I have heard of writers who have written for a living and others for catharsis. Don’t know why I am beginning and which level of Maslow’s pyramid my endeavours are seeking to hit.
On a lazy Sunday morning tending towards mid-day, there is often a pattern to one’s thoughts. The ‘who am I’ and ‘what am I’ trample upon the ‘this is me’ and ‘I’ve made it’.
The heaviness of the head, coupled with the lightness of the body, work in tandem to create a third category: the scribbler.
The scribbler, a closet scribbler to be exact, is a prolific flash chit writer: there is a flash of ideas in his or her head and she or he scribbles away to glory until there is darkness. Nothing. Then of course there are pending messages to be read, phone calls to be made.
Divine decree Suddenly the world is rendered obscure by a divine decree that comes alive with all its indulgence.
The scribbler tells close friends about the glimpse of the other side as they cringe. But he explains about the creative side.
Dusk arrives, exactly as in the story. The one that leaves a taste in one’s mouth. Saki knew. The scribbler is now in transition and as we know transitions are bad.
They are like devouring a mouthful of your favourite fish and frisking the next morsel for any bones or the gaps between one golgappa and another. Eternity.
Though transitions vary. Some can be the distance between the last golgappa and vacuum.
Full of guilt Since vacuum is not an option for human beings, let alone ones who have had the glimpse of the other side, it is filled up with guilt.
Guilt of being too delighted for too little, and worse: sharing the delight. And now the end of the tunnel. The realisation. Writing is hard work like any other.
One has to sit down and write, rewrite and rewrite the rewritten.
The lights go off, the thumping heart calms down. Tomorrow will now be a new day.
shikhasemwal@gmail.com
