Ansh Das's Blog, page 7

One fish is no fun

A good story must have multiple characters in it. A single-character story is single-dimensional and, hence, boring.

Today I want to play your friendly neighbourhood science guy. Only that I won't be doing much besides talking. Trust me. You don't want me doing anything in a science lab. The last time I tried…people are still recovering from it. You, on the other hand, shall conduct an experiment. Then you shall write a story based on that experience.

Ready?

Take a fighter fish and put it in a small glass tank. What do you see? You'll see it swim around until it gets tired and slows down to a stop. You'll see the movement of its gills as it breathes. You'll see the way it feeds. All very nice. Now to some business. Write down your observations. I'll check after 1 hour.

Just kidding.

You could write about the shape, size and quality of the glass tank. You could write about the beautiful colours on the fish. You could write about its swimming style. Oh, yeah, include the feeding bit. Great. Now use your notes to write a story.

No matter how you think and what you eventually write, there is a 99.99% chance it is going to be flat, dull, sleep inducing, call it what you may.

Let's go back to the experiment. This time put a second fighter fish in the same tank. Ooh! And what do we see? Each fish having a go at the other one. The fight is going to either be a swift one or a slightly drawn out battle, but eventually either one of them or both shall succumb.

Now, note down your observations. Write about the arrival of the second fish in the tank. Write about the reaction of the first fish. Write about the reaction of the second fish. Write about the way they sized each other up. Write about who made the first move. Write about their individual fighting styles. Who do you think was tougher? Did you feel bad for the weaker one?

Rewind to the beginning. Write about how welcoming the fish tank looked to the first fish. Write about how it went around marking its territory. Write about how he felt like a king until – that's the most important bit – something changed, the second fish arrived.

A story cannot survive with only one character in it. You may add excitement to it by throwing in some events but, by and large, it is going to be a boring one. However, if you had two characters in it, you could think of a million ways to make them interact with each other.

One fish is no fun.

- o -

An Idea is born

It began on a warm evening right in the middle of a crowded party on the terrace of Red Bar at 2 IFC, then Hong Kong's tallest building. I walked away from the group I had been talking to and stood at the edge of the terrace to look towards Kowloon, on the other side of Victoria Harbour. The ICC building was still under construction but it was no secret that it would overtake 2 IFC in height after completion.

My gaze wandered towards the high-rise apartment buildings beyond the ICC. Like most high-rise upscale apartment buildings in Hong Kong, each unit had an open balcony. I remembered how my feet had felt strange tingling sensations when I had stepped out onto the balcony in one of those buildings. They were similar to the ones I had experienced on the Abyss Turbo Drop at Ocean Park, where your seat is dropped through 20 floors in a vertical free fall. I shivered.

In my mind, I watched the figure of a woman on the balcony of a high floor. As if without a care for the world or her safety, she climbed the guardrail and sat down with her feet dangling over the edge. She picked up a glass and drank from it.

As I watched her with growing concern, she swayed to one side and fell.

I ran as fast as I could, past the security desk and into the elevator, which I rode up to the 46th floor. When I arrived at her door, I found it ajar.

Stop! I came back to reality. The idea wouldn't work. There were some basic points I had to think about.

Where was I? In my apartment, in a neighbouring building.

What was I doing there? I was out in my balcony taking a break.

A break from what? Hmm. A party. A party at my place.

Was I drunk? I was drinking.

If the lady had fallen off the balcony why had I run to her apartment? Er…

It would work only if she fell backwards onto the balcony floor. But then, why was the door ajar? Was she staging it?

No, it wouldn't work. I discarded that scene. I had to think of another approach. What if I replaced the lady?

I took a sip and set the glass on the wide guardrail. Without another thought, I climbed onto it and swung my feet over the edge. I picked up the glass and drank from it. Vodka took my worries away. It made me feel light. I looked down at the swimming pool on the ground floor, beyond my dangling feet. If I jumped, would I fall into the pool? Did it matter? No. I needed a strong reason to live. I needed a strong reason to turn back.

And then I fell.

I was shaken back to reality. The vodka was gone — OJ was back. The vision had been so strong that I felt weak in my knees. I hobbled to the nearest sofa and plunked down.

Over the following days, I would toy with the vision (call it a scene if you may). I would dissect it, I would recreate it, I would lengthen it and I would shorten it. Unable to accept any particular version, I would stash it away in my memory without an inkling that I would return to it in the future.

- o -

The Truth about Fiction

There are websites that tell you how you should write, how you should polish your work, how you should present your work and how you should market it. All these are skills you can learn.

But those websites don't tell you how to conceive an idea you want to write about. That's because they cannot. If they did, it would become their idea and not yours.

The truth about fiction is – nobody can tell you how to conceive a story. You have to walk that path on your own.

One of my friends writes non-fiction for livelihood. He is good at it and, I believe, successful too. One day, he had a few questions for me — "How do you write fiction? How do you create a world around yourself? How do you dream up characters?"

I said, "I don't know!"

The truth is I don't know. Maybe I am just an over-imaginative person? But so too are many people around me. Maybe I like making up stories because I love telling them? But so do the friendly neighbourhood gossipmongers. So what makes us, fiction-writers, different from non-fiction writers?

I started writing stories in primary school with an aim to make my brother and friends laugh. I remember filling up an orange notebook with plays, a brown notebook with short stories and a green notebook with the beginning of a Hardy Boys – Nancy Drew combo novel. The last one was an attempt to co-write with my friend's elder sister and, hence, titled 'the case of the missing brooch'. Only that we had no idea what the plot was, especially after the brooch went missing. And, yes, I had no idea why someone would want a brooch out of all things.

Moral Science and English Language subjects provided fantastic opportunities during the exams. I could get away by writing the compositions in poetry format. Now that I think about it, I wonder why my teachers didn't fail me.

When I moved to another city, I had to write an entrance examination to get into a new school. On the very first morning at the new school, I found my answer sheet had been read out to the class by our class teacher. How embarrassing!

Secondary school life was spent on love poems and rap songs. Quality didn't matter, quantity did. I remember churning out 3 songs on one day on 3 different topics. In those pre-YouTube and pre-digital camera days, it was expensive to record at a proper studio. Thank goodness.

During college, I kept at it. I had filled up 2 diaries with poetry (one orange and the other maroon; don't know why I am still keeping track of the colors).

My best work from those days was a short story titled "sometimes in love…" It was a collaboration with one of my best mates. The staff editor rejected it. "A story cannot have two endings." Why not?

When I am asked to write articles, I find it boring. I cannot focus. How can I create something when my imagination is restricted within boundaries? For this very reason, I prefer using unruled notepads. They allow me to expand and generate. (I'll write about mind mapping in a later post.)

So, how does a fiction writer's mind work?

Well, I cannot speak for others and I can just attempt to tell about how mine works. But let's chat about that on another day. Ciao.

- o -

MAY 14, 2000 AD

They had come together as if by design. Her own children had abandoned Sita Devi because she had become a burden. At 78, she could hardly see beyond 4 feet without her spectacles. Somebody had told her she needed new ones. She could not afford a new pair; hunger ruled over sight.

Ram Pyare was the lone survivor of a tragic accident. A speeding truck had run over his sleeping family. Old and poor he was, a quitter he was not. Odd jobs kept him alive.

Their relationship had started three years ago, on the day Ram Pyare had heard Sita Devi sing. He was hurrying down the steps to get into the Virar local, his harmonium hanging from his shoulders. It was his last train for the day. As he pushed his way through the crowd, he had heard her voice.

It was not the song but the voice that had mesmerized him. He didn't board that train.

The two had combined forces. Ram Pyare played the harmonium while Sita Devi sang with her melodious voice. They worked at Andheri Station from morning 'til night, everyday. They had grown used to each other and were a family now, if one could call them that. As Ram Pyare played along, he felt uncomfortable. He was perspiring. The stabbing pain in his chest was getting worse. Not wanting to alarm Sita Devi, he had kept it a secret. Anyway, it wasn't important. Just one of those small things that accompanied old age. He was thankful he had no ailments. Some of his friends complained of joint pain all the time. But his fingers still stood by him. It may be wind in the stomach or something. He made a mental note to eat meals on time. That would take care of the pain.

Sita Devi had noticed a difference in the manner Ram Pyare was playing that day. He was slow. He had missed some notes. And his familiar enthusiasm was absent.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"It's nothing. Just a little pain in the chest."

"Since when?"

"Since noon. Don't worry. It's nothing."

Later in the evening, they headed home – a bridge under which nothing flowed in the dry seasons. The monsoons were a horror story though.

Ram Pyare could take the pain no longer. He collapsed on the ground, his harmonium making a thunderous noise.

Sita Devi jumped. She could not see much in the dark. But she knew he was on the ground and sat down beside him.

"Are you alright?"

He grunted in response.

She should get him to a doctor, she thought.

"Just hang on. I am going for help. I'll be back soon."

She managed to pull herself away from him.

Clutching their money pouch, which contained an entire day's savings, she stumbled towards the platform. At least she had money, she thought. Not much but enough.

She began shouting for help hoping to catch someone's attention. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"What happened, grandma?"

She didn't recognize the voice but it didn't matter. She tried to explain as quickly as she could between gasps.

"I think we should get a doctor. I know one that lives in this neighbourhood. I'll go get him," he said. "By the way, do you have any money?"

Sita Devi took some money out of the pouch and gave it to him.

"This isn't enough, grandma. He may request his fees in advance. I may have to get medicines…"

"This is all we have." She held out the pouch to him. "Please come back soon."

Asking her to return to Ram Pyare, the man took the pouch from her and hurried off into the darkness. Sita Devi struggled her way back to where she had left Ram Pyare lying on the ground.

"Ram Pyare!" she called out.

Only silence responded.

Tears continued rolling down her cheeks.

- o -