SF and I are buddy-reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and all I want to say is — what on God’s good green earth is happening in this book? I picked it up because I was so enthralled by his writing in Of Love and Other Demons, and SF picked it up because, well, SF has a running list of all the must-read books and his dedication to suffering through popular literature is unparalleled. Don’t get me wrong, I love my friend, and I have to admit if it weren’t for him and ‘his dedication to suffering through popular literature’ I would have abandoned this book. Because what the actual fudge is going on in here?!
These days, SF and I swap numbers as text messages to bookmark where we are in this book.
126
168
176
250
I text SF, “Agar aur ek war hua na, I will throw this book out of the window.”
But I don’t throw the book out of the window, I trudge along. I carry it with me in the first class compartment of the local train and read a page before getting lost in a day dream. I adjust the golden metal bookmark and count the number of pages left. I go back and forth between the pages to ensure I am reading about the right Arcadio or right Aureliano.
SF texts me, “I haven’t been able to read in 2 days.”
I heave a sigh of relief because I know that if he finishes the book before me I might not make it to the end. It’s because of him I am putting up with this insanely intricate family tree, unceasing war between the Liberals and Conservatives, and the almost-incest. Though, I have to say that all the scenes that involve sexual intimacy are written exquisitely well. Those passages are stunningly beautiful without making sex crass and probably, this is the writing I am here for. But oh my God, the almost-incest!
SF texts me, “I want to know why this book is considered such a big deal. Have we lost the sense of appreciating good literature?”
Yes, I want to know, too. No, we haven’t lost our sense in good literature. So, we are 200+ pages in and we march along the mind-bending nonsense that is One Hundred Years of Solitude. The last time this happened all of us at Bookhad were reading If On a Winter’s Night a Traveller by Italo Calvino. All of us abandoned that book (except for one of us who had already read it years ago). He could not have been serious with that storytelling. No, really.
***
Over the decade of maintaining this blog, I have written about a whole spectrum of emotions. Until a couple of years ago, I used to heavily debate and doubt why I wanted to maintain this blog at all, and write about life and some such. With the help of a lot of friends, I made peace with the fact that the writing here will go on, and the chronicling of my life will continue.
After last week’s blog post, an online acquaintance said to me that my post gave her glimpses into my mental health (that’s what the post was about) and instead of censuring myself here like I would have done in the past, I am not going to gloss over anything through my writing anymore. Writing is done best when it is unvarnished (but not unedited). You have to be honest with your writing. You can’t be worrying about what your parents or partner or friends or lover might think when they read your work.
If you keep wondering about the opinions of other people about your subject matter instead of your skill as a writer, you’re doomed. I have no time to be doomed.
***
And this brings me to sad songs!
Where are all the sad songs? How are we feeling sad in present day and age and what songs are getting us by? This is a question I found asking myself, and no, I am not keen on listening to Arijit Singh blare through the radio. Thank you very much.
Music and lyrics are an expression of the heart and the human condition because catharsis through art is an age-old salve. I do find popular music lacking in this department. I am speaking about Hindi songs here though because somehow I feel that they work better in low moments. I remember discovering Adele many years ago and my frolleague and I would play Adele’s music so loud through our headphones while hurting a little about the boys who made us sad. I have forgotten about the boys, but the memory and the songs have stayed. Today, I cannot listen to Rolling in the Deep without feeling a wave of happy nostalgia come over me, and you’d know that it is not a happy song.
Maybe I am combing through the wrong playlists? Maybe I should be perusing through international pop instead? Maybe if you have recommendations on sad songs, you’ll send them to me?
***
I can’t pretend that feeling my big feelings has been easy, but as I was telling Boy about some of these feelings, he said it was good to break conventions of sense making. I agree because I’ve had to unlearn so many notions about convention and order over the years that it is both, a blessing and a curse, to live an unconventional life. So many things don’t make sense. But then again, they feel like glory and they feel like garbage, and well, I’m not sure if I would have it any other way.
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amarllyis 
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