‘Why I write …’I t is a relevant subject with an irrelevant response.
It happened years back when I was a primary class novice. I was alone at my grand-parents’ house. It was a far-flung village from cities or towns. So the remoteness of the domicile from the fellow-houses set me aside in solitude. And I exhausted my vacant time by twisting clockwise and anti-clockwise on the swing tied on a jack tree for mollifying me.
Arrival and departure for the school was sometimes performed unaccompanied. But sometimes I could be in the band of friends from the locality-though they were from far-off. We used to tie the tapering end of the wood apple trees’ believing that we could free ourselves from teachers’ chastisement. We, while treading to the school and retrieving from there plucked or picked-up wild fruits like lantana(veliparathy), Kottakka, bullet fruit etc .The processes of chewing and chatting attained momentum till each one got disbanded from the lot.
But home dipped me in lonesomeness and that led me slip into self games and dreams sporadically. Isolation taught my mind to intrude into incidents around and correlate them in turn the incidents to adjoining experiences. Sympathy and empathy reigned my thought processes. And I garnished things sometimes in my own ways. I think such a circumstance facilitated me a tad in what I did later.
One day my maternal uncle fetched me a book. It was of ‘ Panchtantra’ stories in Malayalam. Since I possessed no habit of reading books till then, I left it on the bed after turning a few leaves aimlessly. Besides us and the domestic helps the occurrence of one more person i.e. my uncle had added vim to my activities. The uncle who was employed in
leave of our residence on expiry of his
one month’s leave.
The next day turned more or less dry because my little mind craved for someone or something to give me company. My thoughts passed through some unexplainable on indefinable experiences. And somewhere an ache developed. Then the book crawled slowly to my hand which in turn unfurled it random. And my sight surveyed the verso of the book. Slowly some curiosity crept to my mind which piloted me to the recto and the other pages also. Within a couple of days I accomplished my journey through all the folios and I yearned for further reading. When my uncle was informed about my in-thing in books, he ensured that some books of tales befitting my age reach me. He made use of the postal services as well as comrade’s assistance to serve the purpose.
Two-three calendars disappeared from the veranda’s wall and new ones loomed in place of them. My routines travelled along with me, when my name moved to higher classes. That time I was reading in class 6th. My mind strolled through imaginations as usual. One day I went to the extent of tearing a leaf from a rough book and inked what was borne in my mind. My first creative work was born there. One of my friends happened to see the manuscript that had fallen down from the Mathematics text-book. She put the thing on view to the teacher as natural of a ten-year- old lass. I shrunk into scare and shame judging that I had committed an unpardonable blunter.
“Where did you copy it from?” the teacher said.
“ I…I..wr..o.. te myself like that. I won’t repeat it,” fumbled me.
The teacher warmly caressed me and publicized the imagery in the class.
And that was indeed an appealing gift to me. My endeavor was not frequent though, at times I vomited my thoughts to paper in the form of stories, odes, articles etc .Never initiated any measures of saving them in prints. And now I am not in possession of those days’ fancying. Though a few of my friends encouraged me to publish, being fully conversant of their shallowness in shape and form I did not stretch my appendages forward for such an adventure.
And now the very blog space loomed before me as a boon. Whatever falls on the monitor from my mind catch the attention of similar or high level minds of indiscernible people. I don’t know if sense or nonsense is embedded in them.
The interrogation ‘Why I Write!’ quite a number of times has raised its head before me. I tangled my head thinking and thinking and yet I couldn’t arrive at an apparent way to reciprocate. I don’t know why I write, but I want to write and hence I will. Still I’ll say…..because
Why I Write!
I write because I want to
And if I don’t, for me, who will?
When I write letters and words
My agony and anguish
My pleasure and bliss
My ecstasy and enthusiasm,
And all that acquire the figure
As sentences and lines many.
The mirror, my writing ,reflects
My exactness and correctness
My feelings and imagination
And my ambition and aspiration.
Writing engenders to decant
The sediments of my heart
Enlighten the mind
Enrapture and enrich the soul.
Writing is a true photograph
Clicked on my thought process.
The photos may be blurred
And may become clear and genuine.
Writing is my comrade in isolation
And it is the guide in desperation.
Writing is the help in exigency
And the employee in time’s vacancy.
Writing energises the sluggishness
And it gathers the scattered thoughts.
Writing inflates the horizon of imagery
And awakes the heart when lazy.
The writer’s feelings flow down
Even if he is at frown
The writer’s mood is poignant
Yet it makes him efficient.
'Words are wise men's counters'.