It was more than a week now that I have been living at my mother’s sister’s house. After completing my graduation I was searching for a job or a good college in some good city for my higher education. It was the time when I was thinking a lot about life. Deep introspection and analysis about what should be done according to my interest areas. Generally my sister is the one with whom I do these kind of discussion but at this time she was in a far off city and was already handling a very busy schedule. So I could not disturb her much. I had my plans well framed and organised but they didn’t work out as I thought them to be. The biggest thing here I learnt was to always keep a Plan-B which i didn’t have. The whole day I would sit down and keep searching about colleges and jobs. In bewilderment I was not able to opt a particular course for myself. There was something I liked in a course and something else in some other course. Job was something that I did not want to do, but would have to do it if nothing worked well. Triggering my mind to the extreme analysis of my interests, passion and desires I pushed myself to be boundaries of the most deepest introspection one could have. I started having a bizarre state of mind and the impact of all this was weirdly effecting my lifestyle. Sleepy nights, lethargic days, uncontrolled behavior, depression and unhappiness. Many of the young people like me might be familiar with this kind of mental state. I say this because we are a generation which ‘thinks’. Thinking is what we all do to drift our self closer to our dreams, and wisely plan our execution. We are people who don’t make compromises especially with things that we want. If we want it, we get it and if we are not able to get it then we think about framing a plan to get it. Thinking too much about myself and my life, I sort of started developing philosophical traits in myself and this was the time when I randomly started writing something on a paper. It was a poem and I titled it – “Ode To The Insight Of The Self”. I also started to write a story about a man who was trying to come out of the addiction of alcohol and drugs and found some beautiful things about life during his way out. At my maasi’s house I was living freely. Slept when i wanted to, woke up when I felt like.
One night my uncle woke up to drink water at 2 a.m. in the night and saw the light of my room switched on. He walked towards my room and secretly took a sight of what I was doing and went back to sleep. For two days he observed me and my lifestyle and finally after two days he came and sat in front of me where I was sitting and writing something in my diary and asked me, “What is that you have been writing since days?”.
I was stopped in my flow of thoughts by that question and replied,”Err……nothing…….stuff”.
“What kind of ‘stuff'”, he stressed on the word ‘stuff’.
I replied quickly, not thinking much about how to frame my answer “about me; life; and anything that comes to mind”
This three-letter word(WHY), in the form of a question, was something that aroused with an answer in my mind which I could not explain to anyone but myself. A feeling of realisation of something beautiful surrounded me and I gently smiled.
Many of us might have felt the urge to write when something sad happens or continues to happen with or around us. We do, but never try to observe the changes in our mind and soul which occur when we write something. It might be some kind of chemical changes in the body or some psychological transformations but what I know is that I feel relieved when I write. It is as if a burden moves out of my mind, converts itself to thoughts and information and gets itself settled on a piece of paper.
When we write, we are taken to the boundaries of our imagination and that is wonderful. We examine our ideas and comes to know more about ourselves and that is again wonderful. It generates a feeling of contentment which we were expecting from somewhere else maybe. Thinking about a particular subject and putting it into words gives us a representation of our own instincts, ideologies and point of view. It becomes the mirror of our soul. We write for others, we write for ourselves. We write to someone and also, sometimes we write something which is torn off and thrown into trash. It is wonderful to understand that even that does not goes to waste.
So, the answer to the question ‘What writing does to writers?’ cannot be framed with suitable group of words but it is in itself a journey, a vagabond voyage. And yes if you try to write a ‘Ode to the insight of self’ you might understand that.
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