The year was 2002.
I knew already that I was going to be a writer. Not sure how or where or what though. But deep down my muzzled mind, I was quite aware of my desire to write. So much so I even joined a typing class during the summer vacation. Turned out I was the only boy there; all the other students were young women with secretarial ambitions. But why typewriter? Well, my raw understanding of a writer was someone hunched in the corner pouring his heart out by punching in the noisy keys. I didn’t associate a writer with fountain pens. I was technologically advanced, you see. Hence, the typewriter. This despite the fact that computer was fast sweeping in the dance floor. In fact, all my friends in the neighbourhood had joined computer classes.
Anyway, I used to attend my typing classes every morning at 10 AM at a respected institution. The reason I use this particular adjective here is to emphasize on the novelty that there weren’t many places back then then that were punctual. On top of it, I met didis who were genuinely driven to find themselves a job soon. No nonsense type girls. And there I was, sitting amongst them, fully aware of my gender.
Once the noisy class ended, I used to walk about three kilometers (one-way) to visit the Homi Bhabha library in BARC. It used to be my favourite place in the world. For one, it was free of cost. Two, it had AC. Three, it was filled with fascinating books about science, history, geography, astronomy, and so on—not to forget, premium magazines and newspapers. I read all the magazines, from NatGeo to The Economist to FP, even if I had little context. Loved reading.
Being determined to know about the world we live in, I used to make tiny notes of things I didn’t understand, words I couldn’t parse easily, phrases foreign to me, and then read them again with the help of a dictionary. Most of the people who were in that library were of scientific persuasions. Some professors-type, some students who went to better schools, some oldies who clearly had all the time in the world to read 10 newspapers in a day, and then there was me. I used to spend over 4 hours on average in that icy cold space.
I haven’t been there in about two decades and yet, I vividly remember how that library smelled like. To put it poetically, it reeked of a promise. Since I was acutely aware of my family’s financial conditions, a part of me was keen on doing something well with myself. But at the same time, I wasn’t really equipped with the necessary information to make it big, either. If anything, I was only interested in becoming a writer whose work would be so popular that my parents would be proud of me. 15-year-old boy’s 15-year-old dream.
Just before pandemic hit the shores, I visited home and found some of the notes I made in the library. To my utter surprise, my handwriting wasn’t half as bad as it is now. The librarian used to have a tray of paper sheets on his desk and I used to pick a heap in advance, to avoid having to walk back and fro repeatedly. Just loved reading something informative, and making a record of it on those pages. This made sense because I wasn’t very familiar with the contemporary rise of internet. I was feeling good about myself, as if Google didn’t exist.
Yellowed pages, now. A blank stare at nostalgia.
An elderly woman, with grizzled greys and golden-hued glasses, took notice of me—I was unmissable; I visited library almost 6 days a week, except on Mondays when it was closed—and spoke to me at the water cooler. She was the only person I interacted with, there. She seemed curious about my notes and asked a bit about me. Like a Dickensian character, I actually informed her that I was going to be a writer. Amused, she said good luck. “I will wait for your book,” was her last sentence to me.
Long story short, despite such clarity in what I really wanted to do with my life, I ended up joining the mass brigade of engineering, only to course-correct my path later. All things said and undone, I’ve had a storyful journey, but I am yet to call myself a ‘writer’ in the true sense of words. Sometimes, I wonder whether that sweet old lady is still waiting.
We all are waiting for the book, it seems