So tell me, why did you have to toss me like a burnt toast?
Oh I get it, I was drab looking and burnt on the sides.
Burnt like a cinder.
Throw it in the bin.
I’m good for nothing.
That dog isn’t gonna like it.
It can’t keep up with the low standards.
So what are you going to do with this burnt toast?
Stare at it and hold it by the end of your fingers..
I’m ready to face the bin.
You can move ahead and dump it in it.
Remember, I’m still going to meet a hundred other burnt toasts at the city dump.
Yes, I’m ugly
Yes, I’m awful
You never said a word.
But I had a lifetime of experiences to share with you.
Night after night
The tears kept rolling,
The stars kept twinkling.
And the clouds appeared later,
Twisting and turning,
She was the mad woman in the attic.
Her back arched when she laughed,
The tears kept the pillow wet.
The darkness embracing,
Her new found friend.
Comforting and soothing.
Locked in the room
Was a woman with her heart broken.
Her body was a battlefield,
She was left to deal with it.
Lovely parents never prepared her for this.
Pushed out into this world of brightness,
Holding onto the scars was an ordeal.
When will this come to an end?
Her brother replied, “when you cease to exist”.
A ‘body’ is a ‘body’ until you have the nerve to give a form to it. Every ‘body’ speaks of its own individuality that no one can stop it from. If my body says “I want to be a man” this very second, I will submit to it with all my heart. That’s the power of a “body” and our “mind” clearly works on what it wants. The number of transgender movements that have taken place so far, speak of one thing certainly, “let your body fly”. Your body is not supposed to feel caged. It has a mind of its own. It speaks for itself. Listen to it. My identity is closely associated with what my body speaks. My mind in accordance with it.
I have been given the opportunity to be as educated as I can with respect to what “body politics” actually is. I have been there, learning how we all think of our bodies. Yes, I will dwell deep into something that we do not wish to talk about. Every ‘body’ is precious. Every ‘body’ seems to have a course of its own. It has a path that it takes that we cannot stop it from. It can be a “battered” body, it can be a “haggered” body. It can be a “sagging” body. It can be anything it feels like. It can be a bloody battlefield if it wishes to, just like mine.
It can also be a man’s body in a woman’s or vice versa. Do we have a say in it? Do you ever question or reprimand a person who is left-handed? I don’t think so, we turn a blind eye towards it. Why? Is it that ‘natural’ that we don’t question it? Well, you might as well accept something natural of the same sort.
‘The Danish girl’ taught me how to embrace it. How to embrace every form of sexuality and more than that, to love every part of what we are made of. If this entire piece is all about the movie talking and its influence on me, I would submit to it by saying “Yes”.
‘Child-44’, the most acclaimed novel written by Tom Rob Smith, definitely kept me on tender hooks. Every single paragraph of this novel is neatly crafted to its perfection. The mystery, suspense and the “rush” in the climax was one hell of a job attempted by the author and definitely kept us all craving for more. I must also add that every novel gives you a scope to learn more about history and ‘Child 44’ keeps up with the promise of enlightening us about Stalin’s regime and also Post-Stalin’s regime. A slice of gulags and the treatment of people in these atrocious bunkers leaves the readers astounded.
I read this novel much before I got to know that it would be made into a movie and with a hope that I would be reviewing this movie, rather comparing both the book and the movie on the basis of the impact it leaves on the readers and the viewers. Since the movie was released much later, I would definitely talk more about it. no doubt that the movie is well made keeping in some of the elements intact, diplomacy in Russia during Stalinist regime, but it lacked one main aspect. The quality of characterisation.
The protagonist, Leo Demidov, as envisioned by the reader is completely tarnished in the movie. Leo’s character is quite intense, magnanimous and intriguing which was lacking in the the main actor who played his role. Leo quietly takes you to another word of his own in the book and Tom Rob Smith does a commendable job with the characterisation. Tom hardy, who played the role of Leo Demidov was trying too hard to maintain the intensity of the character. The murderer, whose role is quite pivotal and strong allows the readers and the viewers to assume that he is the right candidate to steal the show.
The film fails to stick to the story as some of the incidents were conveniently negated, which would have added more quality to the movie. The incident where Leo and Raisa ( Leo’s wife) meet his parents when they come down to Moscow in order to investigate the murders of the children, is completely absent in the movie. The main crux of this entire novel is how they escape from the train which was headed to a gulag is modified in the movie. The director limits himself from showing the viewers that Leo and Raisa prefer to jump off the train rather than putting them through the ordeal of convincing the passengers and pulling off the floor boards of the cabin and slipping down the tracks with the help of bloodied dead bodies to protect themselves from being scraped by the nuts and bolts of the train. This would have given a different light to the story which was conveniently dismissed by the director. He settles with making the characters jump off the train through the doors which was the most clichéd way that the director opts for. The murderer’s daughter also plays an important role in the text but is not present in the film as a character at all. The personal life of the murderer is quite important and significant. But the viewers are in no luck to witness this. The climax is also not so clear as the novel. The reason behind him killing so many children must have been given a lot of importance but it is not clearly known to the viewers. He killed the children , ripped their guts and fed them to his cat. He does that to make sure he becomes popular enough for his long lost brother to find him and stop him. Keeping in mind of various discrepancies, I would urge every individual who is looking for a thriller, to stop and “read” the novel rather than settling to be cheated.
When the skies drop a tear,
I hold it..
I treasure it.
As the drop sways and tries to wriggle from my fingers,
I hold it more tightly.
Unable to let the joys spread in every direction.
I keep it close to my heart.
I run from the world, to the outer space
To bury it far away
From the inevitable future.
To share it,
Was not an option.
I haven’t found you yet.
You will never receive a piece of heaven
That I have struggled to hold it.
You may call me a demon,
Gritting your teeth,
Clenching your fists,
I see the animosity.
Do not come close to me.
For you will steal,
Not the tear from the sky
But the stable fingers holding it.
There are times when you want to hide from the world, shy away from every single living creature. The wave of emotions hit your throat and at that moment all you want, is to stay invisible. To you and everyone around you. To lock yourself up and weep the hell out and create a deluge and swim in those salty puddles. But the sliver of hope always lies within you. To stay up and watch that silver lining. Hoping against hope and trying to fix your gaze upon a countenance. A sign may be. A sign to tell you that you need to stand up tall and move towards that countenance. To reach to that position and stand still. You lay your hands on that shoulder and wait for the individual to respond. And finally, you see that face that was hiding all the while for a person like you to lay hands on the shoulder.
The sea gulls cried out in passing, the sky was dark and gloomy, the breeze was bitter and striking the cord of my inner instrument every time it took a course. My boots were heavy. I carefully took steps towards the shore making squishing sounds. I suppressed myself in every step. My hands were blue and numb as I managed to hold the rocks in the pocket of my trench coat. My quivering lips gave way to a parched throat. The sea seemed to have expected that since the salty air that it emitted had made a fine impact already. I was returning to my “self”. The primordial self that I had nurtured all the while. I was going back to the womb that I came from. The waves invited me with the exciting tides. How could I not be enamoured by the ways of the sea? I moved towards the waves and they accepted me. My boots were heavier as I kept pace with the waves. My gaze seemed to have terrified the foams that kept washing up my coat. The stones were trembling in my pocket but I held them tight with my blue hands. My gaze was stuck to the horizon but it was blurred by the salty foam of the waves. They kept overpowering me with each step I took. I blamed them for pushing me to the shore 30 years ago. They were fierce and my voice was subjugated even before I could say “No”. But I came back to them. How could I leave my dwelling? This was where I belonged right from the start.