My mother has very recently taken
to reading. She also expressed, how happy she is; after I introduced her to
this hobby. We have our in-house library, comprising books; purchased from book
fairs, from bookshops, airports, roadside, seconds shops, gifted, stolen,
borrowed, smuggled, imported and also pirated versions. She somehow never
fancied reading any of them. When I handed over to her a copy of Shantaram by Gregory
David Roberts; she had asked, “Is this a book or a mythological epic, which you
might never end reading?” Luckily I read the same and also narrated to her in not
less than thirty minutes flat, a summary of what I thought was the most
powerful piece of writing.
Coming back to my mother’s recent stint with reading, she is now booked, devotedly and dedicatedly with Pratham Alo (First Light), written by Sunil Gangopadhyay. Respected for his style of writing, remembered for the characters created by him (my favorite though is Hathat Nirar Janya) and the favorite author of controversies, Sunil Gangopadhyay has weaved a tale that chronicles the lives of West Bengal’s ‘Renaissance Era’. As she continued reading, she brought to my notice an instance, wherein the author is describing Kabiguru Rabindranath Tagore’s penchant for writing. It seems, when the great author used to settle down to write a story, he had this habit of allowing his mind to drift. He would create multiple stories from a single theme or multiple themes from a single story. His style of writing was so inspirational that many were not only left surprised by his caliber but also the gems he bestowed on us, the benevolent Bengalis.
This instance takes me back to
the memory of the play ‘Colour Blind’, directed by Manav Kaul that attempts to
rediscover Rabindranath Tagore. Swanand Kirkire, one of India’s best lyricist,
plays the role of death in this play. He is shown visiting Rabindranath
Tagore during his last days. Dressed in black, he calls upon the author and informs,
“Your time is over. Let’s go now.” To which, Rabindranath Tagore replies in an
engaged tone, “No not now. I’ve many things pending to be written down.” This
irritates death and he remarks pointing Rabindranath Tagore to the
audience, “What kind of human being is he? Every time I have come to his home,
I’ve found him drowned in writing. The day his mother died, he was writing. The
day his wife passed away, I saw him writing. The day his first child breathed last,
he was writing. How can this man be so addicted to writing?”
Writing, I believe is an act of
pure passion. But looking at the silence that I had allowed this blog to slip
into; I think writing has also got to do a lot with the circumstances around
us. If I call myself a blogger, I have definitely not been a regular at it. My
last blog post was on March 24, 2015. Post which, I’m writing today (one month
later) and may or may not post this piece on my blog, in a short while or a
long while. Where have I been all these days?
All these days, I had been
writing but not on a piece of paper, not in a word document and neither in my
regular diary; but my writing has been happening imaginably in my mind. Apart
from that I’ve been carrying a few small diaries in my bag, during outdoor
trips; in these diaries I’ve been making quick notes. Then there is my iPhone,
which has an inbuilt Notes App to help me punch in, whatever I observe, listen
and experience. At the same time, my facebook wall bears testimony to a lot of
my writings. But the real writing regularity that I wish to remain associated
with, suffers from occasional bouts of procrastination. On my birthday this
year, I had started writing a (so called) novel; a love story between two
people. I chose to term it or rather categorize it as an unethical story. I’ve
no issues with the controversies and criticism, this debut book of mine might
attract. But from the inception point of writing this novel, I’ve decided to
remain unfazed by anything. The funny thing though is that I’ve written and
discarded all the four drafts, of the very first chapter that I had written of
the book. At this moment, most of this book of mine is a part of my
daydreaming. Even though I don’t want to divulge much about the theme and the
characters, two things play an important role in this book of mine – Mumbai
Monsoons and the Arabian Sea. I think most of the inspiration for the parts, I
wish to write about Mumbai Monsoons arrives from the 1979 song ‘Rimjhim Gire
Saawan’ from the classic Amitabh Bachchan and Moushumi Chatterjee starrer Manzil.
The song is so well shot; it is difficult to make out as to when the onscreen
lovers are getting wet in the real or unreal rains. Definitely a masterpiece of yesteryear, the song brings alive in me emotions that are real and inspiring. Only
in my story, the monsoon slips into different roles of playing the cupid, the
betrayer and also at times – the storyteller.
Speaking about writing, I’m not
being completely passive. An eBook publishing company has already readied my
first poetry book of fifty poems. It is only me, who has delayed authorizing the
version and am yet to allow it, to be made available for download. The book ran
into some serious technical errors. Designed laboriously by my wife (to whom I
shall remain indebted infinitely), my first book of fifty poems looks warm,
romantic and desirable. The eBook publishers failed to understand that emotion
and had messed up with the final copy of compilations. Outraged and upset, I
curse myself for not having gone the Amazon way of making it available on
KINDLE. But now that the crooked patches have been ironed out and post my
authorization, the book is good to go.
In the coming days, I might be in
many moods – happy, sad, lazy, active! I might choose to travel extensively or
prefer staying locked in a room or watch back-to-back movies. Therefore I am
again apprehensive; my writing might hibernate. The only way to continue being
in writing, is to try and write more, read more and of course keep writing
more.
Till the next time I write, I
shall ever say, always again.
-vociferous
