So yes, it s been quite some time since I last felt the keys on the finger. And what brings me back tonight, as I was telling a friend today, is nothing but the passionate spirit of Orhan Phamuk to unflinchingly decipher his mind in his writings. I have been through two to three of pages of his book and I am impressed, as often is the case with any good book I ‘ve read. Though I have not read many. Perhaps when you embrace the things or images, you have an hidden affection for, you get engulfed in its beauty too soon. But its blissful to be tucked under a blanket, take a book, under the golden hue of the bed lamp and read life and essay of a person who has vociferously made effort to only find meaning of life words.
And if I were to take a leaf out of this book ( Other Colors ), I must ask myself today the question why I took of blogging. Was it egotism?. Did I consider it merely as keeping a diary? Did I have the desire to be literary scholar?. Was it vanity ? . Was it too be famous?. Well, but I do not have the patience to answer those. May be it was all of it. But I am interested in recollecting how it all began.
It began much later than the time blogging was on the internet. As usual, I was late on the horizon. It began with just simply opening an blogger account. I suppose for an year I had no idea what “ blogging” meant or was supposed to be meaning. I still don’t. They say its online journalism, it doesn’t seems that way to me at least. But any ways I went on pushing the top left bar button and reading whatever a turned page brought to life. Somehow I guess that’s the way it has been with my life. Thats how stupid and exciting it can get. What I found page after page, were poems, news items, more than asked for- technical blogs, photo-blogs, greek blogs. So I concluded a blog is like a resting place for all the wondering thoughts flying in the air. A free space where every one was welcome, with a private blue room, or a conference room, or a money minting web page, with no questions asked. And I loved the subtle way in which freedom of expression was put forth right up to you. A blank canvass and Darsheel paint whatever you want to. I was in love with the idea. Believe me you have no idea that it could be such an incredibly difficult, Herculean task to decorate the graciously gifted private space. Just like most things in life, easier said than done. Compete and prove is the motto. I think one could generalize that to life. But, I suppose, life would be much beautiful, if each was endowed with the courage, strength to explore the depth of oneself and paint and actually sing a song with a band-unaware and unconscious to the prickling eyes over you. Anyhow, I started writing about whatever I could brew up in warmth of solitude or in the discomfort of workplace. And if there was a motif behind it, it was only that I held this romantic notion that some where down the line I will read my thoughts. With a hope that someday, I would walk down the boulevard of memories this life eventually turns to. And trace the journey my opinions and dreams took, and the course my life traced. Of course, I am yet to find the answer for it, though to confess, I submit to temptation of reflecting back in nostalgia and I have noticed incredible shifts over few years. I am getting worse and increasingly dissatisfied with myself to some kind of helpless inability. But that apart, again there is a reason, during this phase of innocuous act of discovering creativity, sometimes I got inspired with R.K Laxman s humor with silliest cartoons burdening with subtle message. I read few collections by Behram Contractor. I got inspired by the brooding but meticulously crafted grief of human emotions by Anton Chekov and the gut wrenching wit of Mark Twain, to name a few (rather too few to mention) and all such masters in their individual right or might, whatever. I got inspired so highly as to sin vanity, plagiarism and dare to be motivated as to day dream about writing and express my self as crisply as these masters could. Also, to mention over this blogosphere, I found many talented and incredibly young people, whose thoughts otherwise I would have not come across, and they inspired me as much as any unsung hero with whom my empathies lie.
Given my limited ability to understand things in true and factual sense, I concluded that be it expression in any form of art, music, writing, poetry, requires practice as close to be termed as devotion and sadly as profession. And I have understood I am good at neither of the two.
And having confessed that, I must say, I feel better. And thinking of all this, I remain just amazed as to how much all this prose has effected my brain. The lasting impression which all these liberated spirits have left on me is to seek an originality of one self. Probably, it’s the second most toughest task after the struggle to earn ones bread. And perhaps, these Of the many lessons from there work is that, may be all of these artists found their original self by being true to themselves. I suppose they went through both misery and joy of life like everyone, but all along they silently collected the residue from this churning life. They did not sell there conscious, they just ceased betraying it any further. And tactfully unburdened all the grief or joy and brought out the varied confection of the words, colors, notes, music and sensitized and tickled all these subdued elements that make a human.
And these are great men. I mean, nobody’s mom s gone tell her kids to be Rudyard Kipling or Ruskin Bond, or any thing like that, but that doesn’t mean these men weren’t great. They have become people whom the society loves to adore but dare not to dream of becoming one. There’s just a wonderful different crazy wonderland, better left alone in a nice little corner of imagination. But I love the work these great people achieved, which could just excite the dormant senses. The task of tickling with human emotions and to make you feel like one.