Fuck Creative Writing

This is where I belonged. I had found my place in this crowd. The row snaked all the way into the room ahead. Most of them were humming and singing. Some were testing each other’s IQ on Bollywood music. It was all a part of the grand preparation to come out tops in the battle ahead. A green fluorescent paper cellotaped to the wall announced the gladiatorial event with pride.

ANTAKSHARI

Yay! It was NEXUS time again. The annual student festival was back at Venky. (Venkateswara College for you outsiders!) The whole student body of DU had descended over the campus. Classrooms usually quarter filled were flowing at the brim. Sleep inducing lectures had given way to fun and chutzpah. Instead of geriatric lecturers we had colour corrected glam dolls explaining the rules. There were stalls and prizes. Dance and music. Did I say music? Yes. Music. That was my call at the end of it all. (Notice the rhyme) Why had I ever soiled my hands with the ink of Creative Writing??

Why was I so peeved with writing? You see, it had cheated me. Last year I had been the first to reach the Creative Writing booth. I had poured…what’s the expression…my heart and soul into my piece. It had turned out super sexy. I knew I had a winner at hand. Turned out that I was being delirious. It won me nothing. Not the First Prize. Not the Second Prize. Not even the Third. I stood twisting my pen in my fingers as others went up and collected the dough. Creative Writing? Well, I had created all right. Seemed like there were no takers.

So this year I was not creating any more. Both Creative Writing and Antakshari were scheduled at the same time. So you saw me standing before the latter booth. I knew I could nail it. My stock of Hindi songs was envious. Besides I sensed a Karmic connection. Antakshari was all about the last letter. And I had come last at the Creative Writing contest. Get it? I could already see Gandhi in my palms.

Then I saw something else. It was my English Professor Sujatha Rao.

I was the last person she expected to see in that musical row. She was the last person I wanted to see anywhere in the college that day.

‘Satyarth!!! What are you doing here?’

Was the stress on ‘you’ or ‘here’? I wasn’t sure.

‘Creative Writing starts in five minutes.’

What do I tell her? That I had given up writing? That creation was not my cup of lopchu? That I just wanted to go in there and croon? I did not say any of those things.

‘Go up fast. I want to see you writing when I come up.’

I trudged upstairs with legs of lead. She was always on the Creative Writing panel. What was she complaining about? Last year they had trashed my piece. They thought that would inspire me to scale greater heights. I looked at Antakshari. It looked at me. The Creative Writing themes were quite an assorted list this year. My eyes were pinned on ‘Caged Birds.’ That was interesting. That was my exact current status. I wrote. Wrote something on caged birds. I didn’t know if I poured my heart and soul again this year. I didn’t really care. Coming out of the room I saw Rao in the corridor. She was looking at my face. Her eyes were twinkling as she called me.

‘Last year the judges didn’t like your story. I thought it was a fine piece. Remember one thing Satyarth. You must never miss a chance to write.’

I was smiling and nodding. Inside I was suddenly somersaulting with joy.

Well, I won the first prize. (You should have guessed it by now or else I wouldn’t be writing this story in the first place) I don’t know how? I don’t know why? I just know that caged birds had set me free. As I stood with Gandhi in my palms, I saw ma’am again. She smiled. She only said three words. ‘I told you.’

That was all I needed to hear.