Writing is something which had great respect in his eyes right since childhood. Being brought up on daily doses of short stories of Rabindranath Tagore, and to be born in a family wherein the first gift which he was given was a novel and comics of TINTIN even before he started schooling. Reading
But being a single child there was no one with whom the imagination could be shared. Throughout his childhood he made up stories for himself. Always being the central hero. Sometimes being PHANTOM, sometimes being sachin tendulakr’s partner and helping India to win a match, sometimes being batman and crusading the nights to stop crimes. Most often the pillows and the quilts had to be the mysterious mountains and the nail cutter would be his vehicle and the index and middle fingers of his right hand would be the legs of his imaginary self.
With age, the content and context of novels started getting more and more real and serious. Now the novels had the occasional deaths which used to leave the child in tears. Though the hero still won but his sacrifices were more real rather than just the pangs of dual life ( like batman). This kid, now becoming a young man wanted different endings. Soon newspapers entered his life. Now he started getting in touch with real life issues. In the paper he used to see faces of agony after a blast. He used to wonder what could make a man be so much sad.
This kid used to travel in trains. There he used to see many beggars. Pleading for money. Making sorry faces, speaking in sorry voices. This kid used to think if I had money I would’ve given them all the money. Once during his college years he saw a man sitting beneath a tree, tears rolling down his eyes. He was looking up towards the sky shaking his head and was mumbling something, like a child who cries and complains to his parents. This guy wondered what can make a grown up man so distraught so as to make him cry publicly. That man had the resigned look on his face. Like he has given up everything in his life. The guy watched this from an auto. It was a fleeting sight. But it was intense. All this was creating an impression in his mind.
The kid now an young man in class 12th was interested not only in the ugly side of life. He had an eye for the beauty also. His favorite pastime was to go on the terrace at night and gaze at the sky. Stars used to excite him. Any rainy and cloudy day was like a treat for this child.
Gradually this child started making up scenarios in his mind. Like lying down on a vast open grass field in a starry summer night and feeling the cool breeze blow past his face, or to walk on a lonely beach in a full moon night. Or to sit near the window of a hill cottage and to see lightning shining in the night sky outside. To have a cup of coffee with “someone” in a cottage in a snowy winter night. Or to sit with “someone” on the terrace of a 20 storey building in a drizzling evening. To have a big dog of saint Bernard breed like the one in BEETHOVEN movie and to hug the dog whenever he feels like, how it would feel to have the dog to sit on him in a lonely afternoon.
He had quite an active imagination. But had noone to share them. one day while he was still in class 12th, he performed badly in a class test in physics and was feeling bad. That was the day he decided to keep a record of how he’s feeling by writing it down. It wasn’t a diary entry but in form of a story, even with some modifications. From that day this kid, found it a good method to keep track of emotions. He again wrote a story when he did not got selected to be the house captain, he wrote it when his project got selected. Once he started, his realizations and connectivity to emotions kept getting more and more stronger.
After his first story this kid had many intense experiences like roaming around on a bicycle amidst drizzles in a heavily clouded day with his friends, getting in college, topping college, winning gold, having altercation with senior, seeing some his friends moving ahead with life ( in terms of finding that mythical “someone”…!!), seeing a half moon amidst white clouds against a bright blue colored background sky, singing rap song in front of his batch mates at amphitheater despite being considered the serious types, walking in lonely winter noon in the streets of his colony, giving his first job interview, getting his first job, speaking up to a retired Group captain whom probably no one ever answered back, traveling with friends in a January night to attend a friend’s sister’ wedding, writing his first poem, writing his first “sensible” poem, hearing the word dada from a junior girl (one sound for which this guy craved throughout his life), getting friends, getting real friends, losing some friends… experiences are many. Stories will be many. Some happy, some not so happy, but each one of them will have one thing in common they all will gave the guy the satisfaction that he’s sharing his feelings with someone… someone of his age group, give or take few years.. like a brother or better still, a sister…. If he had someone to share these maybe he would’ve been talking to that person right now and not typing this…J Writing to him, was equivalent to sharing. Because at times the intensity of a particular emotion becomes so strong that it becomes difficult to handle. Be it joy or sorrow.
There’s a writer in each and every individual. Some do not need to write because they have that someone to share. Some do not have the patience to write. Some lack the chances to write, but everyone else… they write. Not for publishing ( most of them) but for the sheer peace of understanding one’s emotions and to understand how one’s mind works. And to write about “WHY ONE WRITES” that’s the confession of a writer…!!!!
