The Batra family moved to the second-floor flat hoping now for some privacy. The earlier house, located on the ground floor facing the main road, had been perpetually subjected to prying eyes. Well, whether anyone pried or not, Seema Batra always felt vulnerable. She had to keep the windows closed and ensure that all the doors were always locked. When the children complained of stuffiness and lack of view, she would snap back, "What view do you get in any case? Just the boundary wall."
I love reading books and watching movies. More than movies, the books. Because, you can drift into a wonderland, imagine how it would be, be a part of the scene witnessing the events without becoming involved.
But after I put the book down, sometimes I am in that world, imagining conversations and scenes between the character and me. At one point, though, the futility of it hits me. Unless I want to write fan fiction, I can see that that character and my paths will never cross. I am not a character in the book and nobody writes me into a book, not even me. Some aspects of me may be reflected in some characters I write, but the dialogues the character speaks or the actions and behaviour are not necessarily unique to me.
She just loved fashion designing. He had strayed into this field because he seemed a misfit everywhere else.
She was the class topper. He scraped through, bumbling about clumsily from semester to semester, helped by his friends and classmates.
The cars sped over the bridge on the canal, sparing neither the bridge nor the canal a thought. That's not true, there was just one thought, to cross it before the stink overwhelmed them.
And yet, there were a few who walked or cycled on it. They had learned to ignore the stink.
