Hello stranger,
I am going to speak to you and then some to myself. A word of caution though, I as a whisperer to the best of my knowledge am both uncertain and unreliable. As I sit to put some words to paper at 3 in the morning, the hour of the dead, I remember a line by Colette, the eponymous protagonist from the movie I watched yesterday, “the hand that holds the pen writes history.” I agree. Mostly I would have taken any advice that comes from a sharp-tongued, overzealous Kiera Knightley. And while I am at it, I might as well confess my love for her. Someday I am going to go tell her in person. For now, it’s just paper and you.
Of late, I have been searching for topics to write on and then been giving up in the lethargy to move myself to the writing desk without having anything specific in mind. No story, no poems, no articles, no words. My desk now barely has space enough for me to place open my notebook and begin writing, what with the three towering columns of mostly unread books that may topple any moment under the weight of expectations. It is cluttered with cords, medicine strips, water bottles, mouth fresheners, a miniature puppy, pens, pencils, a toothbrush, business cards, lapels, small jars, packets of junk food bought in a fit of hunger, mostly unopened and on their way to dustbin, an old reading lamp, and discontinued notebooks with discarded stories. It’s not that I have been awake all night long, reading and writing. I just woke up, wanting badly to write, something, anything. I wait, nothing flows. A grey desk, a lilac notebook single striped, a sleek pink Pierre Cardin pen between my fingers, white linen curtains drawn out, my reflection in the glass pane, out beyond a night sky breaking into crimson, a stillness, no sign of breeze, an occasional chirp from an irate bird, the hum of the ceiling fan entering my subconscious and still nothing. Funny that with the past few months having had nothing to write and barely finding time enough to do so, I should choose such a moment, in the middle of normal sleeping hours to give myself writing advice. My writing stopped, two years back, with the loss of someone dear, with moving cities, a broken heart, an occupying job, a distracted mind and the constant noise of people around, some, I am both annoyed and lucky to have in my life. Since then, I have discovered that profound pain seldom finds words and anyhow, I have never considered myself a particularly loquacious person. I though, have continued to read. I have the habit of reading multiple books at the same time, without the rush to wind one up. The more I like it, the slower I go, wanting to savour every line. No problem with parallel plot lines or competing trains of thought, I am able to pick them up right where I left them. Recently, I finished with Jhumpa Lahiri’s ‘Whereabouts’. It feels like an autobiographical rambling. I re-read Mary Ann Shaffer’s ‘Guernsey Literary’, been presently reading Kathryn Stockett’s ‘The help’, that I picked after watching its movie adaptation. I keep coming back to ‘The selected works of Sylvia Plath’ from a lesser-known publisher, a hardcover that I picked at the local bookstore. I began and dropped out of ‘The wheel of Time’ and Ernest Hemingway, am halfway through the recent Paula Hawkins’ thriller and about to complete ‘Going Postal’ for the second time. Reading forms a part of my daily routine, but writing, that’s been tough. I have been at this for three hours now, pacing the room, lost in recollection, swiping and snoozing the morning alarms but for some reason never switching them off. I fear I would doze off for the lack of sleep. I look out the other window to a deserted street that’s bathing in the florescent of overhead lamps. The road runs along the neighbourhood park. It’s already 6 in the morning and I look forward to putting Gregory Alan’s country music on loop and head out for a morning jog. So, here is the advice to myself and anyone who’s listening, just pick one true thing and begin from there. Bare your heart out. Don’t get stuck in forms and formations. It’s your story and yours alone to tell, whichever way you please. Above all, listen to your heart. Be impractical, unreasonable, unyielding, unassuming. I have always found writing liberating, meditative, in my head softly whispering to myself, telling what needs to be told. At times I can even take the leisure of believing myself to be free. Not Bob Dylan’s ‘even birds are chained to the skies’ kind of free but absolutely free. Unchained, maybe unhinged. And that’s a disturbing, even dangerous thought to carry. Reading this my family is probably going to rake up the issue of companionship. But anyone who knows me well would know, I most decidedly am not seeking it. Back to you, whoever you are, find the courage, dream and let yourself be carried away. You may cause a few heads to turn, a few brows to be raised, rub some the wrong way. But hey, it’s okay. Be unapologetic.
I have come back from my run, rang my parents, had my morning tea, made my bed and am probably going to sleep in it. But before I log off, stranger, care to tell what are you reading these days? Movie recommendations work just as well.
I leave you with something that’s turned up in my social media feed (Page: Literature is My Utopia)
“Make your choice, adventurous Stranger,
Strike the bell and bide the danger,
Or wonder, till it drives you mad,
What would have followed if you had.”
- C.S. Lewis, The Magician’s Nephew
Somesh | Katyayan 