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Life is but an agglomeration of unpredictable books. Just when circumstances seem destined to be prosaically in progress, there is hurled a non sequitur straight out of the playbook of profundity. Who better to hold forth on this puzzling concept than the unfortunate Venky. Going about his chores with the tedium and tenacity of Flaubert’s Charles Bovary and the monotony of George Eliot’s Mr. Casaubon, his life was turned topsy-turvy by the unexpected arrival of Ash. It would in fact be inappropriate to use the term ‘arrival’ in the context of this story. “Manifestation” would be the most relevant word. Like a cool breeze that wafts in unheralded, or like a cloud that bursts with neither regard nor reason sending unsuspecting people scrambling for cover, she materialized in front of him on a midsummer’s day.
Like a magnificent reptile shedding its skin, the demure Charles Bovary morphed into a delirious Jay Gatsby. Even Scott Fitzgerald would have been taken aback by the transformation. Mr. Casaubon gave way to Homer’s Paris. She was his visceral Helen and the vicarious Elizabeth Bennet. More than anyone she was his own Beatrice. A Beatrice who left him fending an Inferno all by himself. Waft-in-waft-out; glide-in-glide-out
Meanwhile pages’ flutter…life moves on…. Ash Wednesday makes way to Black Friday…Charles Bovary waits with a sadistic glee and a sarcastic glint to reclaim his uneventful place.
Yes, life is indeed an agglomeration of unpredictable books. There are no good or bad stories. Just endings.
(Word Count: 246)
#TellTaleThursday with Anshu & Priya
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