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.