Kafka’s Journal - Story

It is the start of August and I have crossed my eighth month of the year. Some things are constant in this world, which made me write this journal in this mountain of streams. Yes, I’m in Alappuzha, a place for silence and a great destination for a vacation. I love this place. OK, I forgot to mention the name. My name is Kameshwaran. Yes, weird name, but that’s my character. A name whose meaning says my character. It literally means a man who has an irresistible desire for something. I always had a great desire for everything, but some things used to happen, but I won’t care and will move on and be like ‘Who cares? Of course, I cared. That’s why I’m writing this.

I am a person who likes to read stories where the ending is sad or faulty. If all had a great finish, then I’m reading fiction. There is no good ending to anything. Maybe this journal will also have a sad ending. But I don’t want my readers to feel pity on me or think I have gone through some breakup to write this. I am normal. Yes, regular and casual. I have a feeling that only sad love stories' characters stay in our hearts more than any other characters in this world. Because we are all flawed like them. That’s why Romeo and Juliet are a hit even though they're great literature.

All stories are flawed in some way. Nobody has the guts to say, "I have a great life." If he had and said those, he either didn’t have them in the past or was just self-satisfied with what he saw. Maybe it was the job you were searching for or your dream college. fantasy female or crush is all just a dream that you live until you wake up.

"Kameswara, c'mon, we need to leave this lake," said a mutual friend.

Slowly, I closed my small book and I started to write this. It had only five to six pages, and I’m writing so I can leave it somewhere so another person will read this. Or this will also be kept in the journal drawer. Franz Kafka's collection will increase another. Then I didn’t mention anything about Franz in the journal. If it ends up there, then it will be the odd one out there.

So, for readers, in this Kafka collection of mine, while Mr Kafka went through a lot in his early twenties, the same happened here. No hope. My habit is to write a journal if I feel lonely or just out of sorts. Yes, life is difficult, but as always, death is not the solution.

I began to feel as if I was giving readers advice. I hate advice, but people say I’m wise when it comes to advise. I hate to say it, but I want to stop advising. No one is asking for it, brother.

Soon it went through the narrow roads of the tea estate and mountains, with a chilling climate where I just looked outside through those grilled windows. Yes, the usual aesthetics are there. But I’m writing this, and it depends on my mood to give this book an ending or be left blank. I feel a successful conclusion and a blank ending are the same, and I started to jot down those.

People sometimes don’t read books which are not continued by the author for some reason. Some people will hate sad endings. Usually, my feelings but my view of it are different. There are always happy conclusions, and books with no end are the best, as you may not see something you hate. Something you feared. You are unconcerned about the author's dharma and karmic influence. You just need your happiness, like the owner of a golden egg-laying goose. What happened to the goose and its owner is happening here. Both authors change to your liking, and you also tear them up to get silly endings.

We need books that affect us like a disaster, which grieves us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

even if it has a tragic ending. It is the tears you shed while reading them that make the book worthwhile. making it all worthwhile for those emotions alone.

The story continued till the next page, as the bus stopped suddenly for those steep speed breakers. Normal Indian roads. I just scribbled. But I just need to continue as I don’t want my journal to stop. just to overwrite those lines.

"Kameswara, do you need tea?" asked my friend.

I replied, "No need," and continued my pondering of the world. I suddenly noticed that a granny was sleeping next to me, and I suddenly saw what I wrote.

"Too clumsy handwriting." If my teacher saw that, she would ask me to write an imposition.’

I just didn’t care and continued my writing. I changed the topic to "Sad endings."

If people don’t like sad endings, they are just missing something really important in life. I think we ought to read only the kinds of books that wound or stab us. If the book we're reading doesn't wake us up with a blow to the head, what are we reading for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kinds of books that make us happy are the kinds we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief. Many don’t understand what pain is. What a heartbreak and what a sad ending.

I just thought for a second about what would be the best sad story to say. All I remember is my story. My love story This is going to be my seventy-fifth version of my love failure story.

The girl I just got into infatuation with got me to link and had no time to waste, so I said aloud what I meant to her so that she wouldn’t leave me. I just feared that she may have left. She just started to stay then got lost during uncertainty where she just saw my messages and didn’t reply. She said that she wants me to know more, and so do I, but it's all just that she wants my ghost. Thank God because she needs to do it. I can’t move further nor go back to her as ego blocks. The question comes to me, why me? because I have not even got anything as my dream has also faded like a dream. Now I don’t know whether to move on or just weep on the thoughts of the dream and believe one day it will come true. I can’t think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time, without interruption, endlessly, even though I feel that here in this world there’s no undisturbed place for our love, neither in the village nor anywhere else; and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us anymore.

Suddenly, the grandmother near me patted my shoulder and got out of the seat and asked me to join. I refused, but she again insisted. The poor old person, I just continued, went to the tea stall and brought two teas.

She said, "I will pay for mine" and kept 12 rupees. And it suddenly started to rain, so I and her just got sheltered in those plastic covers near the just drizzling rain. It sounds romantic, but I’m with Granny. I just hoped she would message me.

I don’t want to mention in the journal that she hasn’t talked to me for the past three weeks. So, I just forgot the part. Suddenly, she called me.

"Who is that girl you mentioned in that book?"

She is the one I want to hit my head with my hand for what I said. But I didn't, as I just acted cool.

She just scoffed and drank her tea. I just smiled with her while she got out and kept the empty glass on those tin jars' lids and just enjoyed the rain. I just laughed and just sipped and finished my tea, said thanks for the tea and got on the bus.

She then continued to the bus. "When I ask you this many questions, why do you ask me this many?" she asked.

I replied, ‘Are we now dating?’

She just showed her eyes, like why not?

Then I continued and asked, "What kind of ending do you like?"

She said, "I hate the ending." I want the journey to continue. Like Kafka’s stories. Short or long, I just want to keep going. I think we ought to read only the kinds of books that wound and stab us.’

I just kept my hand on my chin, rested my neck, and read how she described the Metamorphosis book in a way that I loved. She said something terribly like what I say all the time.

Then I asked, "So what about your special person?" I asked.

She got moist eyes, and then I thought I again crossed the border and went and sat silently. She then returned to the same seat, and we continued our journey. I had a lot of thoughts, but she didn't move and select the way back. I just thought she would forget when I reached our hotel, so I just got my bag and moved. She called my name.

I stopped. She called me with a finger. I moved towards her and saw her.

"Would you mind coming with me for a minute?" she asked.

I just followed her like a dog towards its owner. I saw her take a cigarette from her jacket pocket and order a sketch from the bar. She asked anything for me. I just said orange juice.

She laughed at my decision, but I just stayed there and saw that my surroundings were full of darkness and no light, apart from those streetlamps, which are dim amid the night. She said, "Do you want my story?"

I nicked and said, ‘If you are comfortable,

She then sipped the scotch which came and puffed that cigarette and spoke to me.

My husband, my special person, was just like you. He only introduced me to Franz Kafka's literary works. He never feared loss. As Kafka said, "Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way." He used to say this to me till he chided his cancer, at the last stage of his bone marrow. I would fight on his deathbed. Why didn't you tell me before? He despised that hospital and its staff, so he usually says, "Leave everything behind and just look at you." He said when he came to know he had been admitted to the hospital, he just said "Those lines from The Metamorphosis."

I just recited those lines: "As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect."

She just had tears in those eyes where those tears just fell through the frown on her face little by little. Every word she would have said has been replaced by tears.

I just hold her hands and just don’t know what to do. But she gulped down the glass of Scotch and said, "You know, I ghosted him, made him wait for a long time, and did all those things as a teenage girl would do." I regret it now as I just feel I didn’t have enough time to spend with him. It has been 20 years since his death. I just came to forget his demise, and just like those stories, I saw you. When one is alone, imperfection must be endured every minute of the day; a couple, however, does not have to put up with it. Aren’t our eyes made to be torn out, and our hearts for the same purpose? At the same time, it’s really not that bad; that’s an exaggeration and a lie; everything is an exaggeration, and the only truth is longing. But even the truth of longing is not so much its own truth; it’s really an expression of everything else, which is a lie. This sounds crazy and distorted, but it’s true. Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most-you are the knife I turn inside myself. This is love. This, my dear, is love.

I just patted her on the shoulder and raised her with my hand to make her stop drinking and take them for a walk. She smashed her cigarette on the ground and talked about how her husband writes all kinds of stuff, and she said it took her all these years to find that one part of the journal was missing.

"When was that journal written and what is it about?" I asked.

It’s the time when he came to Alappuzha. I just ghosted him for a while, thinking he was just another random guy. At that time, he seemed to mention that he had a small book to write. That’s why I came here. 'Just to live the moment he lived.’

I just scratched my scalp and gave my journal to her. She asked the reason for the action in her eyes. She speaks a lot through her eyes.

I said to let you think of this as a part of the journal, as your husband is the same as me. I don’t believe in resurrection or any other shit. But I believe this will be convincing.’

She took that left while I was just standing in the light of the lamp post in the resort. I just thought about how things can happen. I didn’t have anything to write about for another day. The next day passed fast, and there was no time to see that granny. She came to me at night and returned with the book. She said, "Thank you." "You are no different from him."

After she left, I just jotted, "Writing is utter solitude, a descent into the cold abyss of oneself." I write differently than I speak; I speak differently than I think; I think differently than I should think, and so it all leads to the deepest darkness. I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

After writing these lines, I felt kind of heart fulfilled. Then I went to sleep to wake up and saw the last page of the journal where I saw that Granny wrote something in her shaking hands. I focused on my spectacles; those rims pressed while I read the hose lines. It was dim. The light never entered to let me read. When I cleared the screens and read those lines,

Forgive me for not having answered you right off, but I still have not developed the technique for making effective use of my few hours; midnight comes early, as now. How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense?

I just laughed and took my sweaters to see her in her room. When I went there, I banged those doors and said, "Your husband."

I felt happy to see her, but no response. I just thought she would be sleeping still. So, I banged harder. And harder the next time. I sensed something was wrong and banged the door like hell. Nothing came. The resort manager and all the staff saw this, and they tried their best, but nothing happened. Then the manager brought the spare key and they opened it. It’s my nightmare.

She was motionless, her hands floating on the pillows and bed, her eyes open in the direction of the door, where I stood. I just saw her with stillness while all kinds of things rushed by. She had that smile. She died with a smile. What a great woman.

Then I came out with tears, which were not mine. with tears for whom I don't even know her name. for a person who just read my journal. I just cried with my lungs out all the way to the room to the shower, where I just cried in the shower. Suddenly, the shower turned hot, and I noticed I had opened the hot bath. Then I turned it down. I just can’t even cry in the shower. I just felt like why everything I like just diminished? I like Kafka’s thoughts, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t like happiness. I’m not a saint.

Suddenly, the door knocked. I just went with my wet shirt and pants and saw those police officers. The police came to enquire what their relationship was with her. I just said what we did too, together. The police thought nothing suspicious and went away. When they had gone, the inspector asked, "Do you know her name?"

I nodded no. Then he said, ‘Her name was...' and then he went suddenly without saying anything.

I just got blank. I just got blank. I just wanted to break from everything and take my journal to

Only when I am extremely unhappy do I have a true sense of myself. The meaning of life is that it stops.

Suddenly, I heard the door knock again. I went, and again the inspector came. But now he came with a letter. I just felt jinxed. Then he said, ‘This is her last letter to you.’

I opened the letter.

It had clean handwriting with hardly a few lines. I started to read

Dear Kameshwaran,

When you read this, you may know that I’m no more. This is my way of thanking the people and friends who helped me. Do not worry about me. I have to say that after Alappuzha you go to Alleppey for just a few days as it may help you relax. As Alappuzha is only those ineffective mountains. Youth is happy because it can see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old. I forgot to say my name. My name is

I stopped reading and just wept in the worst dreams of my life. I didn’t feel anything at first, but now I feel as if a part of me is dying. I just went to my travelling manager and told him to cancel my plan as I’m going to Alleepy. He let me go and said not to panic.

I just left Alappuzha and reached Alleppey on a long journey. It was long, not because of the road or duration. Just to come out of the thought that she died, When I came, I got off the boat at the church in Alleppey and stepped in for a few minutes, sat on the praying desk and wrote my last two pages of the journal.

Human nature, as changeable and unstable as dust, can withstand no restraint. If it binds itself, it soon begins to tear madly at its bonds, ripping the wall, the bonds, and its very self apart. Because, as I said before, a sad ending, or an ending, is figured out by the mood I’m in. Youth is happy because it can see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.

When I wrote that, I came to know that the letter had the same lines.

I suddenly started to hear chirps and church bells. With the aroma of candles around the church, the whole church had a power outage. It looked like those mediaeval moments, with the church glowing in the candlelight. I just continued writing.

We may never know what it will be like. But now I just feel like paths are made by walking.

In a way, you are poetry material; you are full of cloudy nuances I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst into your essence, and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality. In man's struggle against the world, bet on the world.

I just found that all are short and will leave you just fast enough before grabbing them. I am a cage, in search of a bird.

Suddenly, the visibility became less, so I just went near the shrine where candles were visible and wrote the last lines.

I thought repeatedly that I was never able to figure out what to write. Then my friend suddenly came running and grabbed my hands and turned me.

Where have you gone? What do you think of yourself?

I just forgot that I came with him. I said sorry and apologised a hundred times, and he asked me to leave so that we could reach our destination before tomorrow.

I just said, "Give me a minute."

I just left the book with the letter from the grandmother in it. and said to move. I know I don’t know her name now, but I don’t feel bad about it. We all continue, as everyone says.