It is just that life takes you; takes on you at times that you feel washed down, flushed out and left drowned in the dumps. When you’re the seeker, a go-getter in life, all it needs is the right kind of righteous re-assurance to reclaim life. And the most beautiful thing about it is its availability, right next to you. Only if you’re willing enough to open up and let things get into you.
Shobhaa De says, in her book Speed Post, “God must be a mother.” And I believe that every writer is a mother, yup in a way, every writer has to be feminine enough in thought and feeling to actually explore certain aspects of life. Just a very few take the risk. And when you take that, you would know what I mean. It is not that you have to be a mother or go through motherhood biologically; Motherhood is something that is more to emotions, psyche and persona of someone than the mere biological phenomenon. What makes this 22 year old speak those words? Well there is many times in life that a few people have made me feel both motherly and manly, when I had been there for them, when they have most needed someone at their side. The writer in me greatly believes in the choice. I believe I have a choice and so I have. And choice is something that is more eternal and ethereal which makes this writer write what he is ought to write.
This is something that I had been known for all through my life, what can life be without this C factor? There is a connection between the C factor and the universal conspiracy. Well, this is more of an arrived at connection, it need not be true. I held this belief for a greater part of my life and grew up believing my belief that nobody is a single entity in this universe. No single soul is alone, but every soul is an orphan. What I am today, am because of those thousand plus people I had seen, met, interacted with, grew up with, began to love, smiled with, and laughed with, cried at/for/with.
There is this C in me which makes me wonder what the other person would be doing at this time of the day. As mentioned earlier, I am a single soul with the reflections that are of a thousand others. In a way, I am made of the thousand them. This is the thing that helps me with going and growing; to live, to love and to write. Never had my single day passed out without thinking did she eat any thing? Oh!!! She is growing old and I need to spend more time with her? No idea where he is, Is he back? I didn’t still hear from him, Is he safe? Would he be still working? Will he also like coffee like me or is she totally a tea person? Did chechi had a good day or the kids trouble her again? Did ma’m start writing again? Is he still thin/Has he grown a bit plump? Did he booze? Will we have that promised trip? Will he come down to meet me? Will I write again? Does she actually shampoo up her hair or just get it washed in the nearby saloon hair? Will uncle ever start his day without his early morning session of paper-reading?
Well I can be as nosy as I can be with my Curiosity factor. But take the word, nothing in life is as wonderful as to open up and reach out to people, letting in people, getting to know them and to grow up with them. Yeah I’m this hope-less romantic in life, when it comes to people, place, books, music and movies, there is something certainly magical about them. The myriad moods of life, gets magnified magnanimously by this magical thread, love; which weaves people together to create the warmth that only the cloak called friends and family can give. Growing up can be fun, when it happens with the most positive people. And as a writer’s wish, this is the most humble of an attempt to actually record his chronicles of the most beautiful people he met in his life.
In a way, writing is a longing too. A longing for love, the love, which world failed to shower on its fellow beings to ease their growing up pains. I write willing to love for I knew that I was born to write, when I started writing letters, and also then was also the other realization that I am born to love. Can anything be more romantic and loving than hand-written letters? It is quite difficult to understand the wonderfulness and warmth, a letter can convey unless one had been either a writer or a receiver? I believe that I had written many letters and in the recent times, I had been writing less and less of letters. As mentioned earlier in one of the posts, “I evolved from the boy of letters to the man of letters.” Letters form the most integral part of a writer’s life. One thing that I most wanted myself to be made sure that I do, before I take leave is write one last letter to the people I met in my life. And I have taken genuine efforts to actually write, that I almost write everything about the persons that comes to my mind, I do keep an archive of what people have spoken to me, words, shared thoughts, notes, greetings, mails and texts. And so, next time, don’t be surprised if you find anything that can be so uniquely you.
For I believe, nothing is original, everything is a kaleidoscope of reflections and inspirations. The writer in me usually looks out for characters, stories and mannerisms in everyone. I know it can be so annoying the way I ask questions sometimes, but this is all a greater part of growing up as a writer with people. It is not just my story, and it will be never my story. It is a series of intersecting events in different lives that is told in my perspective, tone and voice. I modulate the aspects of writing, which mostly appeals to the reader and I never ever dare to manipulate, for I’m not here to create sensationalism, pass on judgments or make a list of To Dos and Don’ts or to issue commandments on the art of living. As a writer, I just investigate the in-sights.
As JB ma’m puts it, “Words are powerful monsters. They either make or mar. They can heal as well as hurt.” It depends on the writer, how he employs the apt use of choice of words. As a writer I made this promise that I will give up writing when my words have consciously hurt a soul. I write to heal. I write to reach out, open up, and let people open up. Well I was also this person, who so badly wanted to see his words in print. And now I realized, “But the noblest duty of words than going to print is, did it touch a person? Did it inspire/influence a soul? Did it make a difference in a life? Did it make someone relate with the author in thought and did it help a reader identify the friend in the author?” If the writing has done any one of the above, it need not be bothered about the form of its existence. For it has reached its reader.
A writer has to be a reader by him/her self. And so is this writer. Reading makes a human. I would not go to the extent of telling that, people who don’t read, don’t know life. But certainly they would be the ones who read people, if not books. I had been the most addicts of people, followed by books; there is this greater force that is involved in bringing some books to certain people and also in turn, bringing some people in someone’s life. The best books are the ones that tell the known and the obvious that has been conveniently ignored and forgotten for the lesser good. Like people, books are the next magical things in life and only a few can appreciate both for the right reasons. And as a writer I’m conscious of my call of the wild that, I am not born for one corner of the earth. A writer has to be universal; a writer never takes up one single identity, which would narrow down his perspectives on life. Identity is imposed, and a writer has to obviously boycott anything that is imposed. I don’t take labels when I write, so I don’t give them in return. An insult pocketed, produces another. I don’t pocket them.
A writer has a life, another normal life than the writerly one. One life in the world, which the writer, greatly believes and the world that he or she, painstakingly constructed. I chose to live in both my worlds. I see the difference. Here life has become something that has to be tackled than something that needed to be lived. Life at times, needs to be taken by the horns, at times; it warrants a quite flow with the rhythm. The reassurance that writing provides to life is a soothing feel, which wipes out the certainty of life and makes a voyage to the core of uncertainties. Uncertainty provides a reason to look forward in this life and a constant remainder that I have a life to live and a few people to meet and grow up with them in love. The other, writerly life warrants a constant contemplation of thoughts and words, which fuels the need for total acceptance of people and not the mere act of ritual toleration. It denies anything that is in-human, it fights for the inclusive space; it helps me to run a crusade against anything that is not love. I consciously know my need to live and understand the nuances of functioning of both the worlds. It gives me greater perspectives and a broader outlook which ensures the graceful life of my passion and the desire to be an active onlooker, which is the womb that gave the painful birth to this writer.
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