Fragrance

I was in Fahud (Oman) then. We forced bachelors used to go for a walk after supper every day.  It was moonlit night and I became suddenly aware of the faint fragrance that was floating on the breeze. Suddenly, it was as if all the senses had come alive at a time, not only the olfactory. Real, still an ethereal experience.

Friends walking with me just waived off my suggestion, saying this was the normal smell of the winter. True. There were a number of frangipani and jasmine trees flowering every night in the campus. But this was a different fragrance. I could not place what it was; neither could I forget it until I went to sleep that night with difficulty.

Next day, same time, same pathway, and that same, faint but all enveloping fragrance! My friends said I must be going crazy. I was. Such was the unsettling effect. I begged excuse and went on search for the shrub/ bush which was trying to paralyse me. I searched all the shrubs lined along the two kilometre long path. Could not place my finger on any particular one. Again disturbed sleep that night.

Next day, during lunch hour, I enquired with the gardener as to what that fragrance can be. He asked me to describe it. And I did not know how to. If one did not know from which flower it was emanating from, how could one name it?

I came up with an idea then – I told him, It is not like Rose (Gulab), not like Jasmine (Mogra), or Frangipani (Chapha) or Lily (Kamal) or Tuberose (Nishigandha), or even Lemon, Orange, Mango.

He then suggested a few more names of flowers and I said, “No, it does NOT match any, but I have a doubt that its effect takes me to my childhood. Somehow it is related to old memories.”

He said, “Then Date (Khajoor) trees? And Drumstick (Shevga) trees? Or the frankincense (Ood) tree one of our Omani colleagues from Salalah had planted in front of his room?”

They were also flowering. May be that was the fragrance? I said I shall check out. That evening, I went in search of the trees.

My friends had now given up on me and seriously started thinking if they should label me SmellHound or FlowerHound or something like that in Hindi. But, such was the spell of the fragrance, that I could risk anything.

Next day, the gardener asked me if I had found the origin. I had not. He suddenly said, now only God can save you. I said, yes, possibly.

My search was on for a fortnight or so. One of those days we had a severe dust storm and a rain shower followed by it. The puddles on the footpath and the road were such that I had to tread a different, unpaved route that day after supper. As expected, the fragrance was now mixed with the fresh aroma of the soil wet with rain.

The senses I think were sharper that day, and Viola! I stumbled upon the strongest whiff. I judged the wind direction and literally started Doglike pursuit of the smell. I did not have to wait much.

It was a simple, seemingly innocuous, dark pink budded Oleander tree (Kanher) in full bloom which was emanating this enslaving fragrance.

Then I tried to relate the possible association of the fragrance. Was it something to do with the Ganeshotsav? The garden at our ancestral home? Festive crowd?

Kanher was quite common those days in every household, and the white one was useful for Shiva and Gauri Pooja. So, what was so special about its fragrance? I could only take ‘Not this’, ‘Not that’ route…. Only exception being, it reminded me of my very early childhood. That was all. Neither a specific instance nor person associated with it.

Generally I can associate any fragrance with its first significant memory. Moti soap and crackers with a particular Diwali, fermented Jaggery with a Kirana Shop/convenience store, cologne with an uncle, rusted chains with a hardware shop, Nirgudi (an antiseptic creeper) with my injury in an abandoned stone quarry…and what not.

Somehow, and for no reason, my brain had stored the Oleander scent for so many years in a safe deposit vault and released its effects during the past weeks for its amusement….Or I was being reminded and given a chance not to forget it again in future.

When I was tired of thinking, on a wilder note, I even farfetched the connection to my previous births, provided there were any and I was not a cat or a camel in those birth….who knows?

In a couple of days after I found it, I was through with this Kanher business and started sleeping well. When I showed them the bush, my friends were totally flummoxed by the finding. They were expecting a wild, exotic flower, but not this lower middle class Kanher. To pacify them and to celebrate my freedom from the clutches of that fragrance, we arranged a barbeque party next weekend in the company of that bush.

I made it a point that all my friends had a nose full of that fragrance before we concluded the party, so that they would also not forget and identify it in future without a doubt.

I sincerely hope that, that dumb shrub has wizened up and does not torture others now a day.

First Day in School

The first teacher I remember was my Grandfather. I was initiated into memorising Bagwadgeeta at a very tender age. Whenever he was in town, I was required to sit in Grandpa’s bed at dawn, and repeat the lines he recited. If he felt I have memorised a page/chapter well, he would recite half the Shlok, and I had to complete the balance. Other days, he would recite the alternate lines, and I was required to fill in. It was fun and never taxing.

Afterwards, I had a privilege of having a private teacher at the age of 3 to initiate me into elementary reading and writing. This was the custom in most households those days – the British traditions were still intact.

The teacher’s name was Rajabhau Keskar. I do not remember what he taught me, but remember him as a person instead. He was very soft, never scolded, always wore pyjamas and full sleeved shirt (Light Green and Blue were his favourite colours), sleeveless sweater and sometimes a stumpy beard. I had a separate room for tuition and nobody disturbed us for those 3 hour sessions. He must have been a good teacher. Otherwise Rajabhau would not have tolerated me for 3 hours every single day. I do not think he charged any fees for keeping me occupied – at least I did not witness any exchange of fees, neither was it spoken about any time in my ear’s distance.

After I was with him for 6 months or so, while we were deep in to the studies (!) one day, my Grandfather knocked the door, opened it a little and enquired in mime. Rajabhau gestured “Yes” without uttering any word. Grandpa closed the door and left.

I was curious. What is this going on? Rajabhau said – “You have grown up now. I shall not be coming to teach you henceforth. Instead, you will be coming to school. Starting tomorrow”. Rajabhau used to teach in the same elementary school where I was to join.

I did not know what was so special that had I done. I learned later that I had cleared the test for Class 2, conducted by Rajabhau at home, without me knowing. I was supposed to join Class 3 straight, which was then called Double Promotion. A few relatives and neighbours arrived that evening to congratulate my grandpa and Grandma about my terrific accomplishment.

I had a chequered cloth carry-bag, which was very dear to me. It held all my playthings and marbles. Whenever possible, I used to carry this bag, although it was shabby and torn at places, and actually dropped many things than carry. Although she earlier vehemently refuted my idea of carrying this famous bag to school everyday, Aunty finally relented. Evening that day,  in between their cooking tasks, Grandma and Aunt emptied and basted the bag and stuffed then with tomorrow’s sundries,  saying, “This is how you will pack every day. You are a big man now. Be orderly in school”.

The school timing was 0730 Hrs. But I was bathed, clothed in ceremonial clothes and fed in earnest, ready to depart, at around 0630.

Grandpa was a lawyer and he used to have mock sessions for his clients and witnesses for the day until 0930. He used to go to the court at around 1030 in a Rickshaw. Grandma had reminded him at least twenty times yesterday that it was his responsibility to take me to school on the first day.

When he was not ready until 1000, Grandma sent me –a hundredth time since morning – to remind him of the most important task of the day. He then quickly dispersed all his clients and said smiling, “I totally forgot about it. I have no cases today. Are you ready to wait until I take bath and food? Or should we go immediately?”

He had never asked me to decide on my own before this day. I must have taken a lot of time in deciding, because he got up and said, “I must freshen up and eat. Come; join me for food in 10 minutes.”

But 10 minutes became one hour, and food took another hour. In between, Satish uncle arrived to check on my progress, and I doubt had a good look at my school-bag. Grandpa told him that he has to fetch me from school today when it was over. He agreed readily, saying to me, “So, grown up or not?”

Grandpa’s Rickshaw had already arrived at 1000, its usual time, and Babu, our rikshaw-wala was waiting patiently.  He was thrilled to see me with my cloth bag and two size better clothes.

“Are, how grown up you look in these clothes!  And Bag? Are you also coming to court with us?”

“No, Babu. School instead. And I am NOT grown up.” I said.

I was supposed to be in a Marathi medium school. The Urdu school was next to it in a separate building. Both were government schools.

We went to school and Grandpa (and I) was well received by the Head Master in person. He was carrying his famous rule- a wooden, two inch diameter cylinder. This teacher, as I would learn later by actual experience, had “Rule by Ruler” motto. Next instance, he grabbed me by my shirt collar and requested Grandpa to go, assuring him not to worry. He dumped me in a class nearest to us and fortunately vanished. There was no sign of a teacher nearby and this classroom was utter chaos. While I was appreciating the dated ambience, the war-cries, the tiled roof and the sun filtering through, Rajabhau came running from somewhere.

“Who let you stand here? This is Class One.” As if it was my doing!

Again I was collared, this time by Rajabhau, my good teacher. I was carried like a floating Hanuman hanging by neck to nearby Urdu school. Here? Where I was not able to comprehend a word of what was coming out from the classrooms? Where teachers were wearing Turki topi’s and some had beards? One of the teachers peeped out and asked – New kid? Rajabhau answered in affirmative.

Our flight landed in a very very small class room. Half of the students were reciting tables in Urdu, half in Marathi. I was given a front seat on a carpet, much to the annoyance of those already there, and was asked to “Just Sit”.

Rajabhau departed, and the Urdu School Head Master materialised.

“What is your name? and what is the cast?”

I told him the name. He appeared to be pacified, and asked me to join the pupils in reciting Marathi tables. I barely tried since by this time, I  had discovered that my dear cloth bag had gone missing. I did not remember whether I forgot it at home, in Rikshaw or in Marathi school.

Should I start a ruckus? My dilemma continued for barely a few minutes when Satish Uncle came to my rescue. He called me from the window and with a broad smile enquired the teacher if the school was over. I said I have just now arrived. But the teacher took me by arm and hauled me through the window in to uncle’s arms, saying,

“Enough for the day. Take him home. Bring him back next Monday to this same class room, if he is all right”.

Although I urged Satish Uncle to help me find my Bag, it fell on deaf years. Later, enjoying my freedom and fresh air, bobbing up and down on uncle’s shoulders, I became slowly but acutely aware of how bad it can be to be grown up.

When I complained to Grandfather, suddenly everybody in the household started a big show of searching my bag. They accused each other, Babu, Rajabhau, the headmaster and everybody in town and kept laughing, I did not know for what reason. But they did not accuse me for the lost bag, which was strange.

Before Monday, I got a new canvas bag to carry my books. Grandpa even had a word of praise about my bravery on the first day in school.

However, I missed my favourite cloth bag very much. It was never found.

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From Left : Jayant Dada, Rajeev (Author, Age 3) and Satish Kaka.

Date : 22-03-1953 , About that time.



Should one write?

Socrates never wrote. Socrates used to roam market places and invite people for discussion. Plato documented all the Socratic thinking as dialogues. Socrates’ views as to why he did not believe in writing were as follows:

1. Because, You forget that what you have written. Written work is a dead Thought.

2. Thought is your child, where as your written word is an orphan.

3. Writing can be misinterpreted (since the author is not available to explain what he meant).

4. Poets (all artists that write myths?) are the gravest danger to an ideal Republic (people state). Therefore they should be banished.

Question!!!!!

Should one write?

Why should one write?

Because, in that order:

1. Is this not precisely why one should write? – to empty the mind and to help forget? And what if you forget the most important thought you had today because you did not write it down?

2. Even though thought is a child, once grown up, it will need space (in a different brain), and will need abandoning-  even at the risk that it will become orphan.

3. Yes. Readers will misread. But as long the written word makes people think (which is why and for we live), is not all writing justified?

4.  Agreed that entertainers can take you away from ideals, but is it justified to banish all entertainers? and therefore entertainment? And why did Plato write dialogues, Socratic thinking, in the form of drama ?

Most people write (or paint) for that one moment of bliss they experience after the creation is complete in their eyes and to their satisfaction.

What do you think?

Should one be Socrates’s follower or leave our creations (children/orphans) behind so that people will remember us after we are no more?

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(Subject to possible edit, at a later date. It is not Dead yet, neither Orphaned.)

Qawwali

Not many of us follow Qawwals and Qawwalies today, because you do not get to hear the classical Qawwali easily, and we are not initiated to Urdu accented Hindi. I consider it as my good fortune that I got initiated into this art form in my formative days.

Pakistani maestros Nusarat Fateh Ali Khan and Abida Parween, Sabri brothers have made this form some what acceptable. The rock group Joonoon then made history with their fusion “Sayyoni”. However, these are now called Soofiana renderings and marketed in that fashion as if Qawwali is not a separate art form. The Qawwali is distinguished by its beat pattern. It has Soofi roots, no question.

I am sure a lot of classical Qawwals must be living now a days in the abyss for want of publicity and on non-saleability account in a media dominated environment. The dargahs like AjmerShah and such others in Northern India have kept it alive in the classical form. But how long it will survive amongst westernized music scene is anybody’s guess.

In my childhood, there used to be Qawwali duels in a week long festival in our town. Ajit, the town’s  human loud-speaker used to distribute the hand bills and advertise through his hand held horn about the day’s Qawwals. Although there was unwritten prohibition for us school kids,  we friends used to attend these festivals. Qawwals were a respected community then – At least when they were on stage.  The festival used to start with local, district level Qawwals and then culminate into Aziz Naza, Shakila Bano Bhopali, Shakila Bano Punavi, Ismail Azad, Kalandar Azad et al, the then nationally acclaimed artists.

For me, the duel was very fascinating. The Qawwals used to have their Poets sitting next to them. They used to write answers to the riddles the opponents presented, on the spot. The dead line was the time required by the opponent to sing a stanza. Before it was sung by the opponent, the poets had to be ready with their version/ interpretation of the subject matter, the common lines both will render in the beginning and at the end of the stanza. Other attraction was the electric Banjo, the powered, electric guitar like string instrument, which could be heard live only in these festivals.

In comparison, the Gazal is quite popular now a days than Qawwalies. The Qawwalies, Soofi poetry and Ghazals talk of May (liquor), Maykhana (the pub), and the Saki (the waitress). Although many a listeners take these on their physical attributes and revel in those words, the May means the nectar of salvation, consuming and enjoying May is immersion of self in the thought of the Supreme Being, his love i.e. a Prayer. The Saki means Guru or the Teacher who serves/initiates  you to the Supreme, while serving the nectar and Maykhana indicates the place for likeminded people who have gathered for prayer, obeisance. If one reads/ listens to the Ghazal/ Qawwali with this understanding, it takes you to another plane.

The Qawwalies used to be about these Metaphysical aspects when I was in 7/8 th standard. In 3-4 years time, it totally changed to objects of physical desire and suggestive verses. Then came Marathee Qawwals who used to sing Qawwalies to the tunes of Hindi Movie Songs. I totally lost my interest in these Muqabalas/duels by the time I completed my high school. Although the transformed Qawwali attracted crowds in the beginning for novelty, they dwindled, Qawwali festivities stopped altogether in the course of time. My interest in classical Qawwali and Qawwals stayed. Those days, All India Radio and Radio Ceylon used to air Qawwalies past 1100 in the night hours for listeners like us. Sabri Brothers and even Salamat Nazakat were amongst the list of Qawwals that featured every night.

Ones I was visiting friends in Chandrapur. We were sullen because of the heat and the day’s work. After a tasteless supper, we decided on having Pan, the betel leaf, to forget the day. It was past midnight. We kept searching all throughout the city for a Pan Shop. Most were closed. Streets were deserted. And then suddenly, in distance, we heard this breath taking Qawwali rendering –

Raste Alag Alag Hain, Musafirkhana To Ek Hain,

Manzil Har Ek Shakhs Ko Pana To Ek Hain….

(The Roads are different, wayfarers’ Temporary Resting Place is One !!

Final Destination, Every Being has to strive for One !! )

We forgot the Pan and went in search of the Qawwali. Fortunately, it was being played in a Pan shop, with the owner immersed in listening to an antique record player. We joined him. There were no customers except us. So we waited until the 4.5 minute rendition concluded.  The owner came out of his meditation, laughed and asked, “Now tell me your prescription”. We said – whatever you offer.

Looking at our wonderstruck and inquisitive faces, he meticulously opened the display cabinets. Behind the display was a neatly stacked collection of hundred odd EP records – all of Qawwalies. The Pan and Qawwali then became a medium of sorts with our Teacher telling us for an hour all about the nuances, forgotten artists and the freaky current trends. Finally a policeman came and halted his sermon asking him to close business for the day.

Whenever I hear the beat of Qawwali, I wish that, that Musafirkhana and that Teacher is still there, like we saw him. Until he is there, the wanderers will have a night’s resting place and the Qawwali will live for ever.

Taming of the Shrew

I am talking about Habits (good and bad) and their roots.

I feel habits form because of the programming of the mind, the way we discipline our body and mind. Disciplining the body is in our control. But mind?

Agreed that health comes out of strict exercise regimen. Also that healthy mind lives in a healthy body. Therefore we must discipline our body to remain fit all the time. And once the adrenaline is flowing, we feel euphoric – at least for some time. However is this sufficient as a continuum?

We say there are compulsions which do not allow me to form good habits. “Compulsion” has a quite a few dictionary meanings.

Urge (Impulse, Desire, Craving, Need) is one set.

Other set is Force (Pressure, Coersion, Obligation, Duress, Pursuasion).

Looks like we can divide the compulsions into

> External – per Force (Environmental, Situational) and

> Internal ones  - per Urge (those solely due to us).

That should take us nearer to the meaning of the word – compulsion.

Situations are created not only by us, but other forces also contribute and pressurise you to behave in a manner not socially or personally acceptable. In a Good environment/ situation (and if I am happy there), I am likely to develop Good habits. In Not-So-Good environment, I may develop bad ones – i.e. getting up late, eating unhealthy or irregularly, becoming coach potato and so on.

Can I control the “Pressure” situations/ environment we live in?  May be I can if I do my part to improve it, and see if it makes any difference. In meetings, I have seen sudden change of scene, with use of light, inflictive humor (although all the meetings are never meant to be hilarious and your humor can backfire). If you are clear, assertive and articulate about yourself in a situation, people/factors that are forcing you may accept your stand and retract. The situation itself then changes.

You can not run away from a situation. So, should I not accept it and modify it?

Now enters the Shrew. You are a healthy person. You are not “in”a situation. Nobody is coaxing you to do something. Still you do it day in and day out. What is this compulsion? Where does this Urge (Impulse, Desire, Craving, Need) comes from? Why do I create a one man situation which ruins me?  Is it mind that plays such games? Is it a bad habit or good habit? Is it destiny at work? Destiny comes out of habits?

Is there an outlet from this one- man-island- situation? Is the all pervading soul-matter laughing at us? Or helping me to come to terms? Or saying – “To tame the shrew called Mind, with effort, thou shalt find a Touchstone which converts all desires, needs, cravings and impulses into other things golden”.

That effort I think is termed as creativity.

Although Greek Pre-Sophists pleaded that there is no reason for any thing or any being, all is just the combination of roots – Earth, Water, Fire and Wind, most of us are in search of the Touchstone all throughout our life. Ones found, we feel that we will find meaning and purpose of our life and being.

In our context, is the the Touchstone The Guru?

Ones he has the touchstone, the Sinic breeds everything golden, although he may remain in a one man island situation. Sinics breed hatchlings gone bad also.  Otherwise the dictionary meanings of creativity would not be- Artistry, Originality, Imagination, Ingenuity, Inspiration, Inventiveness, Resourcefulness, Vision.

BarBar Shop

BarBar Shop – This is what the sign that read on a Barber Shop that I saw in Fujaira (UAE) few weeks ago. I do not think anybody who has visited a Barber Shop, and undergone experiences associated with, will ever want to go to that Barber shop again. I cannot still forget the smells and odours of barbar shops I have visited, even after decades.
The early encounters I remember ere with our family barbar Yamaji. I used to live in a small town with my grandparents. I was 5-6 years old then. Grandpa used to practice law at the district place during the week. On Saturdays he used to return to be with us. Winter Sunday mornings used to start with his ritual bask in the sun while applying glycerine and lime juice. I used to update him on the past week’s happenings – play, friends, school, homework etc. complete.
This is when Yamaji used to arrive with his patent Barbar Trunk. He knew Gandpa would be home on Sundays and also that he would lose a permanent client if he missed his weekly visit. Grandpa would oblige him every Sunday by offering his head and a few hair. But on some, he used to feel his hair on the back of his head and give an enigmatic smile to almighty, and then look at me. This would send shivers down my spine because I knew what that meant – Your turn today. Whether I had an inch growth or I was skinhead, there used to be no escape.
The first step – fetching hot water and towel. Hot water, because Yamaji was adept at using whatever water was available at arm’s length, and no water also. Your own towel, because then you were saved from Yamaji’s towel, which would remind you of the haircut until next birth. I used to hide in the kitchen behind Grandma. But although very affectionate otherwise, for haircuts, she used to be extra ordinarily stern. She used to carry me to Yamaji herself, if my struggle persisted beyond banging a few utensils or if my noise level went beyond minus Decibels.
Yamaji then used to open his famous BarBar tin trunk. This used to open from top in two halves like a tool box. On one side, a single scissor, a rat eaten comb. On other side, a zero machine I used to dread and a razor, which was even more deadlier. In between stuffed his towel, a leather belt for sharpening the razor, and a saucer containing so called soapy, sticky mass with hair growth and tongues of froth.
He would then start unfolding his leather belt and throw it like a hunter. The noise – a reminder to Grandma that he now needs a cup of tea. The tea cup would come eventually, in the midst of the haircut.
The actual hair cut was a simple affair for Yamaji. Take a scissor in hand, look at Grandpa for approval. If he declined, the zero machine. If he still declined, the razor. In those days, the scissors were allowed only after you laureated. The blunt scissor was like a plough for weeding. The zero machine, a pack of blood thirsty fangy hounds in search of hair. The razor, a butcher’s knife for skinning bones and brain.
Somewhere during the process, when you had a central patch removed, Grandma’s tea would arrive, and forgetting my anxiety, Grandpa and Yamaji would start discussing dwindling rains. Also would arrive a bunch of my friends announcing a Kabaddi or KhoKho match and suddenly settling down and giggling, since my present ordeal was more interesting than any play. Their viewing gallery used to be at a safe distance from Yamaji since he was authorised for skinning any brat in anticipation of their parent’s approval; if one did not behave properly. I would be almost in tears by this time because of the shame owing to half shaven head, the lingering pain due to his vice like grip, my breaking neck bone, bleeds and bruises, and possible further torture by friends. Because the custom was to knuckle anybody with a fresh haircut, aiming the already bleeding and tender head.
Grandpa would ask, why do you have to cry every time?… How a man can possibly explain shame? So, increase volume instead.
The tea party over, and Grandma’s stern warning to “finish quickly” received, Yamaji would then start applying soap and water to entire head. Rest scissors, Rest zero machine, in comes the razor. And before I further cried about the hair-soap lumps falling in front of me and the excruciating pain and krrr…krrr…noise the butcher’s knife generated, Yamaji would announce that my hair were very coarse, like pig’s or buffalo’s and need care, i.e. weekly haircut.
By the time the shave was finished, I would be a dead meat. Grandpa would scuttle away my friends, saying no play today.
The mixed smell of the morning sun, Yamaji’s dirty left hand full of hair and lather in front of my nose and holding tightly my head at temples, his sweat and the smell of lime and glycerine is a permanent memory.
But Yamaji would be a star in any of the ceremonies and functions at our place. It was his right to lead processions as a torch bearer and receive grooms/brides on our behalf. He used to come dressed in a swank pink red turban instead of a sweaty rust topi, and also new embroidered clothes. However I always had a doubt whether he bathed before wearing those new clothes, because his characteristic smell would follow him even in the new clothes.
Every Barbar shop has a story to tell. The very noisy ones, those who play Vividh Bharati radio station so much that you are full for next ten generations, the talkative ones, the well dressed and dirty ones, the ones that work like assembly line, those which have hair strewn about like un-mowed September grass, the ones with film stars on walls, ones with assembly of gods or political leaders on walls, one that had a certificate that he was official Barber to so and so on the celebrity’s visits to town, one where the barbar was himself an actor and other touring actors came for a cut and chat, ones with drawings of different haircuts posted on walls, those with engraved mirrors, ones with office like tables and chairs, ones with revolving chairs or wooden fixed chairs or dentist chairs, one where I saw a murder in progress from distance…all have something to tell. But visit again? And again? No way.
However, when I was visiting our town after some twenty odd years, I saw Yamaji once. Now he was very old, teeth gone and did not resemble any “Yamaji the terror”. He had now grown up sons and a brand new steel and glass cutting saloon managed by them. However, I felt the Yamaji I knew was a happier person, compared to this Yamaji sitting like a castaway outside their shop. He looked at me, recognized me with a little effort and asked by gesture if I would… and I promptly waved back – I would never, never in my life. He probably understood and smiled back as if requesting to at least keep visiting the past.

Punascha Hari Om

I started writing a weblog couple of years ago. When it was shown to my critics -bearing in mind that “what you get is what you write”- I learnt that it was profoundly personal and may be damaging when made public. I thought how can one not get personal when writing? I continued writing that blog, kept it secret. But I am now ready to bury that blog.

Now after two years, I have gathered enough courage to start again and grind the words in the wee hours.
Writing for me is very personal matter. I do not like anybody peeping over, entering my room or reading the half cast drafts. When it becomes impossible to maintain privacy, I just shut the flap. Or if I have an inkling that I may be disturbed, I just dont try to sit down to write.

I do not know how many writers go bust because they do not have a cell to bury in. I have gone many a times underground or out of the house for this seemingly silly reason. And it angers you a lot – being not able to write. If you are a celebrity, people value your vims. For a novice, who cares? So he/she remains novice all the time.

One also needs a comfortable seat, good subdued lighting and silence. to get into gear. If these conditions fail, my car does not start at all. No wonder Hollywood (and other woods) producers arrange for hotel rooms, sometimes in the height of snow in Swiss Alps or Canada, or Mahabaleshwar or Khandala in rainy season for the script writers/ poets.

All the seniors preach that you must write, write and write to discipline yourself and to refine your skills. Be it a busy bus stop, private toilet or a noisy living room, you must write for a good 7 – 8 hours everyday if you wish to be something, and wish to be noticed. It just does not work for me. To start with, you do not get those many hours of solitude. Starting from the MilkMan, NewsPaperMan etc. in the morning to unannounced neighbors in the late nights, sudden avalanche of relatives, friends of relatives and not to mention the reminders from Kitchen to eat hot and at a time convenient to the cook. You are fortunate if you get a few minutes every day, unless you wait till all the living beings including your spouse and parents are deep asleep and in no position to shake you up. Gone are the days when writers used to get mugs of hot coffee served at their writing table and an appreciative glance for writing a full 24 Hours non-stop. Neither we have a palatial mantion where we create a dark mahogany writing room cum library.

But you write. Because even if you do not, the plots and words and stanzas and para’s keep bumbling in the head – sometimes for years. Unless they get out on to paper or screen, how will you have your peace and salvation?

So you pray everyday that nobody will disturb you today and at least a few lettersnakelightenings will escape your grey mass and illuminate the darkness of ignorance (which is mainly your’s).

You say OK, here I am again at the altar and offer myself. You burn me or you lift me to heavens, I will write dear Fire. Let people make mockery and say that I am nothing. I shall suffer at my choice only because I know I am nothing, and I am full, but not because people tell me that I am.

Here I start again at the peril of my body and soul.