Writing

I haven't written for a good amount of time. And if I have, it has been at the behest of others - friends and family who insisted I not lose touch.

I have resisted writing. There was a time when what I wrote was pure fiction - the characters, places, situtations were unrelated to my own experiences. Now, I find myself unable to do so. Rather, the act of conjuring a character from thin air seems very fake. I do not wish to try too hard to bring a character alive.

To write, I believe, you need to have a very strong sense of yourself. In a sense, I have been in a transition period for the past few years, unsure about the stillness of my thoughts and ideas. Many an idea has drifted in and out, before being dismissed as unworthy. And even the process of thinking of an idea has been forced, knowing that I can write if I really want to, that I will be able to force a story out of myself if I sit down and stare at a Word document long enough.

I started off by enjoying the process of writing. It wasn't a chore. Slowly the thought of unravelling the layers of a character seemed like a tiresome job, one that was just solely for the reader's pleasure.

I also got really self-conscious of my writing. Nothing I wrote pleased me. It was felt childish, plotless or plain uninteresting. I got harshly critical.

I wanted to escape from writing so badly, that I never publicised or gave myself credit for having written a few Junior Amar Chitra Kathas. Some were mythological stories that I retold and some were fiction. Nope, it wasn't that big a deal either, but precious few of my friends have even heard about it. It was the first time I saw my name next to the words, "Written by". Yet, it all seemed too less, and not the Pulitzer prize winner that I hoped to write, in my own head.

To sum it up, I lost the ability to write honestly.



Perhaps, I am ready to write again.

A Hairy Tale

‘Nooooooooo!’ I heard my neighbour’s kid Arun bawl from the end of the street. ‘Man, that kid has some lung power,’ I mused. ‘I won’t go, I won’t, I won’t!’ I brought the book closer to my face and continued to read. Louder screams ensued, similar to those heard from victims of slow and painful torture. Recognising a lost case, I shut my book and went out into the street.

‘Asha? Is everything okay?’ I yelled, spotting her walking angrily outside her house.
‘My son’s screaming his lungs out! Let his father deal with him for a bit.’
‘But, what happened?’
Uma and Nita had joined us by now. Clearly, Arun’s powerful vocal chords were gaining the recognition they deserved.
‘Is Arun okay, Asha? It isn’t right to beat children up, you know. If he isn’t behaving, you can make him do lines. Children’s rights, you know, are…’ began Uma. It had the potential of an award-winning speech on Children’s Rights, fit for the UN. Thankfully, Asha butted in.
‘No, no,’ she said, waving her hands impatiently. ‘Arun refuses to cut his hair. It’s growing past his ears and he doesn’t let anyone touch his head.’
I hid a giggle. Aloud, I said, ‘Perhaps, he’s afraid the barber will hurt him. Why don’t you ask the barber to promise him he won’t?’
‘I’ve tried it all! I’ve gone to the barber’s every Sunday for the past two weeks but he bawls like crazy! Now the barber shoos me away since he’s afraid Arun might scare away the other customers.’
‘Hahaha,’ laughed Uma.

‘Noooooooo!’ screamed Arun from inside the house.
‘Bolmande*, bolmande!’ yelled Amit.
‘Ammaaaa, he called me “bolmande”,’ whimpered Arun.
‘Bolmande, bolmande!’ yelled Amit, again, doing a war-dance around Arun.
‘Amit!’ said Asha, her tone indicating dire consequences were the dance to continue. Taking the hint, Arun sidled away, after making a final face at Amit.

*bald pate

‘Asha, his hair is so long, you could plait and tie ribbons to them,’ giggled Nita.
‘Shush, ‘I said. ‘Perhaps you can tell him that you’ll give him an ice-cream if he gets a hair-cut?’
‘You know, I wonder, I really wonder ….’ said Uma, trailing away so that mystery hung in the air. For once, I didn’t want to say, ‘what’ and I let her dramatic pause continue.

‘What?’ I asked after a while, unable to bear the suspense.
‘He has always been a little girlish. He doesn’t play a lot with the other boys and now, this…’ she finished.
‘That’s not fair, Uma. He’s too young for you to say that!’ said Asha, nettled.
‘So?’ I asked, not understanding the dejected nod and the ‘tsk’ that went around.
‘So? There could be a problem, don’t you see? Girlish boys could turn, you-know…’said Uma, nodding her head knowingly.

Heatedly, I began, ‘you know, Uma, you should learn to be more open-minded. If indeed, there’s a ‘problem’, as you put it… (blah, blah, homosexuality, Section 377, some more blah)

‘Umm, has anyone asked him why he’s so scared to go?’ interrupted Nita.
Three adults stared at each other, the feeling of foolishness inching forward slowly.
‘I assumed he was being silly… Like when he has to take a bath and refuses to?’ said Asha.

‘Arun, hey, come here,’ I yelled.
Asha picked him up and asked, ‘Why’re you scared of the barber?’
With eyes full of horror, he pointed at his father watering the garden.
‘Did he shout at you? Did he hit you? Tell me, Arun,’ said Asha anxiously.
‘Amit told me that if I went for a haircut, my hair would never grow back,’

‘Just like Dad’s,’ he added, tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared at his father’s hairless head.

I want to write but I can’t

I want to write but I can’t.
I want to write about the dazzling sun and the softest rain, but I can’t.
About a pleased smile, the tilt of the head and the wink of an eye.
The whispering of the leaves, of your hand in mine.
Of the softness of the sand, or the warmth in your eyes, I can’t.
Of hues and colours, of dark and light, I can’t.
Of autumn leaves in a gale, the breathlessness of a dance with you; I can’t.
Of love and romance, of all things poetic; I can’t.
About your soothing presence, the storm of music; I can’t.
About the tiniest sliver of hope; that whiff of promise, I can’t.
Of the sweetness of sleep, or of me against your shoulder, I can’t.
Of hopeless hope, of all things imaginary and unknown, I can’t.
Of words and metaphors, you and I, I can’t.

Random

I love swivel chairs. Especially when you can play dashing cars with them.

I am very very confused with what I want to 'become'. Why can't we have a course that lets us study computer science and English?

Bubble wrap is good. It's even better when 3 people are pulling at it from all ends, trying to see who can burst the most bubbles.

I need to write. More.

Cake is the best thing God gave us. I don't discriminate. Plum, fruit, vanilla, strawberry, I welcome them all with an open mouth.

9 hours is a lot of time. I wonder how people manage to have a social life while they're working.

Knowing the local language is a very powerful thing. Only realised that when I visited a home for differently abled people yesterday. Seeing determination to live under tough conditions is a good reality check.

It's necessary to be a little frivolous. And pick up things just because they're pretty. Or do things to add a little colour to your home or office. Makes all the difference.

I dream too much. Must put in a minimal effort to atleast set the ball rolling.

A decorated Christmas tree is terribly pretty. And yes, it brings cake with it.

Journal

September 1^st

Hey, it’s me, your friendly neighbourhood journal. I have lived in this shop, unimaginatively called ‘Book land’ for most of my life, until yesterday when I was bought for the measly price of 20 bucks. I am not so cheap, I say! When I was printed and bound at United Press, I was Queen of all the journals. Priced the highest amidst cheap, yellow papered ones, I sported a maroon cover made of the softest velvet. I took pleasure in looking down on the common diaries (it would be an insult to my kind to call them journals) until a nincompoop of a kid thought it would be hilarious to stick a wad of gum on me. Ugh, the icky sensation has never quite left me.

Ouch, that’s a jolt. It looks like my owner enjoys a bumpy ride. Also- 

September 2^nd

  I don’t think I like JK very much. He is loud, crude and dropped me with a bang yesterday, making me fall face down on gravel. I had reckoned that I was going to be gifted to a teenager who would finish me by agonising over his lady love’s misdemeanours. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. In fact, his latest entry was so thrilling that it sent shivers down my cardboard spine.

 September 2^nd (he wrote in curly, loopy letters),

(contd.)I passed her on the road yesterday. As beautiful and vulnerable as a fresh lily, she daintily crossed the street when she saw me. I kept following. She suddenly seemed to feel very cold. Haha! She pulled at her coat like it would magically grow in length and her feet hurried to reach the end of the road. I felt bored to follow her further as always so I just pointed at her and laughed loudly. ‘Maniac,’ she called me. They all did. I liked that. I haven’t decided how to finish her off. Yet. It has to be different than the others. Will think about it tomorrow.

Bye,

  JK 

I was right! JK is indeed a shady character. The many days I spent in the book shop, crushed underneath the heavy handwriting analysis book hasn’t been in vain. I shiver every time he lifts his coffee cup, sure that he’s going to empty the hot contents over me. Shudder.

 September 5^th

 JK has decided to give me a miss today. It’s almost midnight and he hasn’t turned towards me yet. He has been like this for a couple of days now and my pages are feeling restless. They had gotten used to the daily exercise of sliding over one another. Also, the curiosity is just threatening to engulf me! Sigh. 

September 5^th

It’s over. Her curly hair lies loose at my feet, her lips cold as ice. It’s over.

 Murderer! I’m his next victim. Hot coffee. Aaaaah!

--------------------------------------------

 November 6^th, Daily Times.

 First time writer, JK causes a sensation with his first book, ‘The Shoulder of Ice.’ Turn to page 5 for an exclusive interview.

This was an entry for the Live Journal Flash Fiction competition. Nope, I didn't qualify...