As I stared out the window,I was trying to comprehend the strange feeling I was enfolded in...
It wasn't sadness,definitely not glee,I was cold,it was really early morning,and the AC in the Volvo I was traveling in kept the air quite chilly.Around me there was a mixed group of people,old,young,really young.I also spotted a girl I knew by face from college. I did not acknowledge her,nor did she acknowledge me.I guess the feeling of detachment towards our Alma mater and everyone a part of it was mutual.
The bus rolled on. There was deep melancholy coupled with a sense of relief.
The sentiment wasn't very comfortable.I was at loss,because it seemed that I had to resign myself to the fact that fate still refused to take on my responsibility, and it was all on me again...Rather it continued to be all on me.this was familiar.I went back into time,to the evening at the Bandra-east bus depot,it was evening,after I got all my stuff loaded into the holding carrier of the bus,I hugged my mother.it still hadn't registered in either of us that I was moving out.Even then I was aware that it was all on me..I was on my own now...Both of us shed some tears.
Engineering college had been tough.In the second year itself I realized that I lacked the astute reasoning of an engineer.I struggled through most of my exams,at one point almost failed a year. I tried hard.when friends partied,I stayed home,and still managed to only scrape through like all others.I marveled at my strength,which still feels like foolishness at how I trudged along the four years ,sat through excruciatingly long, senseless(to me),complex and befuddling lectures.Even though I tried hard,I think my genuine lack of interest did not help in making things easier.
and yet I trudged along,chained and bounded by no one but my mind.
Of course all this is in retrospection.Retrospective rationalization. If only..
The bus stopped at a rest stop,I was surprised that it had covered so much distance.In my stupor,I did not realize.I checked my phone,saw couple of missed calls and messages,and I smiled.Somehow the last four years seemed worth it,at least for those few moments.it was my friend Druki calling to know if I was alright. I still have those moments of reassurance.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The Errand of Mercy
To be a writer is to know the delight of reflection and the beautiful lament…..
It’s quite late, but I have no particular appointments or commitments for tomorrow, so I reckon it’s alright to finally start writing after years. To finally end the draught. I smile at the words ‘writing after years’, it is funny because I’m only 24.
Why did I stop writing, I am so tempted to yarn out a mournful tale of suffering and despair. It is true, one of the reasons I stopped writing my diary, stopped recording my thoughts, my events, and my life is because (present tense, coz I still haven’t written anything substantial) all my entries had become analogous. This one particular day, back in college (ie when I stopped writing) I was going through my previous weeks entries, and they all sounded so similar, so darn wretched, that I just stopped writing. And I continued to ‘stopped writing’ through my engineering days because I was quite miserable throughout. I was so busy being miserable, that in the process I let it eclipse all my other experiences. I did not record anything.
I did have a great time in college, did the usual, like everyone else… party, fool around , have fun, have lots of my “Firsts”, but unfortunately I let ‘being miserable’ take so much importance that everything else seemed too trivial to record. I feel bad. I do.
After that, I just got lazy… so darn lazy, that even though I was on the dole for six months, and I did not write type a single word.
I did not record my first drink, my first steamy slow dance, my first date, my first flirting lessons, my first flirting exercises, improvisations, playing the so called field, living alone, my first drunken kiss, then my first real kiss (coz I thought it meant something... geez), and then finally my first real real kiss, crazy wild nights with random boys, who later became great friends and found me a darling boy friend, my closest friends, my new set of closest friends, first real heartbreak , graduation, , my first relationship, my longest relationship, my first job, my first project, living all by myself, my first salary, responsibilities( oh it only comprises paying bills, and managing money..Hehe), my first real personal loss; Wow, I cannot believe I haven’t recorded any of these… I remember them all, so so vividly, and I’m sad, coz I cannot remember what I was wearing, what I was thinking, what day was it and what the weather was like…...
‘I think I’m choking up, coz I suddenly realised, my life has been quite interesting, and eventful, and quite frankly rather nice….but I’ve been so pre occupied being miserable ‘.
It’s quite late, but I have no particular appointments or commitments for tomorrow, so I reckon it’s alright to finally start writing after years. To finally end the draught. I smile at the words ‘writing after years’, it is funny because I’m only 24.
Why did I stop writing, I am so tempted to yarn out a mournful tale of suffering and despair. It is true, one of the reasons I stopped writing my diary, stopped recording my thoughts, my events, and my life is because (present tense, coz I still haven’t written anything substantial) all my entries had become analogous. This one particular day, back in college (ie when I stopped writing) I was going through my previous weeks entries, and they all sounded so similar, so darn wretched, that I just stopped writing. And I continued to ‘stopped writing’ through my engineering days because I was quite miserable throughout. I was so busy being miserable, that in the process I let it eclipse all my other experiences. I did not record anything.
I did have a great time in college, did the usual, like everyone else… party, fool around , have fun, have lots of my “Firsts”, but unfortunately I let ‘being miserable’ take so much importance that everything else seemed too trivial to record. I feel bad. I do.
After that, I just got lazy… so darn lazy, that even though I was on the dole for six months, and I did not write type a single word.
I did not record my first drink, my first steamy slow dance, my first date, my first flirting lessons, my first flirting exercises, improvisations, playing the so called field, living alone, my first drunken kiss, then my first real kiss (coz I thought it meant something... geez), and then finally my first real real kiss, crazy wild nights with random boys, who later became great friends and found me a darling boy friend, my closest friends, my new set of closest friends, first real heartbreak , graduation, , my first relationship, my longest relationship, my first job, my first project, living all by myself, my first salary, responsibilities( oh it only comprises paying bills, and managing money..Hehe), my first real personal loss; Wow, I cannot believe I haven’t recorded any of these… I remember them all, so so vividly, and I’m sad, coz I cannot remember what I was wearing, what I was thinking, what day was it and what the weather was like…...
‘I think I’m choking up, coz I suddenly realised, my life has been quite interesting, and eventful, and quite frankly rather nice….but I’ve been so pre occupied being miserable ‘.
I write...
My language isn’t poetic or impressionable, my grammar isn’t the best, and my diction passable. I don’t even know what I want to write about. I haven’t written anything worthwhile in years. I’m still trying to understand MY objective of MY being.
I have no quirky tale up my sleeve, no brainwave, no theory….
So where does this quixotic aspiration come from…
I love the idea, the perception of writing. The concept of authors and writers.
I’ve read so many books, numerous stories and tales, each one presents such exclusive perceptions and thoughts, that it’s overwhelming to know that so many ideas, so many expressions of feeling exists on this planet.
Elation, ecstasy, jubilation, euphoria, delight… the thesaurus has like 20 synonyms for plain simple happiness…. And scores more for sadness… and it is remarkable how various authors yarn tales out of these words.
Writing is indeed beautiful; it enables a person to lament; celebrate, exult, ponder, validate, foment, or simply express…
So why do I find it so difficult to write, to express, to record.
I think I’m trying to necessitate writing. Dictate my whims and fancies (the irony is not lost on me). Why am I trying so hard to make sense, why didn’t Harry Potter or Kira Arganouva or Pip ever occur to me? I think I’m trying so hard to emulate an inspiration, that I fail to realise that one cannot do so…..
There is the awareness, the realisation, the desire …. But no inspiration.
I have no quirky tale up my sleeve, no brainwave, no theory….
So where does this quixotic aspiration come from…
I love the idea, the perception of writing. The concept of authors and writers.
I’ve read so many books, numerous stories and tales, each one presents such exclusive perceptions and thoughts, that it’s overwhelming to know that so many ideas, so many expressions of feeling exists on this planet.
Elation, ecstasy, jubilation, euphoria, delight… the thesaurus has like 20 synonyms for plain simple happiness…. And scores more for sadness… and it is remarkable how various authors yarn tales out of these words.
Writing is indeed beautiful; it enables a person to lament; celebrate, exult, ponder, validate, foment, or simply express…
So why do I find it so difficult to write, to express, to record.
I think I’m trying to necessitate writing. Dictate my whims and fancies (the irony is not lost on me). Why am I trying so hard to make sense, why didn’t Harry Potter or Kira Arganouva or Pip ever occur to me? I think I’m trying so hard to emulate an inspiration, that I fail to realise that one cannot do so…..
There is the awareness, the realisation, the desire …. But no inspiration.
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