Sudden, rare bursts and infusions of creativity come and go like those select few, lenient teachers at school or BBMP workers every season leaving unfinished tasks, and finished roads unfinished. I always write in the night — either because I prefer napping in the day, or simply owing to the fact that my dark, melancholy self finds the single ray of moonlight surreptitiously sneaking into my bedroom window and creeping on to my desk more inspirational than the sunlit dawn echoing with the dulcet tones of morning birds. The latter background I prefer when it comes to getting lost in the land of dreams.
Quite in contrast to my somber backdrop of reality, however, I am tempted to weave tales of a humorous, cheerful nature with a “happily-ever-after ending.” Quite obviously, my true, subconscious self kicks in, preventing me from doing so, resulting in an overly cheerful beginning in a story that has an abrupt ending in distressing asperity.
“A confused state of a plethora of emotions leaving an overwhelmed reader.” — the description my friend and pathetic excuse of a critic suits my garbled mess of literary works best. But now that I ponder over it (I either contemplate things too much, simplify them too much, complicate them too much, or just overthink them too much) I come to the realization that my texts reflect my thoughts — a confused mess of feelings & emotions finding its way through confused crazy expression.
Quotes like “early to rise, early to shine” and “Early bird gets the worm”, make me bound to try my best at writing in the dawn.
I leave it to accomplished and famous authors like Ernest Hemingway and Ruskin Bond, known for writing early — my feverish attempts to do the same reward me only with a sense of incompleteness and failure I have grown to despise (despite being quite used to it). In spite of all the effort I put into forcing my pen to be active (quite hypocritical of me really; I’m one lazy soul) it just doesn’t and is too stubborn to do so, it waits for the mood – exactly like its master.
This vain attempt generally ends in a to-do list or the pros and cons of a recent bill passed by the Supreme Court — any topic that weighs down in my mind From the newspaper I devoured along with my breakfast that morning; usually in neat handwriting. Unless you are a very exceptional case with a beautiful handwriting — We seldom write neatly when we write from our heart, it is only when we are copying or noting that our handwriting manages to be legible.
Now you know why exam answer sheets are much messier than classworks.
In the night, however, I manage to write every single thought that occurred to ma and my neurons during the day, expressing myself in a confusing, yet organized way, satisfying both my blubbering soul and (now in the mood) restless, tempted fingers.
The day is meant for thinking: four stages – contemplation, conversation, memory and at dusk, collection.
My idle, monotonous and slow life allows me to ponder over the world. My curious, underused brain cells wonder over thought-provoking questions like why I stubbed my toe on the kitchen dining table for the hundredth time that morning despite spending over a decade in the same house, why my books dance all over the house but disappear instantly when I have their urgent need, why the neighbourhood aunty never lets anyone go about their business without poking her snub nose, etc.
Galileo was not joking when he said – that “I’ve never met a man so ignorant I could learn nothing from him.” Be it the neighbour, the friendly watchman or an unlucky friend or an unfortunate passer-by …that happens to be my acquaintance — sharing thoughts, emotions, feelings and tea (I mean gossip) always puts me at ease.
And during those pondering sessions, I happen to recall an old companion, a faded memory or a distant familiar figure I reminisce about. I guiltily confess I live in the past. And why not? After all, in the present, my job is to idle away — and thinking about the future is just adding unnecessary distress to my already upset soul, as though the sadness in there too required replenishing. It’s better to dwell in the past.
So, I go on to collect such information throughout the day, my mental self exhausted with the day’s exertion. At — And when the sun sets, my pen finds its way to my diary……diary, and effortlessly glides through the pages as though fruition never existed.
I consider it a digestion process — ingestion, absorption, assimilation and egestion.
Perhaps, after a few years, while cleaning and organizing my dusty almirahs, I would come across this document, offline PDF of information, specially precious — only to me, remembering the lovely days when I wrote it – the memory of that day. I would ponder over and dwell in that past and that would be the faded memory and information to be ingested, absorbed, assimilated and egested for the day.
Then, in the night, in the light of the single ray of moonlight that managed to surreptitiously sneak into my room every night and…creep on to my desk, I would seize my pen and write about the treasure of a memory I found that day to my ever-patient diary, faithful to me to that very day.
July, 2025
