Why do you write?

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Before Day 0, I hardly ever wrote, except for work. Then, this blog became a lifeline.

A friend. A vent.

A hook to hang my days on.

A thing that helped me stay on.

A messenger. A mouthpiece.

A repository of memories.

An unencumbered voice.

A determined choice.

“Have you published anything?” a writer friend asked me recently.

‘No. I am a writer. I write.’

“Don’t you want to be published?”

‘Yes. It would be nice. But for me, writing is an end in itself.’

“Why else do you write?”

‘Because I am fascinated by the terror of a blank page.

Because I have something to say.

Because I want to reach others, especially those who feel very alone.

Because I love the scratchy sound of pen moving on paper.

Because it helps me connect with myself in a tender manner.

Because I can trust the words that come out. I can mess with them. Play.

Because I need to write what I’m thinking in order to understand what I’m thinking.

Because writing wants to happen through me. It can be a wooo-hooo surprise!

No reason. Simply.’

After nearly ten years of writing, in March this year I made my first submission and thankfully it was accepted. A short story, “The Order” was published earlier this month on an online literary magazine, Kitaab.org:

Short Story: The Order by Sangeeta Mahajan

This story made its debut in an unrefined form on this blog and my brother commented that I should try to get it published. That was in July 2018. Six years ago! Gosh! I must be slow.

Coffee by the sea.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

After many weeks of sitting by myself, writing quietly in a quiet house, thirsty for some newness, I made my way to a local café by the sea. I found a nice sofa with no one around and opened my note book to a blank page. Took the cap off my pen and leant back into the softness of the cushion on my seat, appreciating the salt in the breeze and the gentle lapping of the sea. Just then a trendy young couple sauntered in and settled on the lounge chairs in front of me, exactly between the sea and me. Frilly bikini top and fake eye-lashes, beach bod and all. Tall hunk of a guy next to her, who seemingly spoke only in murmurs. They ordered their brunch and as soon as the waiter left, a sharp feminine ‘you can be so rude. Sha’aap’ erupted out of a largely hush-hush conversation.

The air in my corner of the café tightened as multiple furrows appeared on her lovely forehead. Just as I was about to cover my ears with head-phones, she stood up and stomped out.

That was my first laugh of the day.

It was loud enough that other guests might have heard it but it happened without a notice or warning. I was simply the observer. Not judging. Not making snide remarks. Being present. Documenting. Smiling.

Five minutes later she returned with a big plastic bottle of water, hiding her red eyes behind her Victoria Beckham’esque sun-glasses. The red tip of her nose and deep pink peaks of her cheeks gave her story away. Her pumped up lips had lost every curve and had become a pale pink ‘equal to’ sign. She sat down and pulled her knees up into her chest, her feet resting on the edge of the seat. Her head buried deep inside the latest slab of I-phone held in her right hand, a tender-leafy-twig-tattoo snaking across the back of it.

Her pancakes arrived. She angrily poured all the maple syrup on them and started shoving bits stuck on the end of a fork into her mouth. The plate was cleaned out in one minute.

Her chilled bottle of water was forming a little pool at its base. The green smoothie was executed next. The silence around that table was stunning. Not the type I had hoped for but definitely good for writing.

He stared straight at the sea between mouthfuls of his three-egg-omelette and orange juice. When he finished, out came his slab and his head turned down by ninety degrees. She rolled tobacco in a white skin with a white filter as her fingers negotiated the movement of the sea-breeze. Her nail-beds were tiny, as if bitten off by shiny young teeth before they had a chance to grow. Her lighter struggled to light the cigarette. She smoked as she studied the sea. Her right hand still holding the moving images on her slab. For the next half an hour, they both were engrossed in their own respective distant worlds with no need for any exchange of any kind. The silence around them relaxed over that time. They paid the bill and walked out hand in hand, everything alright with the world again.

That was my second laugh of the day.

Shiny-new-object Syndrome

Posted by kidsaregifts20

If you’d ask me, what’s the one thing I want to do before I die, I’d say – write my book.

I have been working on it for years but it fails to materialise because there is work, home, travel, putting away summer clothes, family, packing, births, films, reports, reading, e-mails, deaths, Diwali, slumber, too-hot, too-cold, Christmas, don’t-feel-like-it, may-be-later, not-inspired, not-now and the list goes on to fill five pages.

This blog is a friend, a punch-bag, a vent, a discovery, an exploration, a path and a ready distraction. It is my creative play-ground, seemingly under my control and gives me instant gratification – writing a few hundred words within an hour or two and hitting ‘Publish’. Done.

It takes tonnes of time, sweat, blood and gut-wrenching angst to get the first draft of a book done. Things to think about – the setting, characters, voice, pace, first-person or not, genre, authenticity, shouldn’t sound preachy, shouldn’t be too emotional, shouldn’t be too short or too long, chapter-isation, privacy, audience and mountains more. It needs reworked, edited and rewritten many times over till it’s polished and ready. It needs to pass through expert scrutiny before it gets anywhere near ‘Publish’. It needs my full attention.

I’ve spent the last three days at a little village called Satkhol taking part in a Creative Writing Course at The Himalayan Writing Retreat. It’s been an exercise and a luxury. The air is pristine, the hospitality impeccable, the space serene, the teaching clear and the long range of snow-capped Himalayas in the near distance, stunning. This environment elevates me and brings me home to my truth. So, distractions will have to go. For now, I shall take a break from blogging to focus on the book. Stay in touch. I will resume when I have made a submission to a literary agent. Thank you for being here with me. I have felt your warmth. It has sustained, inspired and encouraged me for as long as I have been with you. Thank you. This is no more than a pause.

May each new day and the coming New Year bring you clarity and unveil the joys that lie within your heart.

“Doesn’t everything die at last and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

With your one wild and precious life?”

-an excerpt from The Summer Day by Mary Oliver.

Dis _ _ _ _ tions!

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Sitting at my desk, hoping to create gold on paper (read computer screen). I wonder what’s on radio? A new Urdu poem on Instagram? The angle of the sun getting snazzier by the day. That pile of unopened mail, staring at me. Those people walking by the window, in all-white costumes, singing. Are they drunk? The silencer in that car is not working.

The answer phone, blinking. Oh! That pending phone call to Mum and that long overdue important e-mail. Wonder if it’s cycling weather tomorrow. My hair, so bad from sweating inside the helmet. My stomach’s churning again. I wonder if the orchids need more water in this weather. Maybe I should look it up. No. No. Later. That new film someone recommended on Netflix. That Book at Bedtime – I need to catch up with the first two episodes. A-level results came out today. I hope the majority of the students were not disappointed. Saagar did so well in his A-level exams! Ten years ago.

That picture perfect Expedia cloud, framed in the middle of my window. This breeze, just like the one before the first monsoon shower back home. Wonder if anyone’s reading the report I wrote. Wonder if many patients will make it to the hospital tomorrow for their appointments. What do the train drivers do when they are on strike? I see the point they are trying to make. They believe they’re doing it for us all. Good for them.

The laundry needs sorted and put away. I need to pack for the weekend. A cup of jasmine tea and a piece of chocolate would be perfect. It’s too late to write anything sensible now. So, here’s praying for better luck tomorrow. Good night for now.

She.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

(Pen Vogler by John Burke. BP portrait awards 2017)

With all her worldly wealth, she could not purchase belonging. Especially to herself. Her eyes thirsty for tenderness. Her muscles tense with want, her skin hungry for touch, her lips a straight line of dissatisfaction.

She hoped a painter might find her in his brush strokes and capture her on his canvas. She paid him a mountain, so he could help her find out who she might be … find out if she could meet her real self. After many hours of sitting still, with her hands clasped together in her lap, she was tired. She was tired of perfectly painting her fingernails bright red, for the painter. She couldn’t wait to see what he saw.

The day came and the painting was ready to be seen by her. Her eyes bulged out of her head, eager to find the joy she so wanted to find in herself. All she saw in the fore-ground, was a golden dress sitting beside a golden yellow lamp shade. All she saw in the back-ground, was the austerity of dark brown walls and furniture. That was the gist of it. The thing she was dying to find was not there. It was yet to be born. Those clasped hands held the secret. She knew what she had to do – unlock the door with those lovely hands and leave … for some place, white, blue and green.