What do I think?
In my five years as a journalist, I must have written, at the very least, a million words, all of them published in newspapers. I do not know how many articles I've written. Must surely be more than a couple of thousand, half of which have my name on them.
These million words have fed me, nurtured me and at times pampered me. They have become my friends, my alter ego, my footprint in the sands. I am very proud of them.
Yet there is one question that doesn't fade from my mind. I do not know how long it has been now. I don't know how long I've been wondering about it.
I just finished a cover story today. I wrote about 600 words for it. I finished it in about 30 mins. I do not put any thought into it anymore. I do not think about what I'm writing about. I donot think about what I feel about the words that I've written. Do I concur with the thoughts that I've propagated? I do not know. It is perhaps an exercise. It is not tedious. It is not challenging anymore. It is not filled with that sense of ownership and pride. I do not feel me. Somewhere along the way I must have lost myself in those million words.
I have thought about it and pondered about for a long time now. It is just this one question that keeps creeping into my mind. You see, I'm not a person who mulls over things a lot. I'm hardly impulsive, but isn't an impulse different from a habit? I do not know. As I said, I haven't given it much thought.
The question that I keep mentioning is just this: Who do I write for?
I surely know what I write for. It is not something as simple as money. No it is more about sustenance. There is a fine line of difference. I am not an ascetic. But greed doesn't sit well with me either. Coming back to the question, I honestly do not know.
It is probably for the words themselves. I love them and I love their caress (they are very mushy and physical sometimes) I love their character. I love their flow. They are at once my children and also my creators. Every time I give birth to them they leave me at the end with something more than what I had when I started creating them. But they are not a part of me. They leave me at the end. They refuse to stay. I have no qualms. I would have probably done the same. But I know they love me too.
Every time I write, I keep track of what I've written and keep reading the story after every paragraph. My first mentor taught me to do that. A very good man. He died a couple of years ago.
I haven't done that today. As I started writing this, I know I was giving birth to something special. It is like a premature baby that has been in the womb for a long time. An oddity indeed.
I have tried writing for myself a number of times. Each time I wanted to create something that was an inch closer to perfection compared to the stories and articles that I write for sustenance. I have never succeeded. I have never written a single word. 'It must be very hard to write without a purpose' I tell myself every time I read someone else's blog. There is this one blog that I keep visiting. I think I followed that blog because the girl who wrote it was very pretty. I keep looking at her pictures from time to time. But today I have trouble remembering her face. But I remember her words. They are beautiful, I used to think. Must be because she is beautiful as well. But it matters not. I remember her words.
I have craved for them. More than the girl. Her memory has faded now. I had spoken to her once. But she no longer exists. I do not want her now. What I want now are her words. She has so many beautiful children. But I am barren...
I haven't written a single blog so far. Every time I started on it, I have always faltered. It has to be beautiful. It has to be perfect. Somehow I have always felt that although all my words till now have left me, it must also be that I must have disowned them. Maybe I did not see myself in them. Is it like looking at a mirror that is deformed? I do not know.
But my child. My very own child, I've always felt will never leave me. She will be the one page that I will never turn. I will not be fixated on her. But perhaps she will move with me. She will grow with me. And when that time comes when the journey must end. When the crossroads has been arrived at. I think she will not take the other road and wave me goodbye from the distance. She will jump on my back and burden me to carry her along and I will gleefully oblige.
But she should be perfect, I've always thought. If she is to be a part of me, she should be perfect. I will not let her out of my womb unless she is perfect. But every time she peeks out into the world, she is always deformed. She is always malnourished. She is always premature. She has been inside me for a very long time now. Maybe one day she will grow? I do not know. Like I said, I do not mull over things a lot.
But today is different. Today is her birthday. She has peeked out too far today. Too far to go back in. Maybe she is still deformed. Maybe she is still malnourished. Maybe she is and always will be premature. I do not know. But today, I do not care. Will she stay with me? I do not know. Will she jump on my back? I do not. But I realise today, that I do not want her to.
Today I realise that I have to disown her. My words, I realise today have never forsaken me. They have left me behind. Maybe they are waiting somewhere far ahead. Waiting for me to join them in their journey, in their growth.
Now I realise why she has always been premature. After all she is but a reflection of me. Happy birthday to you. And goodbye. I will be leaving you tonight. I will not turn back. Where I go now I do not care. This is my freedom.
Goodbye.
—AV
