I remember a breakfast
table from long ago. There were two mugs of coffee—one green and the other
blue; two plates with eggs done sunny-side up; a couple of flatbread; the last
dregs of an old life; and a whole new set of questions.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?” was my counter
question.
“How do you write the way
you do and make it seem effortless?”
“But I don’t make it seem effortless… It really doesn’t take
much effort.”
“Wow!”
“Do I detect a hint of
sarcasm in that wow, or are you actually amazed.”
“No, I really am in awe.”
“Well, it’s not always
easy but most of the time, all I have to do is just sit down and start writing
and the thoughts just flow. Of course, I enjoy the process so much that it
really doesn’t seem like it takes any effort. And it’s not always great writing
that I churn out or even something that meets my expectations.”
“You don’t realize how
lucky you are! I would give my right hand to have what you have.”
“Trust me, it’s not such
a great thing. You’re better off sacrificing your right arm for something else.”
“You’re a fool to be
wasting it.”
“But that’s the thing… I
really don’t look at it that way. To me, it’s as natural as breathing. It’s the
one thing I enjoy the most and do willingly.”
Now, all these years
later, I don’t recall how that conversation ended. But I do recall having
similar conversations with various people over the years.
Sometimes, it feels like
all it takes is open wounds, fingers flying over keys, and a touch of creative
license for people to connect with pain. You delve into the still cauldron that
is your life and begin to stir the remnants of a fractured past. You no longer recognize
the ingredients there, but the desire to drum up a semblance of order begins to
set the pace. You’re not sure if you will have enough kindling to feed the flames
but you trundle on. Snatches of real life mixed with dusty dreams get
translated into clicks.
The words begin to pop up
on screen and sentences crawl from one end to the other. What you’ve lived, now
you must relive. What you wish to live, now you must bring to life. How did you
feel in the spring of 1995 on a quiet Sunday evening, when dusk beckoned you to
the birds in the sky and the clouds that they seemed to brush against as they
flew by? You didn’t realize it then, but now you do, thanks to your impractical
ability to tap into feelings that never existed.
You have no idea why you
write anymore. You can no longer explain the reasoning behind the urge to map
it all out—from the typography to the inflections. How do you define the pleasures
incomparable and fulfillment beyond measure? How do you cut yourself off from
the pulsating receptacle that is your mind? You can’t. You don’t. You just won’t.
2 comments:
Loved it. One of the best and certainly better ones in recent times. Sublime.
Thank you, Himanshu.
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