Skip to main content

CHEERS ME!

It started with a fantasy! Fantasy to play with the spoken word, just as my parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts seemed to do. But somehow the second I opened my mouth it was funny to everyone. To be entertained by a comedian is one thing; but to laugh at sounds emanating from a little mouth is actually stupid, if you were to ask that kid. It felt strange at times and sometimes delightful. 

Thus began my association with vocabulary. A child, trying to articulate something that made sense and everybody around seemed to be enjoying my struggle.



The most funny part; its been years down the road, but the story does not seem to end! I am still struggling with the words and my tries seem absurd. Once, during my school days, I was writing a piece about trees visible from my classroom window, in my essay notebook. But somehow, right words seemed to elude my writing. 

To make matters worse, the boy sitting next, Ahmad, saw that I was writing something in a free period; a class when the teachers didn't come in for whatever reasons. It was something between ridiculous and outrageous for a student, with relatively complete notes, to write something at such an ebullient hour when other students were doing all the 'regular stuff'.

"Are you mad?", he said; This being the first ever comment on my writing, if one excludes 'good, v.good and can do better' from my exams. We could be enjoying the precious few minutes shouting, hooting, jumping on our desks and benches trying to be funny to impress girls (now I cannot see how that could be!). 

All this is what a mere stare of Ahmad told me. Meanwhile, others joined us at our desk. "Look everybody, Prashant is writing something ON HIS OWN!" It was not even an essay for tuition teacher because I did not take any extra classes after school. 

This was what surprised and bothered my friends. I was too normal to engage in such a thing as writing without it being a homework assignment or an English test. They did not stop me physically but the gazes and puzzled looks were enough for an adolescent to give up and join his comrades in regular behaviour.

I had these occasional bursts of penning something at a particular hour, egged on by a certain stimulus, in the above case 'the trees' outside the classroom window that somehow appeared different that day. The urge persists. I have always been mesmerized by the way certain writers handle their vocabulary. I, too, wish to be able to play with words with the same dexterity and maneuvering skills as writers in my English texts to the once I read now, seem to do so effortlessly. 

The fantasy to play with the spoken word as a kid, added the written word over the years. It is not that somebody is actually stopping me. But circumstances and priorities act in the same way as Ahmad and fellow seventh graders did years ago.

Writing, for the joy of it, is what I seek. That is why I hate the discipline life has brought onto me just as it has on everybody else I know. I am pushing hard against the walls that seem to be closing on me trying to squeeze me into conventionality. You see a boy who gets an 'A' for an essay should not be whiling away his time on 'unproductive' pursuits. 

Now, I fear that I may be sufficiently disciplined to waste away my instincts in favour of the extraordinary life that every sane person should follow. Extraordinary is to be successful in one's career, which sums up to being able to earn good money or salary.  But the way I see it, it only seems (extra)-ordinary and I don't want the word 'ordinary' to be associated with me.

The dilemma of a 'stable' future unfolds a little issue; which is to change but in conformity with the pack. Isn't that a contradiction, to change with conformity? I hate this. I hate to conform; whether in my academics, my looks, my handwriting, my writing or even in everyday life. One of the great joys of being born and having lived for whatever span, is to explore life in all its uncertainties.

This write up, as a toast to that uncertainty in me that holds on to my quest for writing about what I care and what I like!

Comments

  1. Start publishing and marketing your work. You write really well!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Kindergarten Eye View of an Ideal World!

One fine day a child was put forth to the mercy of mortals on the 1st of Jan 1986! This is his take on a new world around him.  "Here I was treading into a different world and you have no idea of the magnitude of 'different'; A place they called school, about which I was made to feel excited as if being taken to Disneyland. How another was it... oh… no adult could ever imagine! Nervous, anxious, choked whatever you call the feeling, I would simply describe it as being ‘on the verge of tears’. The build-up leading to the D-day (first day at school) was cleverly planned. I was beaming with a false sense of pride developed from reciting stupid somethings, in an alien but sweet language, to every single visitor at home. But all these rituals had an ulterior motive! I was going to find out for the first time that, apart from my cousins and other kids in my building, there are innumerable 3 or 4 year olds' in the world. Apparently, they too were tricked into comin...

MAYA - PART 1

Nothing in that moment of tranquil sun suggested anything wrong. I was standing in a dreamy room overlooking the Parvati Valley in the laps of Himalayas. She liked nature so much that she painted her own little outdoors on the walls. A rising, glistening sun froze-rising forever on the golden sky that was her wall. It complemented the real one for most part of the year, like brothers posing one in front of the other. She had told me that her mornings began comparing the real and her wall sun. Real and surreal. Both were both to her depending on mood. On the opposite wall was a dark and dense valley, again, just like the one outside. It played heavily on the minds of first-time visitors to her shack. But it comforted her, she said. Sometimes, over and against the real view. I first saw Maya in the clouds - somewhere over the Caspian Sea. She was standing in front of the restroom from where I was taking forever to come out. Flights make it harder for me to go! ...

IDENTITY

I opened my eyes. The left one felt skin obstructing its opening. The right one opened up to a sight of nostrils; beautiful, pale, white nostrils. But it took me both 5 minutes and a year to make sense of this sight. The flooded banks of the mighty Brahmaputra had brought me, or us, asunder onto a remote bank. My head was resting on a woman's belly. She was motionless, just like I was 5 minutes ago. I sat up. On my other side I could see and hear the river in full spate. Hut material, animal carcass and endless stream of branches and twigs drifted past as a stream within a stream. I tried hard to make sense of the sight around. The moment I realised I had leaned on a woman, I jerked myself on my feet and away from her. I looked around. Not a soul. Only nature made sound. I pushed myself for answers towards the woman. She was dead...  Three months ago an Indian journalist had landed at the Guwahati International Airport. Next to him on the same flight was an anxiou...

This Night

Laila is playing Holi with her relatives in their ancestral home. In a remote Uttar Pradesh village, this has been the yearly tradition of the Chaudhari family. One that Laila always looks forward to. But this year her anticipation was adulterated with dread. The elders say they will wait for her graduation. But preceding Chaudhari marriages indicate otherwise. Elsewhere in a village of Haryana state, three men died after consuming spurious liquor. Their wives are crying their hearts out. These tears are mixed with pain; not only from the loss. As they wail, one of the ladies' sore throat hurts. Another woman's badly bruised lips and chest hurt as the salty liquid flows down her face. The third is pregnant for the fourth time and has travelled back from her parent's home for the funeral. As is the practice and widely believed, no, she was not at her parents for pregnancy period but to collect the latest instalment of promised dowry. The wound marks on her privates ...

In-Person Stories (Part - Whichever I Recollect)

I wanted to publish a detailed account of a dear friend's wedding. So I copiously took some notes while going through the revelries, being very much a part of them. Or so my concerned friend thought! But those painstakingly gathered observations got lost with time, people and life. Majorly disappointed, I thought of giving up on writing this self-anticipated account of a much awaited event in our little lives. I never thought my straight friend would be considerate enough to take a partner.  Not that he was a misogynist or a misogamist. On the contrary he has gone out of his way to make women feel at ease, whenever he came across one. In casual parlance, he sucked up to people (read girls), especially if he ever got to know one. Even to the discomfort of his friends like me. He had attended the most number of family marriage functions as the rest of us put together and does so still, dutifully. Although he was, as they say, never 'matrimonially inclined.' But some trickery,...