MY INNERSELF SPEAKS

I’ve realized this after just three days of being here.

I’m turning into one of them.

Maybe not entirely, but I think I can see myself getting there in no time.

But there’s a difference. The difference is that I’m noticing it, and I know its happening. Do I want it to happen? Do I like what’s happening? I’m not sure. But how much time do I have before I am just one of those unknown faces in the crowd?

When I’d spoken to my friend about wanting or not wanting to be here, where I am right this moment, she’d thought I was insane of even thinking about not coming back. How anyone could not love this city, is what she couldn’t understand. I tried telling her that this was not me. That I couldn’t live a life in perpetual hurry. People running from one place to the other, not even glancing at the person next to them. The only interactions they have are with clients, contacts or those they meet while traveling. I couldn’t be like them. I couldn’t be cold and business-like and not give a damn about anyone but myself.

I haven’t turned into that person yet. I know that. But I feel like it’ll happen. And even though I like it in a way, I don’t know if I’ll be happy always. On the other hand, the way I see it, me becoming that person won't be so bad after all. Atleast it'll make me stronger and not care so much about people.

I look at what I have right now. The good and the bad.

I rush to work the moment I’m awake. The only thing on my mind first thing in the morning is which local train will get me fastest to work and avoid the rush. I barely have time to eat before I leave, or get enough time to talk to my friends.

On the train too, I switch on my music and shut myself to the rest of the world. At work, I do my own thing, and at the end of 8 hours, I’m making my way back home. The same one hour back and forth, too tired to do anything but doze off as the train makes its way through Mumbai’s busiest areas.

As I get off the train and head home, I’m practically running. My feet move as though they’re possessed by some unknown force. I stop for nothing and no one and I look straight ahead without noticing what’s around me.

Back home I’m too exhausted to do anything but hit the sack and be dead to the world.

The next morning, it’s the same story.

But then, I have to be fair. There is the better side.

When I wake up in the morning, I sit up and the first thing I see is the incredible view outside my window. Nothing beats that feeling. Its 7 am and it’s still foggy outside. I can see tall buildings till the farthest end of the earth. It’s beautiful. I know, a bunch of buildings isn’t exactly what one would call a work of art, but you have to see it to believe it. I feel on top of the world. Literally.

On my way to work, I watch the city go by. And that’s when I have all the time in the world to simply sit and stare. Somehow, it’s still misty outside and all those buildings that I have to strain my neck to see disappear into the clouds. It’s amazing to see that even these man-made structures make your heart stir.

When I’m in the cab that takes me to my office, I sit with my head out of the window and yet again, I’m amazed at what I see. Buildings are crammed in every inch in Mumbai, and still, the sight of those massive concrete blocks is an entirely different feeling. You know how you see flowers blooming and sprawling lawns or rolling mountains and endless waters and feel like the world just doesn’t get better than this? You feel like nothing inspires you more? That you could be in this place forever?

It’s strange, but I somehow get that feeling here too.

But one of the best things is what I see when I’m leaving for home. I get into a cab and as I drive along marine lines, there’s nothing more incredible. For those familiar with the Manhattan skyline, it’s the closest thing to that. The sea stretches out in front of you and across that, you can see a whole new side of the city. Rows and rows of buildings of varying heights line the seashore. They’re speckled with innumerable spots of yellow and red and blue. Billboards light up the sidelines. The lamp-posts along marine drive can be seen curving along the coastline till as far as the eyes can see. The wind blows through your hair and the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks fills your ears.

I can’t imagine working anywhere else. Where else will I get a view like this? Where else will I be at a place that inspires me like no other? Where I am just like every other person yet my own individual self?

It’s a debate that’s going on inside of me. Do I like it here or do I not? Do I want to be here? Do I want to let Mumbai work her magic on me just as she’s done with everyone who’s ever been here?

Even as I contemplate what I feel, I tell myself, ‘ if its happening, let it happen. Don’t fight it.’

How I got to be a Writer

For a long time now I’ve been meaning to write a post that, had I titled it, would read- “how I began writing” or some such autobiographical title. I want to write about my love for writing, my experiences so far, the good, the bad and the downright ugly.

But believe it or not, this is my fifth attempt at writing this post. Everyday I sit to write, I type a couple of lame, half hearted sentences and I stop. If I want to sound all writer-ish, I could label it as ‘writer’s block’. But I’m not sure if that’s what it is. It’s funny though- the fact that I can write my way out of anything, but I simply can’t write even one paragraph about how much I love writing.

I want to go back in time and figure out when I discovered my ‘talent’ (as some call it) to write. And even though I can’t remember the beginning of this journey, I do remember that I loved writing even before I realized that I’m pretty good at it.

It began, I guess, when I was in school. English had always been my favourite subject. I would read my English text book even before school term began. And I always dreamt that one day I would write one of those stories in that book. And not to say that I didn’t try. I’d tried my hand at writing a book when I was somewhere in the 6th or 7th grade. A couple of my friends and me were writing a combined book that resembled some of our favourite books at that time- the Sweet Valley Series, the Baby Sitters Club Series and the likes. I’m sure you could imagine what it was like at that time. Three girls huddled together on the school playground, talking in hushed tones discussing how to introduce ‘Lisa’s’ boyfriend in the next chapter, or whose parents should get divorced to add to the plot.



That book never got further than chapter 3, and that too only because all three of us were assigned to write one chapter each.

But even though the dream to become a writer didn’t materialize back then, I didn’t cease to dream. I told myself that I just had to wait until I got better and the urge to write was so overpowering that words would flow out of my head and onto the paper with absolute ease.

After that childhood attempt at being a great writer, I moved on to writing more serious things for the school magazine or for the endless public speaking competitions. I still remember the thrill and the pride I felt when my article first appeared in the school mag. And that feeling I got on seeing my name in print made me decide that I want to become a writer.

I initially confused my want to write with becoming a journalist. Somehow I thought that only journalists could write and be recognized for the same.

So I went on to be trained as a journalistic writer. In graduation I began writing news reports, news scripts and the likes. I wasn’t that great at it, but it always read like a report. And somehow it didn’t make me happy.

But then there were classes where we could write about a given topic in just about any way we chose to. We could write in any style. No rules, no formats and no defined structure. I wrote to my heart’s content in those classes and that’s when it hit me that I was so in love with writing and that I wanted to do just that all my life long. And it was during that time that I wrote one of my best pieces about the sea. Something that amazed people and showed them that I was good. And from that day onwards, there was no stopping me.

Even though I’d always kept a diary when I was younger and would scribble notes to myself anywhere I went, I now kept a book and a pen with me to put my thoughts into words. And I realized that I loved the feeling of a new thought taking shape in my book.

I don’t know how good I am at this, but I know that I’m not bad. I write to express and not to judge my self or my writing skills. When people tell me that I write well, I often wonder if it’s true. Because I never know whether it’s a good piece or not. For me, if my words feel good, if they take me to a different world, if they flow in a rhythm, like music, if I’m happy at the end of the piece, if my thoughts and my personality and my life reflects in what I’ve written, then that’s all I want.

I’m not always inspired to write. There are times when I have to try over and over to get something written (like this post) and still not get to the end. The writer in me doesn’t always take over. And that’s when I really struggle. I remember writing for the college journal. I had to do a piece on our trip to the Dangs. And I sat at my desk for so many days to write something that gave justice to the people of the place. But it just didn’t come. And then one night, out of no where, it hit me like a tidal wave and I sat for two hours straight in the night and wrote an 8 page long article that got great reviews.






Another time that I wrote solely on inspiration was my piece on Mumbai. I was sitting at a cross in some place in Mumbai in the early hours of the morning, listening to Iktara (a song from the Bollywood movie ‘Wake Up Sid’) and watching a bunch of guys playing volleyball and another man training his dog on the football grounds. And it just came to me. Word after word, emotions at their peak, feelings so over powering that they just didn’t stop coming. I had no paper or pen with me at that point of time. And so I kept my words running in my head all through the day, adding more thoughts, new ideas, and more people into what had begun as a simple travel piece. I spent the entire day in Mumbai with my head bursting. And when I finally got back home to Baroda, I sat down and poured everything into my book. I wrote like a maniac, like there was no tomorrow. And the result was fabulous, if I say so myself. It was an incredible piece of writing and so was the feeling when I finished.



And the most recent thing that I wrote was about a friend and his work, during a media law lecture, sitting in the last bench. One hour and 10 pages later (I can’t write short stuff) I looked at my work and I couldn’t wait to show him.

So this is what I’m talking about. I can only write when I want to, only when my heart wants to (I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true). Like right now. After several attempts to write this, I finally did so today.

I can’t see myself not writing ever. You know how a man feels lost if his sight is taken away from him? That’s how I would feel if my writing was taken away from me. (I know that this wasn’t a very good example, but I’m hoping you get the point.)

In the months of May, June and July 2010, I had my articles printed in the Times of India, some with my by-line. And I absolutely loved it.

But last month, I got my first magazine by-line in India Today’s supplementary Simply Gujarati, and I just can’t describe the feeling of seeing my name in ink. I want to do that everyday and feel that way every day of my life.

I’ve realized that I’ve written 3 full pages in MS Word and now I need to stop. I’m glad that I got my writing streak back, and I hope to write something good really soon.