An Author's Art

There was once a rising star, an author, as I would like to call her. She is still there, so I have no idea why I mentioned ‘was’. She never found writing to be her calling while she grew up. But one fine day, unable to take the stress of little things like ‘politics’ and ‘profession’, she took to a ‘page’. Earlier, the page was her confidante. She would draw words and work on it. A graphic meaning would erupt of the distorted cornucopia.“Failed artist but fine artistic sensibility”, she often got to hear. Not to mention, “cerebral abstracts.” These did not matter to her. She did all of it only for one sake, to slay the boredom at hand. Sometimes, it would be a phone call about problems like ‘lost love’ and ‘being caught’ and ‘not studying enough’, most of the other times, it would be long lectures on ‘gender’, ‘colonialism’, ‘spaces’. No, it wasn’t as if she did not pay attention, for she registered all that she listened, but her hands were restless, they needed to criss-cross-criss, constantly. She was compelled by a call that made her shade and sketch. She adored paintings, but saddened that no figure ever came out the way she would have liked them to, she increased the shapes – circular, triangles, curves, lines. And she left them at black and white. 

 

Till that day when she thought to herself that she had written many letters to god to pass her for examinations which she was hardly prepared for. She rationalized that if those worked, god must have liked and been convinced with her language. So, she took up her favourite topic – holiday -- and turning it into a favourite metaphor, created the sweetest child possible. Thus began her series of conversations and interactions (for she made little Chhuti speak back too!) with words. Now, this was an excavation out of the deepest depth of her soul. Earlier, she was told, and she liked to believe in things that were told to her, that she only loved the ‘act’ of writing from childhood, as evident in the millions of A-B-C-D that she must have scribbled walls over. But, for the first time, she was writing, not answers, not applications but stories, and dialogues and she was amazed because they came out of a nothing, that she believed to be a nothing.

What shocked her furthermore was the acceptance of her letters, stories, characters and conversations. Once again, she overheard “you are blessed”, “you are special” and none of these mattered too. She wrote and went on writing like it was her compulsion and what followed was tragic. Till she wrote, she could not breathe easily. Till she wrote, her insides came alive in a fury, “Let us Out!” Till she wrote, she could not believe that she would be able to continue.

Trapped in a competition with herself, the author belted one tiny best-seller after the other, one letter after the other. Who knew she had so much to say! Accustomed to her variety, she was assured of applauds. But these very applauds began choking her with expectations of more. Now, ‘more’, dear readers, is a good thing, if in moderation, but the moment it crosses the line, it becomes an entrapment. The more she wrote, the madder she became. She wanted to be loved and popular and by god, she is, but the constant fear of whether she could deliver in the next page began gripping her with a triggering bellowing, soft and nagging. 

Her characters have taken over, she is now perfecting a measure to fish them, like she used to. Everyday, she still writes. She is asked, “today?” As if her fingers transfigure into a wand, words are out in a fancy flight, some with sense, some with none.

The author’s voice has split. Who knows who speaks.