Dear Duniya,
Aap zara sa thamm jaoji.
Take a break dear world, from spinning at such a breakneck speed for it often gets too dizzy to fathom, let alone form an opinion on the speedily unspooling events around.
Especially if one is a female author.
There are so many issues already battling for our attention you see. Unlike a man who can vamoose to a serene destination and pen his thoughts undisturbed, women writers have far too many irritants breaking our chain of bustling thoughts.
Picture this, as we grapple with our current work in progress ( not talking about our marriages here but about the manuscript we are building) where a macabre murder scene is being mind-mapped, the resident husband can safely be expected to come forth and expound on the dripping fortunes of the pound. In spite of many a polite cough, it can be expected that his diatribe against the foolish political dispensation shall continue unabated.
Or as a treacly melodramatic love scene takes shape in one’s consciousness, just then the brat of the house will definitely declare independence from the mind-numbing mundane while the house help seizing an almighty chance declares herself an unscheduled french leave. After such bitter interludes what sweet notes can ensue?
Worse still, just as the tricky denouement is coming to a clean closure in thy brain, bereft of all ugly ambiguity, thy mater is sure to call complaining of being sidelined, ignored even.
A male author can simply declare ‘I am writing’ and withdraw from the world. Serious hushed respectful silence will follow. Whereas a ‘Feeling fancy! huh?’ gets thrown randomly at a woman who grandiosely declares the same
Mind you, these hard to hold on to killer lines can strike one anywhere anytime, even at work or even while hurriedly finishing the daily ablutions
A woman author in whose veins domesticity is ingrained will tend to the hearth, home, family, work and then to those buzzing thoughts that ache to bleed on paper.
By which time all the fabulous killer lines dancing wildly in the multitasking head are gone!
The gateway pass to the hall of fame is now merely a blur, a could’ve been ticket.
Where am I heading with this diatribe, you might ask?
Before I’m slapped with many slander suits or defamation duels I will stick to my story and my challenges alone.
Take for instance the latest Indigo issue.
Is it about male entitlement, or about tardy service? Is it about women at work? What gives? By the time story of both sides is excavated, a germ of an idea for a piece is formed, and the nation has moved on to a new story.
By this time one’s pristine viewpoint is useful as yesterday’s newspaper.
So many situations pass by without our voicing our feelings on the same and we are left on the sidelines gasping for breath or dropping our jaws in admiration at those fabulous pens that can churn out pieces at the drop of a hat.
Also, a feeling of overwhelming ennui envelops wondering if one should constantly bristle.
Is the rebel-without-a-pause mode not exhausting?
Is it fine to not react at all, just leaving it be, letting stuff reach its logical end sometimes sans any opinion?
As a result of ambivalence, a serious case of FOMO ensues which is terrible for the non-regenerative brain cells.
Hence a polite request!
Dear World,
Do unspool at a reasonable rate.
We may be the music makers or the dreamers of dreams who are wandering by lone sea-breakers and sitting by desolate streams.
We may be the movers and shakers of the world forever.
It is also true that it’s only words and words all we have to make their hearts ours!
But at times, we need a commercial break
Just to catch a few breaths and retain the ephemeral sanity.
Yours truly
AJ
P.S. AJ wants to know if 2023 will be less volatile. Here’s wishing all, a writeous year!
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