I could have come up with 100 odd lies to tell a half-baked truth
about my next subject/object of interest to start writing about. Believe me but
I am still faking too much. At the same time, there is some truth to it. By
truth, I mean the one, I haven’t told you yet. The truth simply being, I wanted
to begin writing this post with an introductory paragraph that was supposed to
be completely different from what I have ended up writing in here. It could
have been much better; once again a less spoken truth, which stalks/haunts me
forever.
Since journeys interest me, I probably would have weaved a
story around some expedition of mine. But there are these sometimes rude,
sometimes soft characters, which keep visiting my thought process. Some are
real, some fake, some are fictionalized and some don’t even exist in this
world. Due to sheer lack of passion, I
excused myself from writing again, once again thinking what am I writing next?
The name Bukani resonates. Who is she? A village girl! Do I
know her personally? Yes I do. She used to be my childhood friend, who lived in
the front row home of our village lane. I remember her till the 16 or 18 years
of my age. She had stopped coming to our home. Someone told me, she has been
married off. Her name remained with me. I saw her young but never found her
turn into an adult. She was much matured and senior to us (me and my cousin
brother), yet she would spoil her clothes to partner our mud slung roughness, close the doors behind
us to chase cats and lizards, call out to us to show us what she had discovered
underneath the dirty, stinking staircases. What am I writing next then? Bukani!
Why Bukani when I know Yamini (once again a fictional character) personally!
In this jungle of a fictional inner world in a factual outer
world, I am not lost but angry, hungry and thirsty for passion. This passion
that I am talking about arrives/evolves straight from the womb of an idea to
write about.
Who is Yamini? A woman with a past, present and future like
that of none other. I met Yamini in crowded trains, in loud weddings, in cosy
corners, in dirty lodges, in five star hotels, in business forums and sometimes
calling out to me from her lusty wilderness. She sat across legs crossed, short hair, without
make up, extorting heartbeat, exchanging provocative looks and yet she always
remained unwritten. So am I not writing about her? No I am not because there is
this guy nameless, without an identity and ignored in hell or heaven; forgotten
by me, his wife, his part time lovers, his crimes, his philosophies.
He sold our ideas to every client. He would strike a conversation
with the receptionist, take them to premium restaurants for exotic dinners, carry
them home in hired taxis, rented cars, auto rickshaws or ask them to ride
pillion on his bike. He would slip into a group discussion, make his eyes
dance, woo the sister-in-law of a company’s founder, fly to Mauritius for the
most erotic vacation of lifetime and come back to settle with his love of life.
After a long, long time I would meet his wife, completely drunk, clinging to
the shoulders of one of her drunken colleagues, turning towards me and telling
me about the debacle of their marriage. But then I am not writing about him or
her too. What am I writing next then?
I think I am not going to write anything next till I
relocate the core of my inspiration. On many occasions, I turned on the laptop,
clicked on Microsoft Word and abandoned millions of thoughts, which could have
transformed into stories, poetry, monologues or plays. I think I am not going
to write the next best thing from my temporary territory of existence. But I
will definitely write once I board the same train where I made new friends and
heard their stories; our group was called Zatang Group.
I am waiting for that day when I pack my bags to head back
home and begin a new conversation with the Arabian Sea. I will begin to write then. But what
am I writing next? I think many things.
-vociferous
