In silent moments with myself, all
these years, I have asked myself a thousand times: “Why do I have to write?” Or,
let’s put it in this way: “why do I think I want to write” or “what do I think
writing means to me?” In this big, bright, solemn computer-lab, where nameless,
faceless entities come up with grim faces in front of desktop screens and type
papers for hours, I am faced again with my usual confused, vulnerable self and
ask: “why is that I sit here and write about why I want to write”? What is
there in the sheer act of writing that has made me what I am, what I believe in
today, or what I would want to do if I need to have a life of my own beyond the
confines of our home, my family?
I had asked myself why I needed to
write in my seventh grade when I had learned to muster courage enough to write my
first poem about changing seasons for my school magazine, where I had rhymed
each line with care to show my friends and my English teacher how I could
implement the idea of a verse. I had
asked myself why crafting those lines and thinking of crafting others,
secretly, at the back pages of my science homework copy had become a ritual of
salvation for me, as I had loitered around the huge hallways of my school
building, playing in my mind with words and rhythm when the cuckoos chirped
mindlessly in the dusty windows of the classrooms when all my other friends
were busy solving their sums, preparing notes for their biology classes, or
were just chit-chatting. I look back at those days and think why that secret,
silent kingdom of unspoken words and rhythm was all that cherished for me when
the sudden bursts of rain used to drag me to the drenched grass and muddy
patches of our school compound, when the constant tinkling bell of the
rickshaw-puller and the cart of the ice-cream seller passing by the school
premises carried within them promises of sweet nothings, transporting me to a
world of delight, cadence and artistry in the visible world.
As the days passed by, I have asked
myself why this journey of mine with the written word has bound me up, tighter
and tighter in chains, as my daily struggles in pursuits other than writing
have increased with each passing day, as I have continued to be an engrossed
listener of those unspoken words. I still do not know the answer. I only know
that by the end of high school, as I went on exhibiting my incompetency in
numbers and computations, scientific arguments and logic, I went on earning the
highest grades in English, writing the best essays and composition papers in
the class, which in turn left me with no other avenue to step into for college
education other than English. Back at home, when it has been a constant struggle trying to fit into paradigms, and constantly failing at it, I had never known why or how the Almighty had drawn the lines of my destiny in
different patterns.
Today, late at night, my husband works with rapt attention with SQL server, with the oracle database administration of his company, a giant business conglomerate. I, his unemployed, student wife, read Lady
Chatterley’s Lover at the other end of the same desk, trying to flirt with
the written words as they trickle down my spine with their divine nectar,
breaking down upon me with some euphoric hunger. It was probably the same
hunger that started to tear me apart when in my college days, I first
encountered Romantic English Poetry and wanted to write, like Lord Byron, “She walks in beauty, like the night /Of cloudless climes and starry skies;/And all that’s best of
dark and bright /Meet in her aspect and her eyes"....At the end of each act of scribbling, I got to know that my crappy love poems would never see the light of the day, and
that in order to write some sane, sensible stuff, I need to study something
more meaningful, like journalism.
I still
think fervently of the days when in my reporting and writing classes in Mass
Communication, the teacher recognized my thoroughly poetic and artistic
narrative voice and constantly mentored me to tone it down to the every man’s
crisp, prosaic voice, like it is there in the daily newspapers. I
remember the unrestrained expression of delight and discovery as I look back to
my first freelance assignment in a newspaper in Calcutta where I had written
about the juvenile prisoners in an asylum in the city, a news item where I
remember my fights, my silent tears and excruciating struggles to trade my
first by-line with a meager hundred rupees Indian note. I remember the passion
and anticipation of my very young, working days when I slogged like a dog to write
mindless business copies, one after the other, for corporate clients that
demanded me to write precise and user-friendly paragraphs and punch-lines. I
have witnessed almost all of it, the unsung glory of a writer in a business setting,
the doubtful eyes of friends and relatives who did never quite understand why I
kept changing workplaces for more creative freedom, who still do not
understand, or, now that I am married and have kids, do not bother what I do
for a living. I remember the silent tears of disbelief and dismay when I had been rejected as
worthless and utterly incapable of being part of an editorial team in a publishing
house that used to be my dream one day. I am still a hopeless romantic, now
trudging the lone road of writing Creative Nonfiction as a Graduate Student.
I think
of the small presses and the couple of regional publications which have accepted my work, but molded it according to their own whims even without asking for my permission. I keep thinking of the constant rejection letters I have received from a number of
publications here in the United States which, by now, should have solidified my
cousin brother’s faith that I am utterly incapable of being there in the
business of writing. But desperate and despondent lovers do get their way in the
end in at least some love stories I have known. I still woo the act of writing,
the one and only love of my life and will continue to woo the pleasures of
writing with this solitary hope, and like the desperate lovers, this hope gives me salvation and
ecstasy when I think of it at the end of the day.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
