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[3] Responsibility

“Hey!” Gio felt someone waking him up.

The voice seemed familiar. Gio’s eyes shot open. His blurry vision slowly turns clear; a wide range of shelves around him and dimmed lights of the library was over his head. Connie is standing right beside Gio.

Gio sat upright with awe in his face and Connie smiled at him. Gio took a deep breath and, “Where am I?”

Connie put his hand in his pockets and told him in amusement, “The library, where else would you be?” He chuckles.

Somewhere nowhere near reality! Gio almost snapped. He looked at Connie in annoyance. Whatever he’s laughing about isn’t something funny. Gio knows something happened just now.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Connie asked when Gio showed a confusion in his face.

Gio sighs, “Yeah… just…” Gio shook his head and stopped himself from spilling things, “What time is it, anyway…” Gio looks at Connie’s watch and then at the guy.

Connie shrugs, “The watch’s not working.” He shows his watch.

The hands weren’t ticking.

Gio stares at him for a moment and realizes something different about the guy. From his normal work clothes, Connie is now wearing a white long sleeves and maroon pants and a pair of strappy sandals.

“When did you…?” Gio trailed off.

“Hey, modern clothes are fine alright. I kinda like it.”

That confused Gio even more. Connie rolled his eyes and looked at Gio in amusement.

“Don’t judge me. This kind of clothing isn’t normal in my hometown.” Connie sat across Gio and looked at the red book.

Gio follows Connie’s gaze and as he did, Connie asks, “Do you happen to know what it is that the world needs right now?”

“What?”

“Brotherhood,” Connie says, “Leaders or common people, no one should be labeled as the higher one or the lower one. Everyone should look upon each other with equality. Besides, everyone has their rights to begin with. A good leader must give his people freedom and not limit them with fear,” Connie shrugs, “On another note, laws are the ones being used to draw the line between doing the good and preventing the evil. That,” Connie then whispers, “What common people realize. And all is forgiven.”

Gio has no idea with the sudden conversation. But as he stared at the guy sitting across him, a resemblance from the internet photos flashes through his mind. His words just seemed to be matured and full of wisdom. Like some kind of philosopher...

Who was that again with a long white beard and kind of sees the moral in everyone?

Confucius.

He is really in another world.

“Who are you? And please tell me we’re still in my world.” Gio asked, hopeless to evade this kind of situation. Again.

“I think you already know who I am.” Connie chuckles, “Don’t worry, we’re still in your world.”

Gio stood up abruptly. He tried closing his eyes and just to breathe for a moment. His hands were on his waist, “Y-You look different?” Gio didn’t know if he’s asking or what.

Connie just shrugged, “I had to disguise myself, looking for you.”

Gio looked around with confusion, “Why are we still in the library, though? Aren’t we supposed to be somewhere else?”

Connie just looked at him in awe, “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed yet.”

“Noticed what? What’s going on?”

Connie showed him the book with blank pages, “The Chinese Literature spilled two weeks ago. The words just fell out of the book and got mixed up with the real world.”

Gio gasped and covered his mouth, “Does that mean…” His hand pointed random directions, “we’re not in the book but--”

“The book rebuilt itself in the real world.” Connie nods.

“Oh no.”

“That’s why I’m here. Searching for the Collector.” Connie points at him. Gio glances at him, glaring.

“Well, you just wasted your time. I’m not doing it.” Gio dismissed him and started walking towards the exit. Connie follows him.

“I’m not asking you, Gio. This is your destiny, to be the Collector and save the Literature. You can’t just ignore it.”

“I-I can’t do that. Not anymore. I already did once, I’m done.” Gio just continued walking but then all of a sudden, Connie catches up and faces Gio, blocking his way to open the door.

“Gio. Listen, whatever happened to you, it’s not something intentional. You had your reasons.” Connie said, a sympathetic look on his face.

Gio shooks his head, the memories came like the ocean waves, flashbacks and the fear he was feeling came in.

“They had the reasons. I don’t.” Gio wanted to get out of that place. He just couldn’t stand this conversation they were having.

“But you can’t just continue living in fear and guilt all of your life. It was a life versus the lives of many. You just chose what’s rational in that situation.”

Gio can’t stand having this conversation with someone he barely knew and the fact that the guy is just spitting truth. And to be honest, Gio wanted to tell it to someone but he couldn’t bring himself to tell that incident. He’d been pitying himself, he does not want anyone to pity him anymore.

“Gio, the two worlds need you.” Connie put his hands on Gio’s shoulder and gave him a shake.

Why can’t this responsibility just leave me alone?

[a-writers-block]

[2] Phasing Out

Kanina pa nasa labas ng bookstore si Gio. He’s in his casual wear on a Saturday morning. Napagtanto niyang mas magiging madali ang paglimot nito sa nangyari last time if he just give the book back at the bookstore.

The book seemed to be magically restored. And gintong lining nito’y kuminang at ang papaos na kulay nito’y tila nagkaroon muli ng buhay. The dark blue shade really gave the Indian wear vibe na minsang suot ng dating kaibigan.

Gio wavered the thought of and started walking to and fro outside the building. Biglang napatuwid ang kanyang pagkakatayo and in panic mode, he almost ran off. But glancing back, tila na-curious ito sa bagong tauhang kanyang nasisilayan.

It wasn’t the old man who opened the front door; rather, a multi-cultured man popped out of the building. Dala-dala niyo ang isang stack ng old books na ibibigay sa charity next week.

The guy was a Filo-Chinese, Gio thought. Evident sa mulha ng lalaki ang pagiging Chinese nito with his eyes but a hint of tanned skin from being a Filipino. Who’s he?

The guy clapped the dust off his hand and noticed Gio standing right across the front door.

“You’re Gio, right?” Maingat niyang tinanong, as if making sure if it was the right person.

———

“I was told by the owner to give you the books he found last week. He was going to give it to you but you were nowhere to be found that day so…” Connie, the new guy who introduced himself as a part-time employee rumbled behind the counter. When did that old man think of hiring someone to look after this old building?

Irritation was evident in Gio’s face as they kept talking over the counter. For someone who he just met just minutes ago, the guy is already talking to him comfortably.

“So where’s the old man?” Hindi na napigilan ni Gio ang pagtatanong. The guy was about to dig his ancestral roots and Gio sitting around books just felt weird and chilly for some reasons.

Connie stopped talking and raised his brows, confused.

Inangat ni Gio ang Indian Literature book and put it down on the counter, “I just came here to bring this back.” Gio gave Connie a tight smile.

“Oh,” Connie cleared his throat.

“So, yeah… I’ll see you around,” Gio turned to his heel and was about to walk out the door when Connie spoke.

“What about the other books?”

“Don’t believe the old guy, I’m not looking for books as of the moment.”

“But--”

“I’ll be on my way.”

“Can you at least bring this book back? I’m not that familiar with the old lib,” Connie shrugs, “New guy, here!” He flashes a grin.

Mariing ipinikit ni Gio ang mga mata just to stop himself from talking rudely with Connie. He seems nice and totally innocent with whatever happened before. Kaya lumapit si Gio sa counter and pulls the book from the desk.

Connie just started to sort out the newspapers.

---

Gio found himself back in the same corner where it all started. Memories of those memories came rushing into his mind as if it happened yesterday. The whole corner was cleaned up and all the books were lined up orderly on the shelves. As he brushed off the spines with his fingers, a hollow feeling bore in his chest.

The past few months, he just seemed to be phased out. Those memories just made him feel things but as he thought about them over and over again, he felt… tired. That tiredness grew that it gave him insomnia. He wanted to escape those memories. But he couldn’t. It was as if these memories hunt him, guilt tripping. That page of his experience is something he never wanted to go through again.

He’s just Gio, anyway. A normal college student in the real world.

---

After putting back the book, Gio was about to exit the aisle when something caught his eyes. A book is sitting on one of the tables just a meter from where Gio stood.

He walked over the table and as he went near the object, recognition came upon him. A red book. The same book the old man showed to him. Gio knows he shouldn’t be meddling with anything about Afro-Asian Literature. All it brings is pain in the ass and insomnia.

But the blank pages just put his curiosity to the test. Again and again, he turned the pages until there’s no more pages to turn.

All of them are blank.

And then, nostalgia of the past came rushing in.

“Oh no,” it was like the world spun around him as the realization hit him, “No, no, no…”

Is he in another world? Again?

⥺ Chapter 1           Chapter List          Chapter 3 ⭄

[a-writers-block]

Chinese Literature: The Reader’s Point of View

!---(image here)---!

[1] What Comes Next?

Huff. Huff. Huff.

He found himself seated on his desk. His arm drapes by the edge of the table. He felt a head rush as he abruptly sat upright. 

I’m still in my room… the same scene from day one.

He looked at the time. 2AM.

What day is it? Is it the third day of the week? How many months have it been since I came back?

Hindi na alam ni Gio kung ilang araw na siyang sleep deprived. He always wakes up in the middle of the night. Same voices. Same nightmares that kept him awake.

He sat up and something rolled down the carpet. It’s the pen that his dad gave him. Inabot niya ito and gave it a long stare. The same feeling of longing washes over him but instead of need to write, parang hindi na niya kaya pang gawin ‘yon.

His fingers started trembling. His thoughts ramble inside his head, they become wired and knotted and it’s like the span of months that he used to compose the thoughts and just vanished right there.

He’s still Gio, pero ang laki ng pinagbago niya.

When he came back from the book, he found himself in front of his parents. They didn’t know what happened to him or about the book. It was just the difference between the time in the real world and in the book that made him feel relieved. At least he knew they wouldn’t overreact as long as he keeps it all to himself.

He cried and just hugged them. Walang salita, just a heart that learned the hard way.

The bond between Gio and his parents was restored after that night of realizations.

Or so he thought.

Akala niya kaya na niyang sabihin lahat sa parents niya. But he filtered all the stories he made to convince his confused parents on whatever was happening to him. Everyday, he wakes up with a smile on his face as he talks to his parents, to his classmates, to other people but as the sunsets, all he could hear is the powerful winds and all he could see is the same scene over and over again.

The death of his character.

Hindi na rin siya bumibisita sa bookstore ni hindi na rin siya ganun ka-immersed sa pagbabasa ng fiction books and just focused on his paperworks and deadlines. Iniiwasan niya lahat ng nakapagpapalala sa kanya tungkol sa libro. Each passing day, it becomes a cycle.

Nagulo lamang ang cycle na ‘yon nang minsang hinanap siya ng matandang nagmamay-ari sa bookstore. He had this wide grin on his face and his hands were at the back of his hand. Gio didn’t catch what the old man’s up to. But instead of pouring all his thoughts out, he gave the old guy a small tight smile.

“Hey…” Gio greeted him, nonchalantly.

The man’s reaction just opposed the sadness in Gio’s voice and replied, “Hey! Just the person I wanted to see.”

Gio’s forehead creased, confused to what the man’s agenda was, “Why? What’s up?”

“Well, I was just wondering why were you not showing up in my bookstore these past few days and…”

Hindi siya sinagot ni Gio. Tahimik lang siya habang naghihintay sa sasabihin ng matanda. Gio nods, encouraging him to continue what he’s talking about.

“... I found the rest of the book series you got a few days ago.” The old man winked and showed two books from behind. A red book and a pink book.

Tila isang balde ng malamig na tubig ang bumuhos kay Gio. He immediately turned around and walked back home. “Hey!” the old man chased him down the street.

“I thought you might want to read the next o--”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’ve decided to just let the other books go, okay?” Gio stopped from his tracks and looked at the man with fear overflowing from Gio’s eyes.

“I thought you’re into it? Why don’t you take these then?”

“Y-You wouldn’t understand. Just take them back. I’ll bring the other one tomorrow.” Nagmamadaling umuwi si Gio that he didn’t notice that something was off with the old man.

⥺ Chapter List                               Chapter 2 ⭄

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When the wind of change blows, some build walls while others build windmills.

Chinese Proverb (via quotemadness)

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a writer’s block playlist

                    [ tunes & honey ]

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He asked, “What makes a man a writer?” “Well,” I said, “it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.

Charles Bukowski (via what-strange-lives-we-live)

;)

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And so it was literature that brought me back to life during this time.

Dr. Paul Kalanithi, When Breath Becomes Air (via meetmeatlexingtonandpark)

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𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬

[1] The Reader and The Library

The flapping of pages echoed as the reader turned to the next page.

An old library was rooted between the coffee house and a three-story building, owned by an old man.

This is where the reader hides from all of his doubts and insecurities. Him buried within the three shelves of books is what calms his temperament down.

Most of the days he runs off from home and stays at the library. Within these books, expectations and favoritisms are invalid.

He wanted company, someone who will be there to comfort him.

Anyone. Fiction or real.

He closes his eyes. Grabs a book and flips over the pages.

Passion. Family. Freedom. Love.

He reads them out loud. Like he could make out something out of them.

Funny, because he seemed to forget how is it like those words could belong to him as he is to them.

He turns to another book. This time, it was an old one. Between the pages, there was dust and stains. He comes up to a page. A torn one.

An interesting fact: these worn out books were thrown outside the streets. The library owner picks them up and keeps them on this corner of the library.

Other readers are cruel.

His forehead creased. How can someone just throw these books after tearing the pages off?

It was a book written by a certain foreign author. On the front page were scribbles of lines, swaying and overlapping each other.

“It’s an Indian Book.” The library owner said when the reader showed up on the counter.

“What does it say?” The reader was curious.

The library owner finishes his mug of coffee and reaches out for the book the reader has in his hand. The reader obliged.

The library owner fixes his eyeglass and reads, forehead creased, “A Collection of Excerpts from Indian Literature.” The library owner hums and flips the book over, “It’s not written in English.” He looked up to the reader, “And I think this is a part of a series.” He taps his index on the faded (𝟏) on the bottom of the Indian text.

The reader’s eyes were filled with astonishment. He never knew the old man could speak other languages.

“Have you read it yet?”

“I did. But there were torn pages inside.”

The reader smiles, “Is it a good book?”

The library owner hummed, “Sure it is.”

“Well, I’ll take it then.”

“You’re interested? But it’s an old one. There are torn pages inside. Besides, do you speak Indian?”

The reader shrugs, “Nope.” The library owner looked up at him confused, “I got a translator app on my phone.” He fished out his phone and waved it.

The old man shook his head, “Just take it, kid, and get outta here.” He mumbles something under his breath about kids and technology these days.

The reader shakes his head, smiles, and pretends not to hear it.

“Say, do you know where I can find the other books?” He slaps the leather-covered book on his palm.

The library owner shakes his head, no. Then, look up. The reader raises both eyebrows, waiting for him to sit something.

The old man sighed.

“Why don’t you read that thing first instead of asking for more?” He then turned his attention to his newspapers.

The reader just shrugs the thought and laughs. Old geezers are scary. He then took off, “See you.”

⥺ Chapter List                               Chapter 2 ⭄

[a-writers-block]

I like the feeling when I completely forget who I am while reading.

(via cherrysbookblog)

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𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬

 [2] The Book and The Torn Pages

That night, the reader dimmed the lights, slipped under his blanket, earphones plugged into his ears, and read the book out of his translator app.

The reader listened as the voice in the background tells a story. The book was indeed a collection of excerpts and poems written by various Indian authors. The reader closes his eyes as he imagined the scenarios, characters, emotions word by word. It felt real.

It is real.

The translator app hissed.

A sudden rush of electricity crawls on his skin. His eyes shot open and wandered off the empty ceiling. As if searching for something. What is it?

The reader sat up. The hissing continued as he scrolled down the screen. The book was wide open and a ripped part of it showing up. The earphones fall off his ears as he rummages through the pages of the book. The next few pages were either too illegible to be translated or torn. Leaving him curious and confused.

He sighed and slumped back on his bed. He threw his arm over his head and wondered how the stories will continue now. He’s not really this desperate to know about a book.

But what he felt about this book was… different from the other books he had read. The book just seems to focus on the themes he usually avoids. Themes that scare him and bring nightmares during his sleep.

The thing that scares him the most is happening to him in real life.

Fiction just tastes sweet and comforting once in a while.

He raises the book and examines it. A leather surface that felt smooth and rough with the cracks that made it look so old. A faint of vanilla scent lingers in between the pages. Almost faded writings that are barely readable.

And a series of torn parts on every page.

The reader wondered if he could ever alter the story down.

He flips through the pages.

What if I make my own pages? He thought.

———

The reader opened his midnight lamp and began turning the pages, translating with his phone beside his messy on-due paperwork. He wrote down the translated words over the Indian manuscript. The library owner wouldn’t mind him if he messes things up over the books the old man gave him anyway.

He smiles and laughs and curses quietly as he fills the space with words. Emotions brimming out of his eyes and bled through the pen.

Suddenly, he paused then frowned.

The reader comes by a folded page.  A note in English was written on it.

He laughed not because it was a lame joke or something but it was Shakespeare’s words.

What is it doing in an Indian Book?

He wondered if the former owner of the book wrote it.

He paused from writing and read the note:

“There is a world elsewhere.”

As soon as the words were spilled off his mouth, something amazeballs happened. The Indian text came out of the book, dancing and swaying over his head. A veil of golden glow falls around him, warm and soft as he tries to touch it with his index.

A mixture of relief and bliss washed over his chest as he figured out what is happening at the moment. Oddly, the light didn’t scare him, instead His eyes were filled with amusement. He watched them float into the air and surround him at a quick pace. The words become legible and as if like sorcery, he understood every Indian text that wrapped him.

And then all of a sudden, a flash of white light came before his eyes.

⥺ Chapter 1            Chapter List          Chapter 3 ⭄

[a-writers-block]

Books have to be heavy because the whole world’s inside them.

Inkheart by Cornelia Funke (via bookaddict24-7)

[a-writers-block]

𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬

[3] Somewhere Between the Pages

The reader opens his eyes due to a sudden warm feeling on his face. He stood up abruptly and it gave him a head rush. Where am I?

He grunted and held the side of his head. He squinted his eyes as he recovered from the ache. He looks around and alas! He’s in the middle of a forest! What in the world just happen back there? Where is he? He can hear hi rapid heartbeat and heavy breathing as he figure things out.

He was about to yell for help when, without a warning, someone grabbed him by the arm and swooshed him from the center of the road.

“Careful!” A baritone voice boomed.

“Hey!” the reader protested.

Was it just me or… the ground is really shaking? The reader thought.

The reader soon realizes that there is an enormous elephant in the middle of the road, stomping his large feet. A warm buzz lingers through the thin air and with such great adoration, the giant closed his eyes. The reader watched in great confusion on what was going on at that time.

Suddenly, a woodpecker came, whooshing into the air and charging right in the elephant’s eyes. The elephant felt pain. His mouth cracks open as he licks both chapped lips. He began to thirst.

The reader just then realized how hot it is on the day. Beads of sweat forming in his forehead.

Just a meter from the reader was a sparrow, cheering his friends as they attacked the elephant. The reader could not form the words that he’s chirping but the sparrow’s narrow eyes were filled with vengeance.

“Watch.” The man beside him says.

“A-Are they trying to kill the elephant?” the reader stutters and gulps. As he felt his throat in drought.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

The man stared him down and ended on his eyes, “The elephant killed the sparrow’s eggs, that’s why.”

The reader could not believe what he just heard. It was the same as the one he just read from… the… book?

Where is he?

As he wondered, the frog croaked out of nowhere.

The elephant stomped his feet as he followed the croaks. He could feel the drought in his throat and searched for the water. But then, his other foot slipped into a pit, with his weakened knees, he fell down and just like that the giant was dead.

What in the world just happened?

“And that is why I say: Woodpecker and sparrow with froggy and gnat, attacking en masse, laid the elephant flat.” The man says in a deep, pragmatic voice.

The reader watched, in deep confusion and anger, the small creatures celebrating away from them while the elephant lay down, dead from drought and vengeance of the other creatures.

“How cruel.” The reader said.

“Nothing is crueler than not seeking justice.”

“It was clear from the start that the elephant did not deserve to die.”

“So do the chicks.”

“It was unintentional. The elephant was in a feverish state.”

The man looked at him and said, “You do not understand well the feeling of a parent losing his child.”

The reader just stared at him. Not wanting to say anymore words about the man’s utterance. He never felt like his parents were losing him. He was just there, living his own life. Him dead or not, they just don’t care enough.

⥺ Chapter 2           Chapter List             Chapter 4 ⭄

[a-writers-block]

The world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don’t know.

Sherman Alexie, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (via quotespile)

[a-writers-block]

𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬

[4] The Indian Literature

The man began walking the opposite direction, leaving him and the dead animal on the road.

The reader tries to catch up with the man. As he walked behind him, he realized how funny this guy looks. A bald head with a ponytail hanging behind, a yellow-orange cloth just wrapped around his body. He looks like a monk. Maybe he’s one of the Air Nomads? The next Avatar?

He choked from resisting his laughter. He coughed and coughed and coughed.

The monk stopped and turned to him. The reader got intimidated from his stares as he offered him a jug of water.

So much for watching the elephant die in drought.

The reader takes his offer and drinks.

“So, you’re the Collector, huh?” The monk asked. Looking at him from head to toe.

He seemed weirded out from his outfit. A lot different from what the monks have seen that considered trend-fashion in that time.

“Collector?” The reader asked, confused.

“The one that The Book sent to search for the missing pages.”

The crease on the reader’s forehead deepened.

“The one sent by who to search what now?”

“The Book. You’ve read the line, Didn’t you?”

“So… I am really inside the book? And by the way, when is that Shakespear’s words became a sorcery mantra?”

“The magical words were a gift of a young British man who once educated the Indian with English language and yes, you are in a book. It was written in the scriptures from centuries ago that a man will come and find the lost pages.”

“So you’re like my guardian as I seek these pages?” The reader air quotes the word pages.

“Yes and no.”

“What?”

“I am only leading you to the city and once I drop you off, you shall start your mission.”

The reader lets out a gasp, “You, who actually knows the whole map of India will leave me, someone who just magically appears out of nowhere in these deserts, no knowledge about anything except your instructions?” He then laughs sardonically, “Are you kidding me?” His voice almost ended in a high pitch.

The scholar nods, “I am the only one left out of the four stories and you, shall fix the other three. It is my job to guard my own stories, that is why I must come back.”

“How important is this collection of pages?” Hoping for some miracle to happen that might help him escape this responsibility.

“The whole Indian Literature depends on you.”

The reader was baffled. The sequence of events was too quick to comprehend that it gives him a hard time taking in.

“Hold on a sec,” the reader stops from walking.

He didn’t realize how far they had gone through the hot day that he didn’t know that the sun was already setting.

“The responsibility you’re giving me is too much. You depend on me? Me? How is that even possible? I just got here. I only found out that a magical book that transports people into books exists. How am I even chosen to be the savior? I don’t even think that I’m worthy of Thor’s hammer.” He babbled and laughed anxiously.

The monk weirdly stared at him going on with his monologue.

“First, I don’t know any Thor living in this area. And child, believe me, there were others before you that tried to help the Indian Literature. But…”

“But what?”

“But their hearts were filled with evil.” He looked at him intently, “The power that they held before you, changed them and wanted more.”

“Power? What power?”

“It’s not something I must speak about. But soon, you shall know.”

The reader didn’t pursue the discussion and they just quietly walked down the Indian land. The monk didn’t even glance back and just walked.

It was only the orange sky and the warm sun in the west side, peeking from the trees and reflecting on the rivers. Crowds of animals looked at him and whispered, glance after glance.

The monk, who actually has a name, Vishnu Sharma, told him many things from his own stories. He was a scholar and an author back then. A king once had three sons who were illiterate about governing the kingdom and Sharma was picked out to give them wisdom about politics. But he couldn’t have done it with just regular means rather he used five different stories about animals that bestowed wisdom to the three princes.

“Wait. Does that mean… the elephant… the sparrow and his crew…” the reader could not find any chivalrous words to explain how killing someone on another’s account can actually help a leader.

Sharma chuckled that made the reader feel uncomfortable. Is he some kind of serial killer?

“No, child. The point of my fables is to glorify shrewdness and cleverness more than helping others. What you had witnessed a while back focused more on the small creatures’ teamwork and strategies to take down the elephant; that even small ones can take on the enormous ones.”

“I get that part. But—But the other details of your story were wrong on so many levels. First, the elephant was in an uneasy situation that he didn’t realize that the chicks were on the Tamil tree; an accident,” the reader emphasized the word'' accident with his palm, “The sparrow did not look into it if the elephant was being unintentional or not. In governing a kingdom, should it be a lesson to the ruler that he needs to know how to figure out the whole situation? And should not act out of his anger?”

The scholar listened.

“Second,” he made a V with his fingers, “It was an unequal match and take note: the elephant was sick. Does it ever occur that maybe you’re teaching the princes to have more allies in taking down one single opponent? Well, aren’t they gonna be a great leader?” The reader said, sarcastically.

The scholar answers, “I made that story to balance what is good and what is wrong. I wanted them to see that they think they actually did the right thing but let them realize what matters most is the right reasons and judgements for everyone.”

A beat. The reader fell into a pit of silence.

“Now that I think about it, do you have any idea why The Book chose someone like you?” Sharma asked after a while.

“Oh, don’t change the subject, sir.” But the reader’s eyes spoke of curiosity.

“Unlike the other chosen ones, you are the only one who seeks just and equality. Someone who possesses a pure heart.” The scholar continued.

The reader once again, lost his words, “I—No one has ever told me that before…” the reader’s eyes divert in anywhere in the sight. He’s not really the compliment receiver type.

“Well, someone should.” Sharma continued walking; he could almost see the city.

The reader catches up.

“Say, all for that and you didn’t get even just a single penny.” The reader pointed out the scholar’s fables.

“Knowledge does not come with a price, child. Remember that.”

The reader just shrugged it off, “Money is a must in my town, though. Everyone needs it to survive in a jungle of corruption and crab mentality.”

Sharma shook his head in disbelief, “Your home seems a bit… greedy.”

“Dude, greedy is an understatement.”

“Dude?” The scholar’s brows furrowed.

“I mean, friend. Pal. Buddy. You know… the likes.” The reader smiles, his hand moved animatedly.

“You call me a friend and yet you haven’t entrusted me your name. Or shall I call you Collector for always?”

Well, Collector seemed to be the highest seat in this place… but…

“No, please. Titles make me uncomfortable. Just call me, Gio.”

“It’s an unfamiliar name in my mouth but fine.”

They continued walking after a while.

⥺ Chapter 3            Chapter List            Chapter 5 ⭄

[a-writers-block]

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.

C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves (@goodreads)

[a-writers-block]

𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬

[5] The Market

“If I can understand you well, does that mean I know how to speak Indian or bringing me into this land has a default English dub setting?”

Gio wonders if it was magic that made him understand the Indian language. Why can he understand these people and err… animals when they talk? And why is he hearing English instead of the foreign language?

They travel through a carriage to drop the reader off the city of India.

Outside the palace, is a long walk of market with food, clothing, jewelries, spices, and all sorts. Every man, woman, child, and old lived within the city. Great salesmen were trying to grab the customers’ attention even though it seems that they did not need the items the salesmen were selling. Chatters between women were quiet but their giggles vanished with the wind. Children play and run along the maze of the market.

Sharma bought clothes for Gio to wear in order to lie low and away from suspicion. He wore an emerald green robe that covered him well. It seems like the country is considered conservative when it comes to their clothing.

“There are things that one cannot simply understand. Maybe it was The Book doing you a favor or you might have it in you.”

“Believe me, I use subtitles whenever I watch foreign movies.”

Sharma didn’t understand what he meant about the movies and just watched Gio as he feast his eyes on the rich culture of India.

After a while, Gio asks the scholar, “How do I find these pages, though? Where are they?”

The scholar watched a group of kids running on the side of the road, “The prophecy told centuries ago that these words were not written on a mere paper rather the lost words were embedded on objects that reflect on what truly is that the character desires.”

“Am I searching for pages of a book or people?” Gio was confused.

“You are looking for peculiarity within one’s story. You have to make it right before terrible situations happen.”

“Woah,” Gio chuckles sardonically, “Terrible situations? How can I even possibly evade something like that?” Gio almost glared at the scholar.

“I told you before, you have the power.”

His words don’t even make sense. What power does he have that could save this world? Gio felt the pressure on him.

⥺ Chapter 4            Chapter List            Chapter 6 ⭄

[a-writers-block]

Every reader, as he reads, is actually the reader of himself. The writer’s work is only a kind of optical instrument he provides the reader so he can discern what he might never have seen in himself without this book.

Marcel Proust (via macrolit)