The Story of How I became an author

I have not learned to write.

No one has taken me through the literary paces.

I didn’t have literature growing in my backyard.

My parents weren’t professors, professionals or high achievers.

I was an average Jane for the longest time.

Although I did my schooling in an English medium school, we spoke the language minimally and wrote it essentially as part of our studies. I just knew my tenses and my spellings. Nothing more fancy.

Later in college, I chose literature for my Bachelors because I sucked at science and math. Emboldened by the tidbit prizes I had won in stray contests and a compliment by a relative who had read my embarrassingly amateur poems, I decided - Literature it will be.

However, I didn’t fall in love with poetry, prose or drama as one would have expected. With due respect to the teachers who walked us through the three years, I must say this – I couldn’t appreciate literature and nothing I learned there contributed to whatever I am today. No one showed me the glorious side of poetry or touched on the nuances and said, ‘Look, feel, relish the subtlety in this line’.

I could neither identify a beautiful metaphor nor go euphoric over an imagery. I was probably aesthetically challenged then or my soul hadn’t matured enough. As a result, I merely graduated in English Literature. With neither love nor understanding. My relationship with the subject could at best be described as ‘ambivalent’.

But I loved to read. I loved the new words and fancy phrases that I came across in the bits and scraps I read. They gave me a high. I systematically wrote them down in a diary, revisited them and marveled at their lexical beauty time and again. While I did this, a bond was waiting to establish between the written word and me. I would like to call it some sort of literary serendipity.

Even so, I hadn’t the slightest intention of becoming an author in future. What absurdity! Ordinary people like me didn’t become authors!

Being a writer meant holding enviable academic degrees, having a handful of books in your name, being on the bestselling list, having impressive tags, being talked about by people and a lot more. And that was such a long shot in my estimate. No, ordinary folks didn’t become authors. They merely lurked around writing mushy poems in their diaries, sent stories to women’s magazines and waited for rejection slips all their life. (Who then had even thought of social media and such?)

And then, sometime in the mid 90s, Marquez entered my life. Who Marquez? The ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ guy, of course. I bought a dog-eared copy of the book from a second-hand seller. I carried it with me like the Bible. I sidled through it with great effort, without realizing that I was reading the translation and the language wasn’t originally the writer’s himself. But the book knocked me off kilter. Inspired by it, I was seized by a fever to give expression to my thoughts - in words that created pictures.

The Green Envelope

Mom shuffled into the room with the filter coffee and sat in front of me.

I took the tumbler, inhaled the fresh smell emanating from it and smiled at the gastronomic pleasure it momentarily provided. There was something about the way mom mixed the decoction and milk, and made the brew acquire an identity that no other thing in the world could match. The froth lingered on the edges of the tumbler, eagerly, as if it had a story to spill. Each tumbler of coffee that mom made was an epicurean saga.

‘Is it OK? Is the sugar enough?’ she asked dourly.

It was a customary question that demanded a single response, ‘perfect’. In that one word lay her gratification. But her face was glum today and I knew. She was as loath as I was to broach the subject again. As much as I would like to stress it was ‘perfect’, in her view it wasn’t. It simply wasn’t perfect, this single life of mine.

She thought I was lonely. I tried to tell her I wasn’t. I was merely alone, and it meant being my own master, walking down the trail I chose. I was my own soul mate. I could sleep beneath the stars and fly with the wind. But she wouldn’t understand that.

She thought I needed a partner in my life and I must look for one. I tried to explain that you don’t look for partners, like looking for a house on rent. They walked into your life when the time was right. ‘Serendipity’, I said loftily, and she dismissed it as my fantasy.

She was concerned that I wasn’t settled yet. Flitting about in the name of work wasn’t her idea of a stable and satiating life. I was only thirty four and had a long way to go, and she didn’t believe in the joys of going solo. She was adamant the way only mothers can be with daughters.

‘Ma, what is it?’ I drawled, sipping the coffee and thanking heavens for the small blessings in life. I hadn’t had the pleasure of having mom’s filter coffee in three weeks. Visiting her frequently was getting difficult with my travel schedules and tight deadlines. I wrapped my hand around the tumbler to imbibe the warmth that was so unique to mom’s coffee.

Mom looked out of the window and sighed theatrically. All her concerns were distilled into that single heave. It wasn’t difficult to read her mind nor to understand her. I felt the same about her. The concerns we had about each other’s single life were mutual.

‘Okay, tell me, what does settling down mean to you, ma?’ I asked, breaking into her forlorn stare outside the window.

‘Why, have you found someone?’ she leaped from her seat and grabbed my hand.

I laughed at her sudden zeal and curiosity. It was as if I had seized a piece of her dream and planted into my heart.

‘Oh, Ma. Don’t get excited. I just want to know what you mean by ‘settling down’, I said, punching quotation marks in the air for accent.

‘Having someone to love. Someone to grow old with in your life.’

‘I have you for that, haven’t I? Then why worry?’ I quipped cheekily.

‘Who is there after me?’ Her voice fell as she asked it.

‘Ma…’ I clicked my tongue in disapproval. Her absence in my life was a thought I could never entertain.

I leaned over to the coffee tumbler on the table and put it away in disgust. I could never explain why the scent of brewed coffee turned rancid with time, and turned into an offensive stink. Like par-boiled love-affairs.

‘If having someone to grow old with is so important, why didn’t you find someone for yourself ma, after papa left?’

She shrugged. It could have meant a thousand things. As she looked away, I wondered if there was mist gathering in her eyes. She apparently didn’t want to answer my question.

‘OK, what if I want you to settle down now? Have someone to spend your old age with?’ I asked cautiously, knowing full well how sharply she might react.

‘What? Is anything wrong with you?’ she glowered at me.

I opened my bag and pulled out a light green envelope with a postal stamp sitting askew in one corner.  The ‘to’ and ‘from’ addresses were neatly written in cursive style, reflecting a rare elegance. I was amused that people still used the old means to express feelings over long distances. Inside, there was a brown, crushed flower, accompanied by a note. The pigment from the flower had bled and stained the paper, imparting an ethereal quality to the envelope.

‘I am in the hills now and while here, I am remembering you. How much you love the pines and the peaks and the woods! I thought of sending you this rhododendron flower as a keepsake. By the time it reaches you, it will have withered. Yet, I hope you will like it and keep it like all other things.’

The look of consternation in mom’s face made me smile with sympathy and love. Mom had never mentioned the word ‘sacrifice’ to me in all these years. But I knew the import of the word in that instant and felt it was crushing my spirit with its immensity.

I was surprised that mom made no attempt to retrieve the envelope from me nor tried to respond to it frantically. There were no defenses to give. She didn’t even feel it necessary to question my trespassing into her life and unearthing its long held secrets. It seemed as if she was gracefully accepting what I had learned by sheer coincidence.

As the moment of unexpected disclosure passed and sobered, she stood up, picked my coffee tumbler and looking staid, said, ‘It’s not about me. It’s about you. When are you settling down? I want to know.’

Her voice was stern and it demanded an answer. And this time, I didn’t intend to evade it. I knew what I had to say.

‘As soon as you settle down, ma. I promise.’

Two Warriors

Two warriors, one with might in his muscle and fire in his eyes and the other with a succulent spirit, met at the cusp of a passing decade.

‘Where are you bound on the turn of the year? You seem very steadfast in your purpose.’ asked one as they crossed each other.

‘Don’t you see? There is too much wrong out there that needs fixing,’ said the other, with a hint of depair. ‘I have rallied all my valour to fight the evils that I see in the world,’ he added, motioning firmly in the open air.

‘That’s an honourable purpose you have, mate. I admire your steely resolve.’

‘And to where have you set off? There’s no sword in your sheathe and you seem sober in your intent. Have you retired from the battle field and become a commoner? If yes, it is a pity. The world needs more of us to set it back in order.’

‘I am a warrior for life. And I don’t quit ever. There’s too much wrong in here that needs fixing. I have rallied all my values to fight the evils that exist in this mortal frame,’ said the other jabbing a finger in his ribs.

‘That’s lofty, I must admit.’

Wishing each other well in the New Year, the two men strode off into the cold night, and the earth beneath their feet quivered under the weight of their dogged spirits.