Archive | August, 2016


19 Aug

How do thoughts travel? From a lifetime of memories that make me feel like I am being forced into a matchbox to trivialities to making me soar across the endless vista of clear skies towards a thousand wishes and dreams…

2011. The world dissolved around me and I thought I could get it whole again by sheer force of will. I went through the motions. What is the appropriate behaviour when you are offered condolences? I still don’t know. I looked at the sea of people and wondered what is that they see on my face. People I haven’t seen or known of. I envied our cat crawling under the bed. I recall not being able to cry. I wanted to do something to replace the strange vacuum I was cocooned in. Bits and pieces come to me about the week that passed. I walk around in a daze. I find shirts and other knickknacks. They still smell of him. Of comfort, filter coffee and incense.


2012. Not seeing him around is confusing. I keep thinking he is bathing or lying down. I am able to look at things he loved and while my throat clogs up, I think I am getting better at not being a wreck. There is a strange sense of deja-vu as I see people I saw last year. Some laughter tinged with tears, lots of memories and plenty of photo albums. I find myself talking to him and writing letters. I am clearing things up and I find an unopened bottle of his shaving cream. I look at his stamps, his books. Those accounts he kept of what and how much was spent where. There are random scribbles of his. As I look at the familiar scrawl the knot loosens a little.


2013. I am in a new place. New faces. A few idiots. I remember being angry with him for leaving. I am writing a letter to a friend. We go for a drive in the evening and there is a tense cold silence, shifting and moving. Suddenly we are near a small school and I talk while the dashboard is being subject to a stony glare and swear words. Suddenly my eyes are being shielded from the fierce glare of headlights with a palm. The heat coming off is gentle, like the fire warming your house. I smell his soap, the chocolate we shared and air freshener. Throughout the walk back home and after reaching I feel my heart galloping and I wonder if they can see in my eyes.. How my world faded away …


2014. This year has been awful so far. I think about how events would have played out if he were still alive. I wonder if the vacant expression on her face will vanish if he comes back, just for a moment… Or has she forgotten him too? I think about that moment when a fairy tale came to life and I wonder if I dreamed it up. I wait for the cold to dissipate and for the blood to start flowing again. I remember feeling guilty that I was feeling this .. this giddy… happy on the same date I lost someone. I am seeing with fresh eyes and yet I am longing for familiarity. I wish I didn’t have to write letters or talk alone as I try to bridge a distance that is insurmountable. I remember hearing that he was glad that the date wasn’t one of only loss anymore…


2015. I am wondering about DNA. Life. The entire day goes by and I remember rather late what the date is. Existential crises continue to swirl in my head when I look at the mirror and see that people who have gone, aren’t as gone as we think. That maybe their legacy will live on vicariously in you, even if they aren’t around anymore. That sharing their memories is how keep them alive. And I realize that even though it has been four years since I spoke to him I remember the finer details. Like him leaving paste over my brush after he brushed. The bottles of cold water. Groundnut candy. An anthology. I ask him why he left, swiping at stray, traitorous tears absent-mindedly. Amidst all this there are snatches of normalcy. Me being a fool in love.


2016. Now, it’s been five years. I thought I would never be able to get over the grief. And yet, here I am. I miss you terribly and I know it’s something that I will always carry around. As I am typing this, my eyes go to the clock as it ticks closer to the end of three years… I am opening random apps on my phone and grimacing at my impatience. Loss is a funny thing, isn’t it? You think you will never be able to get over something or someone who was so deeply entwined into your life. And yet, it morphs and it gets easier to breathe with time. Like a battle scar. Love is confusing. With each passing day, you are less sure of how to define it. Comes along when you least expect it, shakes everything up and leaves behind a flavour you will never be completely free of. Then again, do you want to be?


© My Rickety Typewriter, 2016; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.


Why Harry Potter and the Cursed Child was disappointing

1 Aug

Okay people, I am going to rant and grow mushy (I am feeling sentimental, bite me!). If you are planning to read Harry Potter and the cursed child, close this window.

I grew up reading the Harry Potter series. In fact, I used to read them so often (everyday, really) that my father used to say that I knew the books word for word. I did. It was no surprise that I read Harry Potter and the cursed child.

I remembered the excitement and the endless possibilities that came with Rowling’s imagination. There was nothing that couldn’t happen. I remembered discussing with my friends the rumours and speculations that were nearly mandatory in the months leading to the release of a new book. We used to play Harry Potter word building that used to last several days until we had run out of words.

I have read fan-fiction and many of them were achingly beautiful. And so I reminisced while at work before I curled up on my bed with hot chocolate and read the latest book on Harry Potter. I was done in about an hour and a half and I was confused. I didn’t know how to judge it.

In most cases, when a book is nearing the end, I get excited or antsy. Sometimes, both. Excited because the book is going to end so we know how the plot turns out or there are too few pages to find out and so we have the miserable wait for the sequel. In this case, I felt like I had just fast forwarded through a story without any character development and I didn’t know the book had ended. I was waiting for something, more… solid.

The style of writing was okay. I would have obviously preferred JK’s more, but well you make do with what you have Albus and Scorpius have been fleshed out decently, but I thought it was overboard how Rose doesn’t speak to them. You would think two decades after the war, there wouldn’t be any more of this nonsense. It was why the war was fought. Their reasoning to rescue Cedric is shaky at best and ridiculous at worst. There are so many other people they could have chosen, but my point is it’s too random. So, Amos shows up and cries and they decide to jump off the train?

In what universe does Harry talk like that to McGonagall? This is the woman he cast an Unforgivable for. And why didn’t she just ask him to shut up? Why does Ron seem like cotton head?

And and and Delphini? Say she does stop Voldemort from attempting to murder Harry. Where exactly does that leave her? Something as simple as losing a task causes Diggory to become a Death Eater, so what’s the guarantee that stopping this killing won’t affect her? Harry being unscathed would alter the entire timeline. There is no guarantee she would be born. And even if she is, there is nothing to show that she would grow up the same way. (I always knew Bellatrix was crazy, but this just takes the cake.) In what world is Voldemort capable of having any feelings that can be categorized as sexual? AND HOW DID THEY GET CHANNELED TOWARDS BELLATRIX?

And how does Cedric turn into a Death Eater? JUST, HOWWW?

I felt I was reading a Fan Fiction from an amateur writer. And that is putting it mildly. (Read avial* of first drafts and half-baked ideas with tenuous premise)

Just, no.

It’s probably better to watch as a play than simply read the script (Giving you the benefit of doubt, Jack Thorne). I am ranting because this is NOT Harry Potter.

Maybe it was just that the HPverse has expanded so much over the past few years that I have set the bar too high.

I am going to go on a HP marathon and read all the books to get rid of the after taste. Because The Boy Who Lived deserves a better tribute than this.

JK, you owe us another book.

*A traditional dish of different stewed vegetables garnished with coconut and oil.


© My Rickety Typewriter, 2016; Vintage Ink.
No part of the text – partial or complete – may be copied/ reproduced or transmitted without prior permission from the author. The content is the intellectual property of the author. The above applies no matter what way the access to the blog was granted.

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