Tag: life

I Don’t Want to Become a Writer

infinite loop

There’s something finite about the word, “become.” As if you need to reach a level or a stage to become an official writer. As if there’s an achievable height in writing. As if conquering a peak, or a dream. You can’t dream of becoming a writer. That can’t be ambition. Because there’s no such thing as “becoming — a — writer.”

Anyone who claims they’ve become a writer is only losing their grip on reality. Because once you become a writer, you lose the ability — and the privilege — to be writing.

I don’t want to become a writer. Instead, I want to write — I want to learn to write better, and better — until I die. It’s one infinite loop. No one becomes a writer. Because writing is naught without rewriting.

Shakespeare wrote plays, but he never became a playwright. He wrote plays and sonnets until he died. And then, other people rewrote his plays and sonnets; they refined his writing to make it better — or worse; I can’t say for sure.

But I’m sure Shakespeare never became a playwright. Because if he had “become a writer,” we wouldn’t have the classics we do now.

So then, what’s the deal with “becoming a writer”? Who fixes the standards for a writer?

Agatha Christie is a writer. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a writer. And so are Chetan Bhagat and Ravinder Singh.

At what point did these people become writers? Writing a story, a book, or a piece of prose doesn’t make a writer. If that’s the threshold for becoming a writer, then every student who’s written an essay for their exam is a writer.

That doesn’t make a writer.

Real writers acknowledge the process. You publish a book, and perhaps rewrite the entire thing and republish it fifteen years later. That’s a writer.
A writer doesn’t just write. A writer rewrites. A writer knows her writing isn’t perfect and learns to learn from it, learns to live with it, and to write better with it.

I don’t want to become a writer. I want to be writing.

Chapter Thirty Four: Making Plans

It was a cool Sunday afternoon and Praveena lazed back on the couch, reading. Ms Marrie had recommended the book. It was a book about living life from a different perspective. It was titled Tuesdays with Morrie, a non fiction by Mitch Albom.

Praveena had taken refuge on the couch after a heavy lunch and she felt her eyes drooping when all of a sudden, her phone rang, chasing the drowsiness away. Stifling a wide yawn, she saw that it was Anil.

“Hey!” Praveena exclaimed, delighted as she answered the call. “How are you?”

“I’m good, what about you?” Anil responded with equal delight. Praveena smiled widely. She had missed the long conversations. Hearing Anil’s voice boosted her mind.

“Hmm, I’m I’m good too” she replied. “So? To what do I owe this pleasure?” she mocked.

Anil laughed. It was a deep and spontaneous laugh. It made Praveena smile. When he spoke, she could feel the joy in his voice, “nothing, just felt like talking to you.”

“So, what up with Bangalore?” Praveena sat up on the couch and placed her book on the table next to her. She didn’t feel sleepy anymore. “how’s MBA?” she asked.

“It’s alright. When has studying ever been fun?” he added with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Praveena suddenly remembering her college life.

“So,” Anil said, “what are you up to? What’s your plan?”

That’s when Praveena realized she had done nothing since she had got back. She had been too busy becoming aware of the things around her. She told him that, along with the previous day’s events. She told him about her understanding and her conversations with Ms Marrie.

It was easier to talk to Anil now. The invisible barrier between herself and the others had somehow evaporated.

Anil didn’t say much. He listened to Praveena with evident delight and Praveena enjoyed having his rapt attention.

“Now,” she paused, “you tell me, how’s life in Bangalore?”

Anil related the story of his life. “Well, MBA’s draining most of life,” he laughed hollowly. “but it took me a while to realize that it wasn’t giving me much joy,” he paused for a breath. “so after some advice from my teacher, I joined as a volunteer in a non-profit organization.”

“Huh?” Praveena responded surprised.

Anil laughed. “You surprised?” he asked joyously.

“Ya-huh,” Praveena replied defensively. “So, tell me about this organization of yours.”

“It’s a non-profit organization; an alcoholic anonymous institution. Their primary mission is to help people recover from their drug addiction.”

“Oh…” trailed Praveena. She hadn’t expected that. She couldn’t speak for a while. Niveda’s thoughts overwhelmed her. There was an uneasy silence that widened, until Anil broke it.

“Hey, you there?” he asked knowingly.

“Yeah,” Praveena managed, “sorry, I – ”

“I know,” he said simply.

They spoke for another half hour in which Anil explained all the activities that happened in the meetings of the organization. They were mainly counseling sessions, Praveena learned. On some days they had priests, psychologists and doctors advise participants about the dangers of the habit. Some other days, they would call over “people like myself; survivors” said Anil. “Even people who have lost loved ones to drugs would come over and have a chat.” The main purpose of doing stuff like these, according to Anil, was to help addicts realize how much they matter to their families and to educate them about the physical and mental damage that drugs did to them.

Anil also told Praveena how he spoke about Niveda and that a lot of addicts had spoken to him afterward saying that they wanted his support. Anil said it almost ecstatically.

“That’s really good Anil,” Praveena said earnestly. “At least you’re doing something to change someone’s life.” she nodded to herself. If only Niveda could have gotten something like that, she thought bitterly.

“For the better,” Anil added.

“Ya. That’s right,” Praveena agreed.

Another short silence.

“Hey,” Praveena exclaimed.

“Hmm?”

“An organization! I want to be a part of something like that too. You think I can volunteer?” she asked, excited. She liked the idea of helping someone get rid of the terrible addiction.

“Hmm…” Anil hesitated, “I don’t know, Praveena” he sighed. “Why don’t you try volunteering for some other local institution there?”

That sounded sane to Praveena. She agreed, but she was more interested to do this a as team. She wanted to work alongside Anil.

“Why don’t we start on organization ourselves?” she almost jumped with excitement.

“Huh?” Anil was taken aback. He hadn’t expected Praveena to think like this.

“What do you say?” Praveena pressed him, “you, me, and a few others. I can gather people. What, you’re in?”

“Hey, wait.” Anil replied quite reluctantly, “this isn’t simple, you know that?”

“Yeah, of course.” Praveena said in haste, “but I’m sure we can pull it off.” She was keen to do something.

Anil thought. “hmm, maybe – ” Praveena waited with bated breath. She didn’t understand why she was so interested to get this running, but she had an impulse that it would be a great idea. It was bound to improve a lot of lives. It suddenly struck her; this is what she wanted to do. There was something inside her that pushed her to do this.

“Alright, Praveena. If you’re so sure – then do it. I’ll do everything I can to stay with you.” He said the last part a little extra cheerfully.

“Wonderful!” Praveena exclaimed. She had almost forgot Kamal was asleep in the next room. “Let’s do this!” she vowed, and heard a laughter of agreement from Anil.

Praveena felt sleepy no more. She brimmed with energy — energy that came from the thought of building their own support group. The helplessness she had felt during Niveda’s recovery acted like a stimulant within her, driving her and providing her with all the enthusiasm she needed.

That night, Praveena made plans. She didn’t want to discuss her ideas with her father until she had it all mapped out. She sat cross legged on her bed and thought about it. It seemed like a good idea, except for the problems that it involved. While speaking with Anil, she had thought only of the effect a help group would have. Now though, when she considered the smaller aspects of starting a group, she began to have questions. Her inner voices conflicted.

‘Where would she set it up?’ – ‘Home.’

‘Home? Really?’ — ‘ Ok, the garage then.’

‘Who would be the initial members?’ – ‘Anil and Ms Marrie.’ Yes, she thought, Ms Marrie would agree for sure. She was interested in these kinds of things. That was settled then.

Next, ‘where would you get the money?’ – ‘ personal savings’. Praveena doubted that. But at least, she thought, her savings would be enough for initial investment.

‘How would they spread the word?’ – ‘Internet – duh!’

‘What do we do in the organization?’ – ‘conduct meetings and discussions,’ like Anil had said, she nodded to herself.

‘Just meetings would be boring’ – ‘we’ll come up with something else later.’

‘Is this a good idea at all?’ – ‘I think I’m sleepy.’

Praveena lay back, she’d deal with her doubts later; now, she needed the rest.

Chapter Thirty Three: Cold Facts

They sat solemnly in the ambulance, along with the injured man and a couple of nurses. Ms Marrie hadn’t said anything to her, but Pravaana cast her eyes down. She felt ashamed she hadn’t offered to help the injured man. She had been too shocked to do anything, but it didn’t quite qualify as an excuse.

The nurses had handed the man’s wallet over to Ms Marrie. She examined it for anything that might say something about the injured man.

“His name’s Ali.” Ms Marrie announced gravely. Praveena looked up and watched Ms Marrie as she continued to rummage in his wallet. It was a black leather wallet full of fresh notes. Praveena watched as Ms Marrie took out and examined a few cards from the wallet. She recognized a credit and a debit card. There was also a blood donor identity card and a driver’s license. There was a photo attached to the wallet. A photograph of a small girl with jet black hair and black round eyes. She was smiling. For some reason, looking at the smiling girl calmed Praveena. She noticed Ms Marrie staring at the picture and assumed she felt the same.

“Give me your phone,” Ms Marrie asked Praveena. She did, and Ms Marrie dialed the number on the identity card.

“How’s he?” Ms Marrie asked the nurse, her finger hovering over the call button. The nurse took a look at the unconscious man and replied, “It’s critical, but he’ll be fine.” Ms Marrie nodded once and called the number. She spoke in a quiet voice to the man’s wife, Praveena assumed. She told the other woman about the accident and, though her husband’s condition was quite serious, he would be fine. “Nothing the doctors can’t fix.” she assured the woman on the other side. She gave her the name of the hospital and other details, the location of the accident and the condition of his motorcycle. Once she had disconnected the call, she returned the phone to Praveena with a quiet “thanks.”

About an hour and a half later, they walked out of the hospital leaving Mr Ali in his wife’s care. As they went through the busy hospital corridor, Praveena turned to Ms Marrie. “I’m sorry, Miss” she apologised.

“Why would you be sorry?” Ms Marrie asked, curious. She looked at Praveena as if seeing her for the first time.

“For not helping that man,” Praveena was worried she had watched silently while a man had almost died. She hated herself.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “I understand you were too shocked to react.” she smiled, “just be aware of things from now.”

Praveena nodded acknowledging Ms Marrie’s advice.

They didn’t speak until they had boarded a bus. Having settled herself comfortably, Praveena observed, “People aren’t too helpful are they, Miss?”

She had startled Ms Marrie out of a deep thought. “What do you mean?” she responded in confusion.

“Those people back there,” Praveena said “they just watched — unflinching.” she said surprisedly.

“It’s not like that,” Ms Marrie corrected her. All of them could have faced the same dilemma you did,” seeing Praveena’s perplexity, she continued, “They must have expected someone else to help him. If you had noticed, once the ambulance arrived, those onlookers helped the nurses lift the man onto the stretcher.” She laughed. “It’s a queer psychology of humans — the ‘Bystander Bias’?” she asked Praveena as if trying to remind her of something. “It’s common.” she added.

Suddenly it all came to Praveena. She had heard of the Bystander Bias — she had studied about it in her first year.

“But,” began a worried Praveena not understanding what Ms Marrie said, “If it’s common,” she spoke slowly, making sure spoke what she meant, “then is there a way to not give into it?”

Ms Marrie smiled broadly, “of course there is,” she took Praveena’s hand in hers, and when Praveena raised her eyebrows in doubt, “Knowledge.” Ms Marrie replied. “When you’re aware of the thing that is holding you back, you can easily overcome it.”

Praveena smiled, but she wasn’t quite sure if she understood what Ms Marrie meant. She decided to figure it out for herself. For a whole minute, she thought over what Ms Marrie had told her and finally, it dawned upon her. She slapped her forehead hard, why hadn’t she realized it earlier?

She turned to Ms Marrie and noticed she had been watching her as she figured it out. They smiled at each other. “Thank you, Miss.”

“You know what Praveena?” Ms Marrie asked her unexpectedly, “when I saw that man, injured, about to die,” Praveena noticed her voice shaking mildly, “I reminded me of — ” she swallowed, “of Kevin.”

She turned to face Praveena, smiling painfully. “That’s how he died,” she added nodding her head thoughtfully.

Praveena didn’t know what to say. Ms Marrie bade her goodbye at the next stop.

Praveena took the lesson to her heart. She had to travel a little further to reach her stop and kept mulling over the day’s incidents in her head. She looked through the window and noticed the withered trees that lined the streets. They were beautiful, trees that spread their warmth and shade throughout the world. It was a pity to see them lifeless. They stood tall, but without liveliness in those swaying branches. They were contaminated instead, by smoke and the sounds of the city.

Praveena looked around the city, her city. It was the place she was born in, and all she could see were slums and unclean drainage systems. It was rather painful to realize she called this filthy city home.

As the bus crossed over a bridge, Praveena saw a man in the distance. He moved back and forth heavily as if a strong wind had blown him off course. He seemed to be struggling to get his feet back on to the straight path. In his failed attempts, Praveena noticed he had stamped on the muddy puddles nearby sending mud water splashing all around him. He came to a swaying halt in front of a small thatched hut and banged hard on the wooden door. A thin woman emerged from the door and Praveena noticed she was forcing a small child to stay inside. The man shouted at the woman who answered in a low and crouched position. Praveena stared in horror as the man slapped the woman hard on the face and left the hut, swaying and swinging his hands in the air. The woman went back into the hut and shut the door.

As they traveled further into the city, they came across a school building that looked like it hadn’t been renovated in the last twenty years or so. It was a small building and the light blue paint on the walls peeled off. She saw a lot of school children, leaving the school in groups of four and five. A smile played on her lips as she thought of the days she used to walk alone from school. It was a while before she saw that most of the students were bare-foot. A couple of kids wore cheap-looking slippers but there was a little girl with dark short hair who had covered her feet in a bundle of sack held together with a string of sack rope. Praveena was just another passerby as she watched those children involuntarily stepping on stones and muddy pools, smearing their feet with mud, and countless diseases. Praveena saw those children heading towards the slum the bus had just past by. It was their life, she realized bitterly. She thought of an article she had read earlier that day. According to the local newspaper, a few of those slum residents had been allocated small homes in areas with better living conditions, but these people had turned down the chance. Praveena couldn’t understand why they didn’t choose better lives.

Some ten minutes later, she was still in the same bus, but her view had changed. The streets were levelled, the trees were cut and shaped; forced to grow in shapes humans wanted them to. There were plenty of boxed bushes gracing the pavilions of large housing plans. It was the cleaner part of the city, cleaner because it was the home of the richer people. Here, people dressed not just comfortably but also expensively. She sized up a girl walking with her earphones plugged in. She wore a jean and a tee shirt, both branded, and had an iPod in her hand which she kept caressing every two seconds.

Moving on, the bus entered that part of city occupied by the working class. Here people dressed according to occasions. A normal day in office would mean a simple pair of trousers and a shirt, whereas a special festival was celebrated in vibrant colours and traditional dresses, not to mention the fire crackers. The bus past a temple and in a fleeting moment, Praveena got the glimpse of a bunch of people pouring milk over an idol; a part of their worship.

It was a while before Praveena realized she had forgotten to get off at her stop. Her random thoughts had clouded her mind and she had come far away from home. Chiding herself for her mindlessness, she got off the bus and took another bus that went back the same route to get home.

Sitting on the bus she couldn’t help but wonder at people’s attitudes. They were willing to spend thousands of rupees on deities they don’t know exist but they were reluctant to spend on fellow humans.

‘Money,’ Praveena’s inner voice said, ‘is the root of everything. Some people don’t help others because they of psychology, but most people don’t help just because other people are poor. Rich or poor, all these people need help to see sense. But sometimes, people don’t want to be helped. They’d rather be desperate.’

Praveena sighed, agreeing in silence.