As a (wannabe) writer, you eventually learn that your words are just an extension of you. What you write doesn’t necessarily mean that they represent you. They are your byproduct, not vice versa. The difference between a terrific writer and a terrible writer is she understands where this line of distinction genuinely lies. Most writers fail because they meander too much in the pursuit of finding their voice through their words. That’s the equivalent of seeking the terrace first instead of the foundation. Food before hunger or hunger before food? A firmer way to hold onto a craft would be to accept yourself first, for the person you truly are, and then move on to the next possible step. You are one entity but there are varied letters and words and phrases and thought processes to adhere to. You subsume everything within the ambit of literature to transform into a worthy writer. You can’t do that if you remain stuck to just one letter (e) or a word (love) or a phrase (fuck you) or a thought process (in god we trust).
Which brings us to a broader question: if a writer comes up with beautiful words, does that mean that the writer is equally beautiful? Please note that beautiful is not the same as good-looking; the former is a sensation, the latter is a (temporary) trait. When you pen/type something extraordinarily poetic and piercing, do you indeed become a better person too? Or your creation stays completely independent of who you are? How far is a writer from his writing? Are words so manipulative that they can be given shapes that the writer can never embody? I think about such possibilities because my ultimate goal is to be a person who did minimal harm to others — via words or actions. And if by chance, I manage to light up somebody’s day with my writing, then on that particular day, I must be a slightly better person. Can’t say the same about the following day(s).
It’s 2023 already and I am yet to publish a full-bodied book. Yet. Going by my (lack of) tempo, I feel it might take some more time. But I am hopeful that I’d just pause the clock hands and take a break from my daily routine and do the needful. Right now, it’s less about authorship and more about what it means to get anything done at all. I wanted to become a writer at the age of 12, thanks to my interest in stories. My ajji was a fabulous storyteller and so is my amma. So much so I even joined a typewriting class—I was the only boy there—during SSC summer vacation. Why typewriter? Because being technologically challenged, I assumed that all writers furiously typed on a Remington. Anyway, the point is, it’s been about 25 years of harbouring a dream, but for reasons pathetic, I am yet to realize my potential. Never too late, they say. How long left, they never say.
There is no dearth of writers nowadays. Due to unprecedented spread of content, everybody is visually and textually advanced compared to the previous generations. Caption? Check. Messages? Check. However, if you are aiming to be a writer of value—the sort whose work will outlast you—then you’ll have to dig a layer deeper and see what inspires you to sit up straight. Some of the finest ideas strike you when you weren’t even paying attention. That’s the beauty of your brain; it’s constantly playing hide-and-seek with you. In my experience, our realities dictate the boundaries of our imagination. If you’ve never been to a war-torn nation, you wouldn’t know how it feels to be rudely woken up by shelling. Limited reach. A well-traveled person has a better shot at expanding the horizon of their landscape. Somebody like me, who reads too much and moves too little, is bound to exercise nothing but excuses.
“How do you write?”
“I write just like I fuck. Imaginary.”
Most Indians travel long distances by train. We have a long way to go—no pun intended—before becoming the USA. Apart from being relatively cheap and convenient, trains in India have a communal vibe to it. Co-passengers easily connect and try to be helpful to each other. This phenomenon is very intriguing when you consider the fact that the same people won’t even talk to their co-passengers while traveling in a bus or plane. Even when an airport is fully crowded, it remains a lonely place. Train, on the other hand, brings out the best in desis. Sharing food and laughs would have still made sense but the ones sharing the RAC seats tend to share their existential issues with each other. An unpaid cross-therapy session going on, interrupted by too many cups of chai and coffee. Maybe this extreme comfort is possible because both parties know that their train journey isn’t going to last a lifetime. It’s a small window—no pun intended, again—of a day or two and then both of them are going to go their separate ways.
If you’ve been following this 15-year-old blog regularly, you’d know that I sleep little and overcompensate with absurd dreams. Most often, I watch vivid dreams with the imagery printed on the walls of my mind, even after I wake up staring cluelessly into the mirror with the toothbrush stuck inside my stupid mouth. Obviously, dreams don’t mean anything except adding a comma to our continuous sentence of consciousness. We behave and misbehave in our dreams for a very simple reason: khwaabon ko tameez nahi hoti. I recently found myself in a dream where I was attending a college function. Some students were performing on stage and as is the norm of any dream, within a few seconds, you get to know your character very well. So, it turns out I was a bit taller and a college professor and was accompanied by my wife. But the woman seated next to me was clad in burqa. Very confusing. Anyhow, I was trying to wrap my head around solving the mystery of this woman who had a black fabric wrapped around her head. This is a factory setting of dreams: you can’t converse freely; there is an unseen script hidden somewhere. Anyway, in one scene, both of us were walking towards the hall where food was to be served and I was walking faster to check whether she kept up with my pace. Long walk short, she was sitting next to me at the food table. And just before I could ask her an awkward question, while staring at her gorgeous eyes—“What is your name, miss?”—Ranga barked, “Cut!” .
Brad Pitt was the first man to be named 'Sexiest Man Alive' twice by People magazine in 1995 and 2000. It’s difficult to fathom the significance of an American magazine focusing only on Americans and overlooking the rest of the human species but still having the audacity to use absolutes like ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ instead of ‘Sexiest American Man Alive’ or some drivel. Anyway, I do believe that Brad Pitt is an exceptionally good-looking person and his Hollywood career shaped out very well despite the handicap of being too beautiful for the camera. Which is why I find it alarmingly cute that he recently admitted to be suffering from prosopagnosia (facial blindness), meaning he doesn’t remember faces the way some people don’t remember names. Imagine being so handsome that your brain simple doesn’t give a fuck about others’ unacceptable (read: ugly) faces.
My friend’s daughter is the reason why the word ‘adorable’ still exists. Being a fast learning toddler, she picks up stuff from her environs. But what is more interesting is how she reflects her knowledge on herself. Let me explain what I mean by this. Usually, a child’s first name is either mamma or pappa or amma or abba, etc. Her first name was her own name. She has been listening to her name so often that she couldn’t wait to utter it out. Which makes me wonder why most kids don’t say their own name at the get go. And if this isn’t heartwarming enough, after tripping, she asks herself “Are you ok?” and picks herself up, because that’s what she has been hearing her parents tell her whenever some small accident takes place. I think this girl is ready to face the world.
As a species, our greatest failure is not failing but not believing in ourselves. Success comes and goes but that firm belief to make a difference is what determines our presence in the world. When we are not able to pump our spirit, we end up parading for others. Could be a sports team or a sportsperson or a celebrity: since we couldn’t succeed, we outsource our desire to win to somebody else. If only we invested in ourselves the way we invest in those we admire. From a bigger picture angle, this is a positive development as long as we are not cynical with ourselves. But then, that’s the thing about outsourcing our aspirations for too long: we tend to turn bitter and sterile before we even notice it.
The moment you read the word ‘madrasa’, you are bound to build a regressive image of a medieval education system. In a lot of ways, you are not mistaken. But in a lot many more ways, you are profoundly wrong. I felt this way recently while talking to two youngsters—siblings, 17 and 18—hailing from northern Kerala. They are studying at a local mosque and both are excellent calligraphers, not to mention super-quick with Rubik’s cube. While conversing with them in their broken Tulu, I understood how we assume so much based on too little data. The aspiration of youth is the most universal phenomenon in the world: they seek meaningful existence and financial independence. As is one of my standard questions, I asked them what is the most important thing in life. The elder one said, “Nemmadi (Kannada word for contentment),” while the younger one said, "Whatever happens, we must try to do our best with santosha (Sanskrit for joy)." To be frank, I was expecting Gen Z answers, so I asked them who told you all this. “Our ustad (Persian for teacher)."
Hello,
I have been reading the blog since 2011. I wonder if there is a word you have for your readers, or is it just readers. I'd definitely not prefer reader or follower. Has to be something special, nien?
Just asking, why is your every other post made for public 🥲🥲