To stop thinking

I’m sitting at the Fishing Camp in Bheemeshwari, on the bank of the Cauvery River reflecting on a Saturday spent in the area. Fishing or not, it was a treat to witness nature’s dominance. This morning was a freeze and now, the sun is beginning to mellow down its ferocity, hiding behind clouds that promise rain –the usual unpredictable weather. The river is low, with an occasional gentle wave caught by the breeze. Fish is caught at the far side and that’s where I saw them –bulging pairs of eyes, flared nostrils, backs like logs – but those that can move upstream. Today however, I caught some buffaloes on the bank eyeing me suspiciously as they immersed themselves in muddy water. I just realised I should stop trying so hard. Being a keen observer will do for words to fall into place. Writing is a way to wake oneself up and feel alive and it is as effortless sometimes, as falling in love.

My story teller

Today, as I sat to write, battling the block, I recalled a great story teller. Someone who inspired me to read, imagine and to write- my grandfather. There were times when I would restlessly wait for him to tell me a new bedtime story, every day and it was surreal how he created characters, settings and stories on the go. Emotions came alive and the whole experience was magical. With time, it became repetitive but I was captivated by his enthusiasm, cheerful eyes and gestures. These stories, that were being made-up to put me to sleep, kept my imagination running wild and awake. The stories were timeless and treasured and now, my inspiration is just a phone call away.

Waking up when dreams end

The thought stream is peculiar. It seems to make its presence felt at the oddest of times –When I’m asleep, having a face to face conversation with someone, in the shower, a movie theatre… Basically, places where I can’t make a note of things. Today, I woke up at 3 AM, remembering something. My dream journal.

Yes. I kept one when I was 8 because it bugged me to not recollect my dreams, for I was not the master of my mind. I didn’t know a character called Sheldon Cooper would exist during my time; but I thoroughly empathise with him when he does the face twitch, for that is exactly how I felt when I didn’t remember something.

In this journal, I would make a note of things that appeared in my dreamscape that I wanted to remember the next morning so I could quip into the dream discussions my peers had. When my mother found the journal with pictures unevenly torn from supplements that she thought the paperboy had been stealing and scribbles with words and spellings I’d asked of her, she had smiled, but hid it anyway. And today, when I ask her about it, she still maintains that she was worried about me becoming an insomniac, with a face twitch she does only when she lies.

On not finding it, I began to write where I could find place. Yes, on walls too. My grandparents believed I was having ‘bad’ dreams and they were quite convinced I was seeing things. They would promptly take me to a temple to obtain sacred amulets that they understood was sufficient to keep the supposed evil at bay.

I had found it years ago. Today, as I opened it, the familiarity struck me – The little square book with red and blue ruled lines, the cursive font, touching the top and bottom line, precisely. There were things in there about the mystery of the tooth fairy that had appeared in cartoons but never in my Indian home, the letter from Hogwarts I was expecting to get when I turned 11, about free falling, having trouble dealing with the fact that Captain Planet was fictional, of secretly watching MTV, about chasing numbers and so on.

At that point in time, I had no idea I was doing the following: Something that is today termed ‘Lucid dreaming’, letting my imagination run wild (which is exactly what I needed to do right now,) Keeping a journal and actually, writing.

That face

I wanted to banish myself from the face of Facebook. I was putting more thought into a comment, getting increasingly better at writing on people’s walls and in the box that asked me what was on my mind, rather than to put pen on paper or write a decent note to my future lazy self. Facebook was short of being my homepage so I logged in anyway and decided to work on my chosen genre for the portfolio. My stream of thought was interrupted by sharp pings. Out of sheer annoyance, not addiction, really - I went back to see who it was that wanted to communicate so urgently and the matter was my good friend inquiring of me what I was doing. “Writing,” I said. To which he asked, “Any luck?” Sheer annoyance, I tell you. I chose not to reply and then there was another ping. This time it was about Stephan King’s latest tweet. “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot,” it read. And this good friend maintained that it was a random tweet.

I was angry, not because he called a deliberate pointing out random, but because there was truth to the randomness. Writing and reading should be a ritual, like any other.

In the course of the day, I came across a poem by Marge Pierce called ‘The young who want to.’ It appealed to me since I wanted to BE a writer, once. But what good is a writer who can’t write?

It read like this:

Talent is what they say

you have after the novel

is published and favorably

reviewed. Beforehand what

you have is a tedious

delusion, a hobby like knitting.

Work is what you have done

after the play is produced

and the audience claps.

Before that friends keep asking

when you are planning to go

out and get a job.

Genius is what they know you

had after the third volume

of remarkable poems. Earlier

they accuse you of withdrawing,

ask why you don't have a baby,

call you a bum.

The reason people want M.F.A.'s,

take workshops with fancy names

when all you can really

learn is a few techniques,

typing instructions and some-

body else's mannerisms

is that every artist lacks

a license to hang on the wall

like your optician, your vet

proving you may be a clumsy sadist

whose fillings fall into the stew

but you're certified a dentist.

The real writer is one

who really writes. Talent

is an invention like phlogiston

after the fact of fire.

Work is its own cure. You have to

like it better than being loved.

I chewed on it and swallowed it whole. Food for thought. Yum.

And then I was called 'Ms. Cribs-a-lot'

That mail was a bitter pill to swallow. Writing exercises in the vacation? Oh come ON! I was cribbing about writing. I don't know when that happened. That which I thought was a piece of cake; MY piece of cake had now turned into my sore spot. I knew. Although I bent over backwards, it would still blow up in my face. It started even before I could begin – the cribbing. I know I’d be damned if I did, because I was sure to fall off my perch but I’d be damned if I don’t. The stagnancy felt like I was on pins and needles. Come hell or high water, I decided to burn the midnight oil until there was something substantial on that blank screen. Just when I felt like the child was taking birth, metaphorically of course, my mother gave me a run-around. She made a mountain out of a mole hill, a petty task of picking up her clothes from the tailor’s - hardly inspiring. But all the different colours and faces in the crowd going past was some stimulation. It was almost as if I were invisible, perhaps owing to the fact that I’m vertically challenged.

On being back home, having recharged my batteries, I sat to write but all I was doing was overworking the back space button. I decided to work the Idioms’ way. Anticipating the criticism gave me cold feet, after all it was 6th grade grammar. But what the hell, I was writing for myself. It is what it is.

Writing about writing? Just HOW?

I slumped over the laptop. Now, I had something new to do with it – the very reason I had initially quoted to possess the item in the first place – to write. I felt sad for the many TV shows and movies that I had religiously accumulated over the so called revision holidays. They poked fun and jeered because I would never know what happened in that next episode and I ignored.

The blank word document gave me death glares and the cursor and I had something in common – neither of us could stop blinking. I shut my eyes, in an attempt to think. I felt an uncanny sense of calm. I smiled to myself, all warm in winter clothes. My mom must have walked in at some point. She was probably standing there for a while, laughing. She finally said, ‘I know you have the posture of an amoeba, but at least sleep right.’ And she thought I was actually sleeping. I don’t blame her, what I blame is the writer’s block.