On Literature 1

The solitude amidst the diaspora of a disarrayed sect to send torrents of unrelieved relief. Actually, this ought to be a simple story, of a society, of the people in it, of their lifestyle, of happiness, of sorrow, of beliefs, of wants and desires, of pain, of beauty, of escapades, of attainment, of all the composite quest of beings. But this is how the story will turn, like a kite, it would fly and live above the curtains of the soul. It will coil and attract like the lily, like a ballot, it will be a sudden sight, that arrest the eyes, not only that, it would emerge as hills of reality. embedded with undiluted truth. Not as assumption, rather, it will be bathed with unpredictable rawness of words and opposite, desired situation and shifts, of syntax and semantics, of painting and needling, of relic and now, of here and there.

Suddenly, like a splash, we would emerge from the shell to uncover the lock on our faces and marvel at the moments spent in societal clone. Society, the famous subject in every conversation, named itself as the hood of existence, where decisions sprout without the bearer’s awareness. For the air we breathe, the soil we walk, the desires we crave, the assumed circle of life are progeny of man's made laws. Actually, this should be an arty story. But all art has a form from the vicinity it is birthed. Remember the layman's definition of Literature "as the mirror of the society". A piece does not exist without a society, also, humanity. Talking about humanity, society and literature, and all that occur, all the stories printed, painted, pointed and parted are again, progeny from a stemmed root. All of these make, preserve and reserve history. Again, Literature is beyond society, but preservation of history for the depiction of the present and the reservation for tomorrow.