subterranean foliage N' longwinding verbiage

I remember when I began stringing words and declared myself as a writer of sorts in my mind, as a high school student … my motivations of, gingerly arranging all the stationery and pulling an old chair in a solitary corner of the house, was nothing less than ceremonious; and entirely different than what they are now. As a new entrant to the world of literature and the art of story telling … more often than not I caught myself day dreaming revolutionizing the world with the word-power – the power which would be created all by me, a power which would be self satiating and not make one hungry, a power of pride, which comes from the knowledge and the passion of being able to make a difference.

The idyllic small Indian town were I grew up and went to school has always seen that clear divide between two thought processes – one which passionately and realistically believes that there are higher things than just subsisting and another set which is really good at the game of just subsisting.

One group which knows, that there is an endless sky of things to be known and to be learnt. These are erudite. These are the people who can talk about Dragone’s La Reve, Ramanujam’s Theorems and quote Oscar Wilde with the same panache of any upper class Londoner for example, while skirting the potholes of the narrow by lanes of downtown on a rickety cycle rickshaw.

And another group which haggles with the same rickshaw guy for 2 bucks, not because they are mean and miserly or poor, but they can buy a kilo of vegetable with those 2 bucks and save. This is the same set of people who talk about the next wedding or child birth or neighbors issue and the axis of their universe is riddled with electricity, water and the children’s weddings

But make no mistake, these two exist together! Sometimes one gives birth to another, sometimes they are siblings; sometimes they share the same bus seat and jump over same potholes. Umm, actually make that always and not just sometimes.

A no win game. A game where people do not play against other team, but the fight is big and is within or among them.

A game, where when you become the observer, is a gold mine of experiences, ideas, pain and catharsis… there after. A stage, where the play continues long after the curtain down and audience are happily tucked in bed.

A mode of survival, where everyone does get to survive but few, live.

From approaching writing with reverence to using it as a means to end; an end which is a constant hunt – a hunt which is – unyielding; much ice has melted at the Arctics.

A long way before, I am competent enough to be able to see my love and loss, my words and ideas … turn crinkly yellow with age! Much long way …

And, oft late … a realization of sorts … a spiraling inside … a fleet of thoughts ganging up … to wake me up and scream inside … that the in-satiation which I have been quarreling against, the loneliness which is slowly eating its way to the core; in-spite everything and everyone; will perhaps can never be quieted by all the hi-flyin success of those deals I close or home that I keep doing up (though, it has a certain degree of satisfaction) etc etc. I am convinced beyond doubt that i would have to brave the hopeless claustrophobia and dive in…

Working on it… no iPhone 2.0 with GPS this time around; for satellites cant really map where you are on the terrain of subconscious.