happy b’day to Ani
Each one of us has something unique inside, something distinct to gleam against the vast blue sky; something, like a belief, a trust, knowledge, belief he can spare his life for; something, like the reason to his existence – The reason to his actions, to his movements – Something, where his soul lies at ease, in peace. For me, that is my writing. It has become somehow my panacea; I write when I am happy – I write when distrait – I write when lone, lost – I write when in ecstasy – I write all the time – sometimes in my computer, sometimes in my brain – but I write, I play with those mighty words that play with me, my life, my existence.
Sometimes, I think -Why do I write? – and find no answer. Do I do it for myself? Or do I do it for others? Am I into charity, or into selfishness? Am I into some hiding or in some manifestation? I don’t know. I write because I like writing, I like the mishmash of words potent of depicting any possible feeling or action or anything under the grasp of human understanding, my understanding, my cognition – the reason of pure selfishness. And I shun off the lurking ‘why’ and start with my allies – my words. And I comply with the one who had said that A writer can write only about himself. True to me. True to everyone.
Though there is another haunting question. Does your job become any easier if you happen to love the job? I guess, no. Rather it becomes tougher, and more difficult, because you become the witness of yours, the judge of yours. And when you prove something to yourself, the responsibilities only increase, the risks inflate, and you tend to lose-or-gain by the inertia of the past, by previous failures, by last achievements. And you yourself stand obstructing your own way. This is what they call writer’s block. I am into something like this these days, something like a black hole.
For last few days my life went eventfully, happening, filled with new things, new desires, new fights, but I kept on deferring my action. Yesterday, I went to Mhow – a place where my maternal relatives live. Yesterday it was Holi – a color of festival named after the demise of shrewd Holika and the rise of his upright devotee niece Prahlad. But I didn’t write anything. I, though sat down to chronicle stuffs that were interesting and appealing, but couldn’t broach the matter properly, instead I languished about translating Chitralekha – a novel by Bhagwati Charan Verma in Hindi. I fooled myself for more than three hours, squiggled around four pages, but tore them off and went to sleep.
Then, today it’s my birth day. It’s past three thirty in the morning and what the hell I am writing here. I could do it away with my today’s plans, party, or gifts, but instead I am contemplating why I am not being able to write something good, substantial.
When I think of writing, I think of rituals, of temples, and no rituals are supposed to be blasphemous, are they? How come I, then, will write something light, something just like any other piece of writing? This sensation of perfection, of making a difference in everything that you do makes your breathe tougher, make your life vile, and endows your with the burden of selfishness…ah! But I love it.
Today, however, I feel like getting rid of this mask, like beguiling myself that I am all a normal boy with a normal ambition of beautiful girls, loads of money, and a Ferrari. Today, I will take the liberty of being normal, just-another-boy guise. I wouldn’t think that there came no calls from the places I expected. That people remembered my b’day no longer, that they didn’t care for a ‘happy birth day’ call or even a sms, that perhaps they have forgotten me as well. Who remembers dates these days, leave alone the person concerned? Today, I will not miss any of them. Today, I will be beyond any past, any future.
Today, I will wish me…myself…something like this…in high crescendo…in grinning smile…in shining new clothes…in a happy-go-lucky gleam in my eyes…
Happy B’Day to meeee.