What I talk about when I talk about Writing

Two tales connected by myriad pauses.

Dear One, 

I want to start this article with a question...a reflection, a pause: “To those of us, who engage with the world through sketching, writing, music, dance, poetry, what is this art to us? Or what is this art-ing to us?” I sit in front of the window as I type this.  Gusts of cold wind blow in. I can hear the rain through sheets of darkness. The frenzy of a few hours ago has abated.  Now it is just a plop, plop, plop. Far away in the Bay of Bengal, cyclone Michaung has gathered intensity. I don’t know how long I would be able to keep my windows open though. Maon is in another room licking away his paws, grooming his tail, and curling into a “C”. In a few minutes from now he will fall asleep. Or perhaps he will come to my desk, lean against the laptop, and doze off. And to think only a few minutes ago, he was this mini beast, leaping into the air and trying to hunt the toy mouse I was teasing him with. I marvel at these contrasting energies in Maon – one moment fierce little lion hunting his prey and at the other moment exposing his tiny belly to the sun and dozing off.  

Note how I am using the words, “little”, “mini”, “tiny’ to describe Maon. Because that’s how I see him. How we see him—like a baby. Well, in the past few days this baby of ours started doing something naughty. Every morning he would pee, and he would do it outside his litter box. The rest of the time, he was just fine. Once the household was wide awake, and we would bustle about and the air would fill with myriad smells of cooking, food, detergents, etc., he would be just fine. He would march into the litter box, head held high and all that, do his business with quiet dignity. Then what devil would get into him early in the morning when the world slept? The doctor we took him to said he was marking his territory and there was nothing to worry about. Marking his territory at one particular, very specific time in the morning? How interesting! 

 Maon’s peculiar litter habit was sending me into a tizzy, and I was becoming increasingly obsessed with him.  And so, one day, I made a resolution, “I am going to unearth this pattern. Whatever it is. Whatever it takes.” 

Hear the steel in my voice? Good.  

The next day, I woke up an hour earlier than usual and rushed to the living room. Maon was sleeping peacefully at his usual spot. Hearing my footsteps, he opened his eyes, looked at me and stretched his limbs lazily. Well so far, good. As I sat there, I felt sleepy and disoriented. I longed for a hot cup of tea but was feeling too lazy to go to the kitchen. So, what do I do now once I have made the resolution? I just sit there, observing Maon? A part of me continued sitting there. Yet another part of me wanted to jump into my bed and continue with my sleep. As I sat there feeling more conflicted than ever, suddenly there was a flurry of movement. Maon rushed to a corner of a room, and I ran after him. But I was too late. By the time I reached Maon, the accident had already occurred! As I stood there feeling dejected, from the outside wafted a sound—a high pitched, long drawn yowl belonging to another feline being! Maon leapt onto the cane basket near the window and peeked outside. I too did. But other than the streetlamps, I could not see anything else. The sound of crickets calling out to each other fell into my ears. Far away on the distant rail tracks, a train hurtled away towards its destination, in my home, the refrigerator thrummed. Maon got down and started moving towards the living room. I followed him. A moth landed on the wall and Maon stopped to stare at it astonished. I watched Maon as he was lost in that wondrous pause. And then he started moving again, bringing his hind feet to the exact same spot as the front legs, his paws landing softly on the floor as he sauntered to his dining station.  

Maon and his energies

By that time, I had cleaned up, brushed my teeth and made myself a steaming cup of coffee.  

Dear one, before I proceed with what happened next, I would like to bring your attention to the question I had posed right at the beginning of this essay, and once again, here I ask and invite you to reflect, “If you are an artist, poet, writer, what is that art to you? Or rather what is that art-ing to you?” 

Is it that moment of making that steely resolve? To wake up earlier than usual? Determined to “fix” a problem that lay elsewhere? Or is that the wondrous pause? When you stop and stare at something fluttering by as though it was the first time you were witnessing it? Or is it you communing with your Earth sibling/mate through cloaks of darkness? With a yowl? A scent?  

What is art to you, dear friend? What is writing? Is it some of these? All of these? None of these? 

I had been pondering upon these questions since the beginning of this year. What is writing to me? And this takes me to the unfolding of my second tale. Many months ago, the family across the street decided to re-model their entire building. This meant multiple rounds of demolition—everyday workers would come and hit the walls with huge sledgehammers. Once the walls came down, it was the turn of the ceiling. Huge electrical saws would cut through the steel every day.  There would be dust everywhere and the noise was massive. We could no longer keep our doors and windows open. Every morning when the work would begin, I would stuff my ears with ear plugs and put on my headphones. But after some time, my ears would start to itch, and I would remove the entire paraphernalia only to put them on again.  

As the months passed, the noises only multiplied. Welding machines, concrete mixers, pebbles being poured from huge trucks and hitting the hard asphalt ground below as though there was an earthquake, more demolition happening, more structures coming up. Another floor, another ceiling, the terrace extended, balcony widened, gate getting felled down. 

My mornings were no longer the same. Every day, whenever I would go to the balcony to have my first cup of chai, the sight that would greet my eyes would leave them hurting sore—rubble of whatever had been brought down the previous day, cement bags, stones, piles of logs lying haphazardly everywhere. Illogical as it sounds now, I felt as though someone had encroached upon my space. Who gave all these folks the right to uglify my morning view? 

And where were my birds? My mynahs, pigeons, doves and crows? Who stole them all? 

Maon hated being cooped up in the house the whole day. We too hated being cooped up. One night as I was sleeping, a thought entered my mind, “Is writing...like constructing a house?” 

First you dig the earth and lay the foundations. Then you create frames, pour concrete, cement and sand. Then comes the scaffolding, laying the bricks, creating the walls, plastering, whitewashing, painting etc. At some point in time, the house is deemed “appropriate” to be inhabited by humans. There are ceremonies and rituals held, the customary crossing of threshold happens, and folks move in. And once again after days, weeks and months once again someone from the building will come to the terrace with a fistful of grains and sprinkle them across, the morning flock of pigeons will scoop down for their breakfast. And I will sit there watching it all, content that once again my morning view has been prettified.  

So, is that all that is there to writing? Is it just a blueprint? A manual? Something with pretty walls? Of course, there will be warmth and life too. Folks will live within those walls, parents will cook meals, homework will be supervised, couples will continue to hope and dream, and life will continue to be un-raveled. 

So, is that all that there is to “writing”?  A desire to upscale, to gather new heights? To ensure that you are more “visible” whether it be your shiny new apartment? Or your new car? What about relationships then? 

During those days, one day, when I could no longer stay cooped inside, I opened the balcony door and stepped out. The construction workers were sitting in the shade, surrounded by the rubble on all sides and were drinking buttermilk from plastic cups. They were conversing about something, laughing out loud.  

Yet another day, they were lying down in the same shade, their arms folded under their heads, serving them as pillows. Something about watching those scenes everyday would tug at my heartstrings and at the same time provide me with relief.  

Then one day, something else happened. One evening after the noises had died down, once again I stepped out into the balcony. There were a couple of newly constructed ridges holding water on the terrace. Perhaps they were meant to strengthen the just constructed roof in the coming weeks. As the evening sunlight fell upon them, they looked like tiny ponds. And as I watched, a mynah descended and landed on the waters. Within minutes, she bent her neck, thrust her tiny head into the water and stayed there for some time. After bringing her head up, she lowered her entire body, submerging herself into the now rippling waters letting herself bob up and down for some more time. I watched fascinated. Maon watched too (I think). Minutes later, the mynah rose and perched herself on a cement bag. There she shook herself, first the head, then the wings and took off to the ochre skies. As I continued to stand there, I could not help but notice a few drops of water falling from her wings and landing on the ridge pond down below, slowly, silently almost like a whisper.  

Cyclone brewing in the not so far horizon

After a few days, when the roof was deemed strong enough, the ridges came down.  Once again, the birds stopped coming.  

That was in April. It is December now. The crazy rains of the last few days have finally stopped. Cyclone Michaung has abated. In the evening, I stand in the balcony. The same ochre sky from months ago. Except now, it feels cooler on the skin. I inhale deeply and watch the parakeets as they circle above. Their cries are shrill, alive, vital. I let them seep into my being. And once again, the question forms in my mind, “What is writing?” 

Dear friend, who is reading this, what is writing to you? 

What is write-ing to you?  

Tell me, I would like to know. I am curious.  

Warmly, 

S 

Here and Now

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