditioned by a tweet of 140 characters. They were supposed to be - generally were up to that supposition – generous not in just their laughters but their tears. In fact, condolences used to be in high decibel, to an extent that where need be, people could be employed for the purpose. Feasts used to be not just sumptuous but on the back of compelling hospitality, a bit hard on one's stomach. Feasts used to be prepared and served by the hosts themselves, rather than contractors. The abundance in all these was superb. There was a prosperity even in poor countries like India which is no longer within the capacity of your imagination. There was abundance in the life of everyone. Perhaps, there was a lesser longevity, but much more life residing in that longevity. Today, my friend, the longevity is more, but life is less.



In a sense, I am going to tell through this month long endeavour in novel writing, the story of a nation. A nation whose generation to generation movement has a great story, neither relished nor forgotten, but often ignored in her quest for development. The story of a nation who progressed but perhaps lost her grip over the purpose of progress of a nation and her people.



Is it my story? May be. Is it the story of my parents? Possible. Is it the story of my brothers and sister? Quite possible. Is it the story of the common man? That of the lower middle class of India? That of villages and small towns of India? I cannot say or vouchsafe exactly what is this story about and who exactly are the characters in it. Perhaps I do not have to. As I start recollecting the truth that my life has been through, the people about whom I need to write will visit the story. In a sense, they will write the story. Not me.



With this another universal problem is getting resolved: who can tell the story best? And about whom the story should be told? The characters themselves will tell the story. And they will tell about themselves or more. I leave it to them. This is a highly democratic novel. The characters will decide what to tell, when to tell and what not to tell too. Do not blame me. I am not the author. Every character is an author.



And with plenty of freedom to speak out.