Pralaya is a word my grandmother uses to denote the time it would be if I agree to fulfill both her dicta – to oil and keep my hair tidy; and to marry some agreeable bloke. It is, more accurately, the time that will come when the world will find itself dissolved, null, void.
Here’s a little about Pralaya, the story that I present to you here.
I have never attempted Pulp Fiction before. And this is among the longest things I’ve written and laboured over.
Rightfully, like all Pulpy stuff, you will find that I pay tribute to a range of favourite people and characters (in my mind, the difference is indiscernible): Roald Dahl, to Harper Lee; Irene Adler to Wednesday. It is also the stuff of Sandalwood movies (I might be over-promising here).
Writing this was a little difficult on many levels. Closing many loops. Straddling that horrible line of giving too much away, or saying too little. Worst of all, it involved Maths.
And it also involved something that I actively avoid in my stories – dialogue. Like Limp Bizkit had eloquently put it, “It’s all about the he said, she said, bullshit.” Difficulty also came in my choice of not using native words for terms (Eg.: I desperately wanted to use “Chikka Ejamanaru” for “Young Master”). I feel it quite prat-like to put an asterisk and footnote clarifying what a native term means, but I still wanted to make cultural references. Hopefully, it still works.
Ok, this presumptive preamble is also seeming prat-like as I carry on.
Onward to the story then. It was a bit much to post as a blog entry, so I made it a PDF. If your smartphones do not support PDF, I suggest you start calling them paperweights. With immediate effect.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. I’d love to hear what you have to say.
Peace, potatoes, love.