My rom was incredibly messy and dirty (let's not shy away from using the right adjectives), so I walked out with my bag. Accessing coffee here means long commute hours and traffic and trash displays but here I am and I suspect the city is growing on me. It has its pros, and it gives one the cosmopolitan vibes for sure. Too bad the cosmopolitan women are almost exclusively occupied with the compatibility of couples around them-of which they are but a poor judge- and as for the men, I have no idea what they do. I mean look at the population of this city and multiply that by 24 hours: surely these people must be doing something with all this time! Except for generating trash and churning out kids, that is. Both can be seen a-plenty everywhich where, meaning no disrespect to either.
My time is whiled away in making sense of my own existence- a labor that does not oft produce results- but I wonder what the sane and the smart do with their time. Makes the mind reel.
As usual, my intention was to bash myself and not people. On my part, I have been trying to make sense of things for some time, but no sense has been made yet. Reading Anna Karenina, however, made me realize a few things. It isn't Tolstoy alone- I have also been watching quite a few movies and shows that revolve around the concept of writing. Last night I had a dream- they seem to be a regular feature of N's presence, even when he is kept at an arm's length- where I was reading an equally thick novel in Urdu that detailed the story of a guy called Saeed. Guy was a feudal and he married a woman for love, but after some years he was going to marry another woman because it was the norm in their families. I was both reading that novel and living the story of the first woman-she was called Zain- and reflecting on the norms of society and how they shape behaviour, all in parallel.
I have realized that intellectual and emotional circuits are both at play when you sleep. Sometimes I wake up and can feel how the amalgam of emotions has been stirred while I was asleep. I wake up with such distinct emotional states that it is even funny and seems as if my sleeping self has a personality of its own. Something which my awake self severely lacks. It seems that my emotional decisions are made in sleep, where some part of my self decides how to react to important things. The good/bad valence is remarkable, as is the gap.
Z called me up and that completely disrupted my train of thought. He is mostly completely useless, particularly when not on vacation. Sometimes you can discuss ideas with him.
Back to fiction. I have realized that I really like writing fiction. The idea was partly inspired by a writer I met, A, who encouraged me to write prose. He talked about novel writing in terms of experimenting with characters, who are initially inspired by people one knows and has observed. Of course I inwardly scoffed at his idea, but some time later I attended a society party and the conversation there inspired me to write a surprising page of fiction the next day. I also realized that writing is more fun than absolutely everything else.
Tolstoy seems to have written effortlessly, and that made me realize that the primary requirement for writing is to have lived a life. Life is the palette which one uses to paint one's writings, not dead vocabulary. Not that I don't love vocabulary to death. Of life I have drunk deep indeed- that can't be denied. I was very very selective in my sampling, but my observations are enough for poetry at the moment. For prose one needs to be more social.
Recently I read Ada Jaafri's autobiography and there were a few interesting points. She was indeed a remarkable woman, traditional and insightful. She seemed to me to be an introverted soul, someone who observed life in depth but mostly kept the observations to herself. I could sense her talent and limitations both through her writings. I feel majorly sorry that Parveen Shakir did not leave any serious length of prose. It would have been fun to meet her!
My reading of Ada's life was prompted by reading another compilation of letter by a certain Lady. This Lady has a road in Isb named after her. Her major claim to fame seems to be the alleged fact that she and a Big Poet shared intimacy for a long period. There is a certain kind of female that seems to thrive in our society, but obviously not someone with serious talent. In fact her one line tirade against PS left a bitter taste in my mouth and I turned to Ada's to wash it. I have never been a great fan of PS's writings as a woman, but I am very much familiar with the way our world treats serious women like her.
As can be gathered, I've become fond of writing once again, but don't know how sustainable it is. These days I seem to have the perfect vantage point for it- stable and insulated- but my time management skills are sub-sub-par, as usual.
Some journal accepted a paper and got ghosted. However, my self-doubt does seem to be settling down, in general, which leaves me with a lot of time at my hands.
Sometime I wonder if a writer is just someone who does not want to do any real work.
