Write nonsense, let sentences make sense of your life

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This is the second of a two-part series of notes that the author wrote in her personal journal during a bi-polar low. She assures us that the grey clouds have passed and that she is “alive and sunshiney as ever”.

What prevents you from writing your inner reality down and making it a part of everyone else’s reality? Does it feel like too self-indulgent a thing to do? Well, indulge yourself already. You won’t quite know whether you deserve to until you do so.

Sometimes it’s ok to start writing without a plan. Without knowing for sure if these strings of words will amount to something. Sometimes it's ok to let your pen dance on paper freestyle. No form. No agenda. Just your thoughts as they spring up – in ones, twos and trillions.


We are to have a trillionaire among us. Strange, knowing there is a man worth so many zeroes.


Crows! The crows have been regular visitors. They come whizzing onto the adjacent terrace the moment I open the balcony door. And call out to their mates while I fetch biscuits for them.


I have been trying to write for the past many days but nothing seems to strike my mind. Perhaps a terrace session might help. The sky has an uncanny effect of unclogging the blocks in my brain pipe.


Of all the saws I ever saw I never saw a saw like the saw I saw in Warsaw.


Dot i’s.


Cross t’s.


Write nonsense.


Botch up spellings.


Let your mind be ok with the idea of imperfection. No first draft ever was the best.


Do you know something?




Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.


Ok. This is getting too disjointed.


But write. Write for a page and half more.


Yoga. Did this morning. Apetite is back with ferocioty. Gosh! Spelling mistakes abound And what’s gosh! Are you British? Say ‘Ayyo’ instead.


In other news. Origami has been most relaxing.


Santa Singh.


Banta Singh.


Relax Singh.


One more page to fill up! Oh the intimidation only a blank page poses. No. Get over the intimidation. Stare back fearlessly. Don’t blink. Write. Don’t worry about the reader. Just write. These pages are for you. These pages are to help you purge that block. These pages are to help you start writing again. Make mistakes. Write gobbledygook. But write.


Raintrees. Raintrees and crows. Crows love raintrees.


Peepul trees. They dance like seductive kathak dancers.


Banyan trees. Oh! The berries you bear.


Pride of India. Renamed Sachin Tendulkar tree on Shanky’s recommendation.


Coconut trees. I want to climb you some day.


Crows. Will you sit on my shoulder, please?


Whoa! Almost 3 pages written. God knows I have a knack for nonsense.


Super power - multiple hands to pet multiple dogs. And multiple heads to look in multiple directions. Imagine having a 360 degree view of the world at all times.



Why, Diary?


Why must I feel this urge to write when my whole being is in a state of turmoil? Why don’t I sit to write the pleasant thoughts that flit by? Why have we culturally romanticised wretchedness?


Yesterday (Or was it the day before? I have lost track of time) I thought of writing an ode to Shanky. And while the sentences danced in my mind, I just sat mutely watching them. Why didn’t I pick up this notebook and write. The lack of a writing desk is a poor excuse.




Do you think one day people will tire of sensationalism? And that day will people seek out boring lines to read? Like what if i wrote about my days of self-imposed quarantine in a time before coronavirus and added ‘quarantine’ to everyone’s vocabulary. Will people want to read how my meaningless minutes turned into hours, days, weeks and months?


Cat’s gone bonkers with the carton.


Shushi her name.


Foofi her game.


Makes no sense? That’s ok. It’s not meant to.


Shushi stares at seemingly enthralling spot on the wall around 143 cms away.


Shushi walks.


Shushi jumps and catches the string hanging from the bedsheet.


Shushi walks under the bed.


Shushi sits in cardboard carton.


Shushi prepares to pounce.


Shushi turns to her right.


Shushi looks at me.


Shushi looks 7 degrees away from me (to my left).


Shushi licks her belly.


Shushi has no clue I’m writing about her. Or maybe she does. Cats are omniscient.


Shushi is worthy of ‘The Truman Show’ type show. ‘The Shushi Show’. Alliterators have a field day.





Dear Diary,


A few days back, I thought of making a list of all the things that make me happy. The ultimate aim was to come up with a list of things to do given that I have been feeling rather unproductive these past many months. I even took an online career aptitude test today but the page conked after the last question. So I don’t know if my destiny lies in a career as a professional cuddler or part-time firewoman.


This list is a pretty simple thing to do. Why am I hesitating so much, then? Is it because I'm secretly afraid that it won't amount to much? Sigh…


Western Classical music plays on Spotify. I love my new ringtone. Yo Yo Ma playing Humoresque. It’s like a forest singing to the mountains.


On the bathroom door, I have drawn a scene from a forest walk with chalk. Joy.




Dear Diary,


I spent the last 30 days in hibernation. I don’t want to write about it because some things are best forgotten. But I want to remember the lessons this month of self-imposed quarantine has taught me. Recording it will ensure that I am wiser, if ever it occurs again.




Gsskk is a funny sound. Must make it more often. I like how the words ‘fart’ and ‘poop’ make me laugh even today. Three decades on planet Earth and potty humour still rocks!




Oh no. Not hence. Sleep didn’t happen, hence these nonsense sentences. Nonsentences.


So, like i was saying, this time i learnt.


- That taking a shower is a good first step.


- That cats are just TOO GOOD.


- That we must all yearn to greet each other with the enthusiasm of dogs.


- That Saranya is <3


- That letters are the most beautiful means of communication.


- That smiling helps.


- That crying helps.


- That we get by with a little help from our friends.


- That I have a wonderful family.


- That Shushi is EVERYTHING.




Diary of a cat


No. not diary. Observations of a human watching a cat.


Name of cat: Shushi


Shushi sits on the lower deck of the living room centre table. Aforementioned centre table is not placed in the centre of aforementioned room. Attempting to write sentences without articles. Shushi sits on lower deck and stares at Yellow who sits under the writing table that acts as dining table. Appa watches Jack Ryan on Primevideo. John Krasinski plays the lead title role. No use of attempting article-free writing if i’m going to keep striking out every a an the. Be more conscientious, madam. Wait. What does that word even mean? Is it spelt right?Who knows. World Health Organisation knows? Then ask them. Write email to help@who.com. Or is it help@gmail.who


Who let the dogs out? Gatekeeper, duh! Some people be so stupid they make song with such aforementioned lyrics. Actually they smart, ‘cos they make so much money. Stupids are the listeners.


Bridget Jones saw little bit. Amma commented on French kissing. “Chee! Why do they kiss like that? Can’t they just kiss on cheek?”


Paavam Appa, I thought. Hope he isn’t a fan of French kisses.

(If you want to read the earlier part of this brace of jottings from Shilpa Krishnan, here you are.)

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