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Confessions of a writer (not fully yet!)

Writing is something which had great respect in his eyes

right since childhood. Being brought up on daily doses ofshort 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 is a regular activity in his family. By

the time he reached class 10 he had finished all written

stories of Sherlock Holmes, tintin, Rabindranath Tagore..

and trust me they are quite a lot..! Obviously his

imagination grew with him..!!

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

tendulakrs 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 themysterious 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 realrather 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

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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, speakingin sorry voices. This kid used to think if I had money I

wouldve 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 hisface. 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 nightand 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

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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 12

th

, he performedbadly in a class test in physics and was feeling bad. That

was the day he decided to keep a record of how hes feeling

by writing it down. It wasnt 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 toemotions 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 ahalf 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 friends 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.

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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 hes sharing his

feelings with someone someone of his age group, give ortake few years.. like a brother or better still, a sister. If he

had someone to share these maybe he wouldve been

talking to that person right now and not typing this

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.

Theres 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 ones emotions and to understand how ones

mind works. And to write about WHY ONE WRITES

thats the confession of a writer!!!!