So suddenly, almost unnaturally it seems, I’d shifted from Prose to Poetry... And almost immediately, though over one year it has been, I’m shifting back to Prose again.
Of course, I did write Prose in between too... One post a month or less. I always felt like there was a huge Void inside of Me when I didn’t write Prose, although without as much Poetry as before, it doesn’t feel so Empty. As it stands, Prose gave Me the kick to Write, in the first place.
Oh, its been about 2 years since I first felt My Passion for Writing.
My dearest Cousin Prashanth, a photojournalist, was my daily chat buddy J We used to talk about everything, literally. I was His “Daily Dose of Entertainment” as He was My “Daily Dose of Wisdom”, My very mellow Reality Check. It sounds awkward, crazy even, that someone should suggest a phrase such as a Mellow Reality Check, cause they’re always supposed to be rough Jolts that kick You in your a** so hard, you just are more aware of things around You. But Prashanth, goodness! He was the opposite of a rough kick, he was the warmest Embrace. The funny part is He was a Warm Embrace of Reality! Like someone soothing You and yet making You realise that the World’s not that pretty a place.
It was in those days (feels like eons ago now) that I’d forever check his blog, as hearing from him was not a Hobby, it had become a process to Learn, to Grow... To Live, even! It was the Piece He wrote of His Grandfather that was My Warmest Embrace... My Reality. It was when I read it that I realised that THIS was Who I looked up to, this was how I wanted to write, this is what I wanted to BE. But I never realised HOW... The Destination seemed so clear, the Path very clouded. And on the 26th of November, 2008, when Terror seemed to show the Ugliest Part of its Face to Mumbai... I found it in Me. I found that weeping Part of Me that Wrote.
I finally understood why Prashanth’s piece on his Grandfather inspired Me so. Because it was so True. From Within. Not an inch of frivolousness or Pretence. And so with this... My Love for Writing Strengthened. After this Day... He was My Guru, My everything when it came to writing. When it came to anything at all, in the first place...
And thus, He was the first Object of My Poetry. It seemed so Natural that the First Piece of Poetry from Me was written for Prashanth. My Gift for His 26th Birthday was a Poem, the first ever that I wrote...
Now when I look back, everything seems to connect. The dots are making Sense. I was a Harsh writer then, I am one now too, even though Prashanth always said: You’re good, but you need to mellow down a bit...
Months after I’d written for Prashanth, Poetry became a Daily Thing for Me. An inevitability. The day ended only if I wrote. My blog entries lessened as Poetry seemed to rush out of Me... Like Love, Hatred, Anger, Disappointment... Like all My emotions had found a new outlet: Not My Eyes, My Hands.
The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write. All thoughts of Everything forgotten, I simply wrote. Slammed down one Poem, 3 pages long a day till My Reality Check came in again. This time it was not Prashanth’s warm Embrace, it was my Uncle’s harsh kick. My very first Criticism on My Inability to Rhyme and thus my absolute failure at being a Poet.
From then on I practised and practised till my Emotions weren’t restrained in anyway, but channelled, yes.
But, also, from that day, My Readership was Limited. Not because My writing sucked (which it maybe did and does) but because I restricted it. First off, my blog became a diary entry. Second, my Poetry was given to a Select few. People who belonged to the Select Few, who READ what I Write support my restricted Audience. In a way, I’m glad too. Somehow, this gives Me more Joy. I need no Motive to Write as when My Audience was restricted, My writing seemed to be more for itself, for ME.
I remember that the first time I was criticised, all the activity that My eyes did was to replace dried tears almost as soon as they dried... I thought of how a Critic could be hiding a Cynic within. Now when I look back, I realise I have no right to accuse. Back then, I was an Idealist. But with two absolutely varying Reality Checks I’d received, becoming a Cynic was inevitable.
Some people who read what I write find it melancholic, sad... Depressing, mostly. But that’s what pushes every inner cell of Me to write, these days. My Prose and Poetry, both come out through Channels, unlike the open rivers which used to gush out in full force.
But My First, Eternal Guru for Writing will always be My Daily Dose of Wisdom...
In His absence My writing had turned less of a Vocabulary Sea and more of a Reflection of Me...
But every word I write, every word I will EVER write will always belong with Him, who taught Me that writing is everything to Me, and so it shall always remain.
But every word I write, every word I will EVER write will always belong with Him, who taught Me that writing is everything to Me, and so it shall always remain.
