I read a very old mail in my mailbox... and i was disturbed. It was a trivial matter , in hindsight ofcourse.
As I read the mail, I relived the conflict. Its anxiety clouded me all over again. And once more, I wanted to run away from the heaviness of it. Hide my self, duck from the unpleasantness of a situation.
I figure I am not able to get started on my book because of this.Needless to say, most of what I write will be about displacement. loss. its implications. and the futility of redemption.Needless to say, it wont be funny or amusing. Loss, never is.
Every time, I go inside myself to bring out the book, the story, the pages, the words, I feel heavy.I feel a strange sense of loss, as though something has gone irrevocably wrong. I dont know what.
I have everything I wanted, Life turned just the way it could have, give or take, some odd moments.I have my space, my life, I know folks who are reconciled to love me, folks who are plain indifferent and folks who would go at lengths to avoid stepping in the same elevator as me, if they had a choice.
If I look around, Life literally came on a platter. (without the dessert)Yet, there is that nagging feeling that life is passing by. and something that should have happened has not.
Does everyone has a foreboding of the shape of things to come? or things that should happen and dont.
I mean sometimes I imagine myself sans the last 10 years.
I actually see a whole life in a cinematic frame that could have been mine. Friends in a small colony in Patna with layers of last 10 years, writ large on their faces.
Marriage, cooking, parenting, taking care of elders ,some of them have grown into strangers, and the moments of knowing are scattered. There was this girl, I knew, as a child, who used to laugh a lot. She has two children now they look far more familiar than she does. Only sometimes, in between tea and lots of nostalgia, the girl surafces, when she laughs loudly, I see the girl I was friends with. She closes her eyes, her face in a cosmic seizure and she regresses. Otherwise, she is a restrained housewife who has to get chores done. You know, I could be her too.
And then sometimes I think about the writer I always wanted to be. My stories would be loved and wept over long after I am gone. I would write about the misery of love, I would taunt those at the struggle of existence. I would lament at the futility of redemption. And then I see the klaiedoscopic existence of a writer. A life of solitude, the loneliness of writing, ofcourse the trappings, a literature fest here, a book reading there, and then many years later, you will see an old lady, sitting by the fireplace, in her large library with Volatire, Pablo & Plath. You know, that lady, could be me.
And then in between all of this, there is this me,with this forbdoing about something that had to happen and didn't. Someone I was to be and I didnt, someone I am, that I dont want to be.
This search for the meaning of life. This unsatiable thirst that refuses to be quenched.Somebody once wrote : Jeevan ek pyaas hai, sabhee ko kuch talaash hain, jinkee talaash main hum umr bhar chale, koi jaanta naheen woh phir kahaan mile.
2 weeks ago