I Write

'What do you do?' people ask me. I fumble each time. I want to begin with the list of things I wanted to become, and why. Then I want to explain why each of them got cancelled, and why. I want to justify as to why I am doing many other things along with the only one thing that I am supposed to be doing. I pause, and ask myself, 'supposed to be doing', why? Well, just because they happened to me as a chain reaction. And, the other things? Because I can multitask, or may be multi-manage. None of all that I do had ever featured in the list of things I had wanted to do, or become 'when I am big'.

I have silverstreaks on my head like a haystack. Rich. I am aging. Rapidly. Here's what I would ideally like to do:

Set up a cozy house in a minimalist apartment in a cold country. Adorn the walls of the living and other rooms with paintings and doodles. Have a cherished kitchen and an even beloved eating space. And a clean, endearing loo. There will be another room, not a cut-out, by-the-way library. A well-planned spacious writing and lounging area, comfortable with chairs and a large american-rosewood table. And I will write there. Scripts and advertisements and stories for children and stories for everyone else, anyone who would care to read. Maybe some poetry too. And some letters. The world is devoid of this one thing. The only link to the universe I would leave behind would be letters.

And be able to say to people asking me, 'what do you do?', without fumbling:

'I write.'

Yes, that is what I do.