Tag: passion

Of Psychedelics

illegal

I crave for the pain…

of the words hitting me,

blinding my eyes…

enlightening my being.

Words should be illegal.

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.

Of Greatness

People talk so much about mothers and the sacrifices they make. For ages, people ignored their mothers and the sacrifices they made for their family.

But that’s changed now. Every mother’s day, people thank their mothers, speak so highly of their greatness and share photos on Facebook to show their gratitude to the rest of the world.

What about the other mothers?

She’s the one who starts work before you’re awake, sweeps your floors, cleans your bathrooms, refills your tissue rolls, clears away your empty cups, dusts your desk, rearranges your dishevelled papers, eats after you, and works on Sundays.

And yet, she’s not your mother.

She’s a maintenance staff. The people who make an office of a piece of construction.

So many of these maintenance staffs are mothers too. And it’s painful to see them working so hard for the people who don’t even spare a second look at them.

Most of them are my mother’s age. Every time I see one of them mopping the floor for the third time in a day, I wonder if I’d want my mother in the same situation.

I wouldn’t. Because it’s a sad job. Because people don’t see you for who you are; people don’t see you at all. And yet, not one of them walks past your place without taking away the cup you were too lazy to throw away. And if you happen to catch their eye, they smile at you — not the false smile you give your boss, but the one your mother gives you. What makes them do that?

I don’t think it’s passion for their work. A sense of conscience? Are they just loyal to their salary?

It’s not about the money. It was never about the money. Yes, it’s their job to clean, but it’s their choice to clean satisfactorily. Because they care. They care about you, they care for me.

It’s the human vulnerability. They look at me and they see their own daughter. The mother within drives them to do more, to do better.

I sat staring at the laptop one morning. It was the festival holidays and the office was almost empty. A maintenance staff came up and asked me why I didn’t go home for the festival holidays. We spoke for a while and she wondered aloud how hard it must be, living in a foreign city, away from family, not being able to go home for the holidays without getting crushed under poor roads and the terrible traffic of monsoon rains.

She works a 12-hour shift and her every break is valuable. She didn’t have to spend her time talking to me. But she did. She spent her free time consoling me. She didn’t know why I didn’t go home, she didn’t know I was too lazy to trudge through traffic.

She just assumed I couldn’t go, never once suspecting that I didn’t want to go. Because she’s a mother. And mothers don’t judge.

If that’s not great, what is?

Written for a contest run by Tata Motors to promote their campaign, #madeofgreat.

Chapter Five: Reality Check

Praveena wept.

She had thought high of ambitions and passion. She had a goal in life: to help people in any way she could. She had drawn her inspirations from the various superheroes who had lined up to do good. In all those years of her feverish fandom, she had not thought for one moment that she would not achieve her motives. Now, though, she had doubts. She had always looked up to the people around her for encouragement. People who walk their daily lives with a bigger and ultimate goal in mind.

All her ideals had just came crashing down. She didn’t know why Mr Andrew’s story upset her so much.

‘Andrew is just one man, there are countless others who realize their dreams’, her inner voice tried to comfort her.

‘But,’ – came the second, more sensible voice – ‘if a single person is so easily deprived of his passion, what hope do the others have?’

The first voice fell silent. But only just. It soon replied, ‘there is hope, you idiot. Realizing their dreams is in their own hands. If Andrew flopped his passion, then it was his fault. There’s nothing you can do about it.’

‘Someone didn’t want Andrew to be an archeologist. That was so cruel of them, right? I mean, what kind of society is this? People telling us we are not worth it? It’s insane; unfair.’

‘Life is unfair, you fool. Stop bugging me and get some shut eye. Let’s talk about this in the AM.’

As the voices faded away into silence, Praveena sat on her now clean bed, confusion gnawing at her brain. Both her inner voices had had a point, but they were so contradictory that it made her dizzy. Like there were two different people in her head. Is this a symptom of craziness? She didn’t know.

She lay back on the bed, her arms stretched out. The ceiling fan was spinning, but her head was spinning faster. Jumbled thoughts swirled like mist, drawing a blurred image.

“Shut up.” She advised her head. It didn’t listen. She gave up, turned over and shut her eyes tight. Hours later, she still forced sleep.

Praveena didn’t wake up the next morning. She was late. Her mother came in to check in on her, and seeing her asleep, left without waking her.

It was her father who woke her at quarter to eight. She hadn’t locked the door, and after a curt nod, Kamal strode in to the room in a flourish. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Praveena?” he called softly. She didn’t move. After a few tensed calls, she stirred. Kamal breathed a sigh of relief.

She opened a crack of her eyes and seeing him, sat bold upright.

Kamal startled, not expecting her sudden movement.

“Pa!” exclaimed quite loud and breathless. “Oh,” she sighed, “you scared me.” She smiled mildly scratching her head. Crossing her legs on the bed, she waited a minute or two for her heart beat to return to normal. When it did, she asked, “What’s up, Pa?”

“Aren’t you going to school? It’s seven forty-five already.”

Praveena looked at the clock, and put her hands on her head. She was so late. The bats will be all over her. ‘Damn,’ she swore to herself.

“I’ll get ready, Pa” she stood up “could you drop me today?”

“OK.” And with that, he left, closing the door behind him softly.

Praveena stood in the centre of the room with hands on her hips. She mentally prepared herself for the explanation.

Sighing deeply, she turned around to get ready for another day at school. When she came down for breakfast, her mother’s smiling face greeted her. “Couldn’t sleep last night?”

Praveena’s look of admiration affirmed Geetha’s suspicions.

Twenty minutes later, she stood at the school gate, waving her father goodbye.

‘School life is a life of stealth,’ she mused walking towards the assembly hall.

 

Chapter Four | Chapter Six