I am not supposed to be writing this or thinking about it. I should be sleeping. Dreaming up new dreamy concoctions. Living my many parallel, fictional lives. Stretching out on this cool, breezy veranda as all the stress and anxiety of an ironically uneventful day ebbs away from my body. But here I am. Body and mind- thinking, stressing, being anxious.
And my heart? That’s somewhere else. In some far foreign land that my mind and body have not had the time to explore and to demean forever. She is meeting new people, turning new stones over and over again in her hand till they become smooth, making her own path where the grass is yet green. She is living the life I never had. She is still crying over the death of a stranger she has only imagined to resemble a scorned lover without much basis. She is still clinging on to the hope that another day will bring news of this attractive stranger finding his love and of their story ending like all others do, Happily. She is still not ready to dig her unkempt hair out of the many letters and verses and rhymes that are caught up in it. Just like her disheveled self is not ready to cross over the parapet of this pool of absurdity to dive into the bone chilling, but quite necessary reality.
My heart, is still pressed between the pages of some book lying neglected somewhere in the clutter my body and mind have managed to ever so skillfully procure. It is drying away its tears and drowning out its importunate laughter. In a last sigh dragged far too long, it is trying to find a medicine for both the heartache and the happiness that these dog eared, coffee stained pages have brought upon it.
And soon, it shall join us again. On our mindless touristic peregrination. Only till I send it off, again. On the real journey whose path stretches across the length and breadth of this book rack. and another. and another. and another.
I am often asked questions on the lines of:
“What were you thinking when you wrote that?”
“Did you just make that whole post up in the Anatomy lecture?”
“DID YOU REALLY WRITE THAT? YOURSELF?? ON YOUR OWN?”
“Where did that thought even come from?”
Apart from the utter amazement that people convey by hurling questions at whatever little writing skill I possess..these questions tell me that I must be doing something right. If a reader is intrigued and engaged enough to want to know where the writer is coming from(in terms of thoughts and ideas) and not just swallow a couple of fancy sounding words the writer throws his way, then there is no better justification to your efforts.
That said, I’ll have to agree that sometimes these questions make me doubt myself. It’s difficult to decipher if it’s the quality of your writing responsible for triggering such reactions or that it is hard to digest that you could actually write something “on your own”.
On one such occasion when my Mother called me to say that she really enjoyed reading an article I wrote which was published in my school magazine and it was unbelievably well written, I had to stop her to ask what was unbelievable – The fact that I could write something or that it was REALLY good. Mother just laughed that off and my question remains unanswered.
So when someone I know posted a really reaaallly “surprised” comment on one of my posts on Facebook I instantly recoiled into my shell of self-doubt and zero confidence.
This is the conversation with my oldest friend that followed and made these remarks and ever considering them seem pointless altogether:
“You are not your usual self today. Everything alright?”
“Oh yes! Everything is just fine.”
“Just fine? Seriously? You think you can get me with “Just fine” after 9 years?”
“Alright. I am not fine. Its just something silly. You’ll probably think I am getting senile or PMSing.”
“Get it out. We’ll see it when we see it.”
“X just posted a really weird comment on that note I wrote. I just dont feeling really good about myself after that.”
“Remember what you told your Physics teacher in class 10 when s/he asked you what makes you want to join ’16 days with Shakespeare’ (debating and literature club) instead of ‘Science Club’?”
“Yeah, Vaguely. Why?”
“Bother to repeat it out aloud and hear yourself say it?”
“Nay, as if feeling bad over a Facebook comment is not lame enough.”
“Just do it, A.”
Sometimes we hold the answers to all our questions. Maybe we just need to hear ourselves say it.