WHY I WRITE

There is a principle that goes by the name of Occam’s Razor. The most straightforward corollary of it, states that “simpler explanations are, other things being equal, generally better than more complex ones”.

I am not a natural born writer. But I am of the opinion that everyone is an artist in their twisted little ways. I also feel that explaining the need to write would be quite painful for a prodigal writer. Whereas I, actually find the idea quite delightful. Coming back to Occam and his razor, the simple explanation can be given in just a jiffy. At ten, like every child my age I happened to read “Alif laila” better known as “The Arabian Nights”. One of the Sinbad the Sailor tales, had the mention of a dilapidated old man who mounts Sinbad’s back and rides all around the Island (the Island that Sinbad is incidentally marooned on). He eats, sleeps and in fact even attends to nature’s calls, from that position. Ultimately, wanting to get out of his clutches, Sinbad is forced to starve himself consequently starving the old man and causing his demise. This was a fantastic story but equally incomprehensible for a ten year old.

Years later I was in high school and had the whole “career” story going on in my life. I was not particularly passionate about anything, least of all careers and textbooks. I felt choked and clobbered. I happened to read the same Sinbad tale again. I realized its deeper implication. All my peers, all those textbooks, everything including my folks were the old man- hunched on Sinbad.  I ruddy well saw myself as Sinbad.

I knew then that I had to be purged. And the purgatory would have to be stationed away from my family. I wanted to be impossible. I wanted to know what time had for me. To know if there is such a thing as a career. Or are we all just floating heads- some with full stomachs. The Razor ends here. Nothing was simple hereafter.

After five years I felt purged and starved. And I had rid myself of the old man. My purgatory had introduced me to my paradise. College had me read like crazy. I saw others slog and try to make careers. But I had with me, the belief that things would come to me when I was ready for them. And so they did. Along came Dante. And he was followed by Dostoevsky, Marquez, Lawrence, Jung - oh what a time that was! All of them writing about each other. As if sitting on a table, across each other and talking about things that mattered to me. Things I know have shaped the world. That shaped me. Things I could see and feel. That was when I felt true, clear passion.

For the first time in my pampered, pressured and material existence, I felt an enormous amount of liberty. And that liberty was exhausting.

 It was the liberty to write about ALL of them. The men and women who meant so much to the world. The freedom to express openly what I thought of them. Without any retorts! I wrote of life that I could perceive and life that I could never imagine. I threw all shades of every color in each of my write ups.

Time went by like a flash. And then I began connecting words with phenomenon. I wanted to find meaning in my own existence. All this I could only write about as I felt no need of verbally addressing it to anyone. Words did not require worldly contact. I began feeling strung around an instrument that uttered words instead of sounds. I could hear them and feel them all day long. I was a nervous wreck- aware of my inability to perform in my own little world. I blamed myself for not coming up with a tiny speck worthy of being read. I associated writing with being recognized.

In this state of sickness when I chanced upon Notes from Underground by F. Dostoevsky I knew that I must write without fear. The first line of that book is “I am a sick man”. And that made me think- a writer can say those things. I need not have a firm ground or a revolutionary thought. A writer can be anybody he wants to be.

 The feeling of liberty returned and has not left me ever since. I know now that what I write needs to be written. I do not write for myself or for other people. I write for the words. But most of all, I write to feel like a part of that league. The league of my favorite men and women. Those who shaped the world. I write so that when I reach their paradise, they let me in and ask me about what I wrote.   

Anukriti

A purged one