To be categorised is near-death. It would be nice to say that one is a literary vagabond, but it just does not convey fully the sense of rootlessness and ruthlessness one strives for constantly.
Have written opinion pieces, feature articles and interviews for several publications for two decades. No one likes to call me a journalist. In those days they would spit out, "You are just a writer." That was the time I discovered I considered most insults coming my way to be hugely complimentary. Now that I have published my first book, some reviews have called me a journalist!
Nothing defines me more than the written word. The stark black and white also reveals the extreme positions I take on almost all issues. On the other hand, I can sit for hours just being nothing.
I am just a speck of dust...and you probably have some idea about what that little speck can do. Have you felt the grit in your eye? Can you feel those particles on wet skin as they graze you? Or as they stick to your clothes and you want to dust them away, but so entrenched are they that what you pull out is lint? A grain of sand in an hour-glass is more than just a grain...it is a harbinger of time.
Despite these not-so-modest thoughts I am told, "I don't think you truly love yourself."
The insinuation is that I am self-destructive; I invite disasters. In my humble opinion, you've got to love yourself to death to court it.
This does not seem like a good start. What is a good start, anyway? Does a good start ensure a progression to something of value, to something that will last forever?
What is forever? For me it is tomorrow. It is also yesterday. Today is the link.
So, today let me tell you why I am here.
I hate it when people call themselves exhibitionists. It is an insult to those who try and connect with you, for would they not be deemed to be voyeurs then?
If one tries to say things without pausing, there is nothing planned about it, as exhibitionism indeed is. At worst it could be seen as a wardrobe malfunction!
Some people think it is not wise to write about one's life. I just seem to know myself better than I know a lot of other things. I admit this is an open arena, but I write here as I would on paper. I can't do without paper...sometimes I eat it, after a while it feels like chewing gum. I hate throwing paper. So I preserve them, reams and reams, they gather dust...I can't eat dust.
One day I will have to...
The fragrance of musk and sweat. The feel of blood. People, hollow lives that can be filled. Words and phrases that take me off at a tangent. My childhood, my grandma, my mother. A marriage that did not work out. A divorce that took too much time. Solitude. Blanche Dubois, Madame Bovary, Evita are the characters I often imagine being. I know they are nasty little women, but then one can have such aspirations.
I am trying to complete the biography of former Indian Prime Minister V.P.Singh, after which I hope to do what I am best at – let my imagination run wild. To work with available material imprisons you in many ways, but it is also fascinating to really probe into an interesting mind. If nothing else, I could survive on curiosity alone.
A bit of doodling
Working on ideas
Watching the news to keep in touch with manufactured reality
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