A friend once told me that writing emanates out of loneliness. I didn’t know what he meant by that. ‘Of course’, I said, ‘you don’t often see a writer in a football stadium typing with a foam finger on just like you don’t see a team playing football inside the room’. He smirked and added, ‘No, I mean writers are lonely people, some heartbroken, writing to console their souls, while a bunch of others who have broken someone’s heart and are now writing as an act of contrition’. It all seemed so simple to him. Containing a never-ending group of people who write into his stereotyped assumptions. It was only then that I got up from the table and made my way to a solitary place, in the nearby park, switched my Kindle on and began to read. I don’t know if my reaction emboldened his naive convictions or even made him feel victorious, but yes, I did find the peace quite assuaging. It was also for the first time that the sight of trees seemed so soothing to me, nothing is more assuaging than the trees when paid time and attention to. Also, reading soon after having an inane conversation, I then first realised, is such a rare pleasure. I highly recommend it to every fellow reader. Since then, whenever I find myself in a worthless bickering I pick my Kindle up and make my way to someplace directly underneath the sky, and start reading. I have an abnormally fast pace of reading while I am angry. Surprisingly so. And, for all that I might not like this friend, I still owe this one tactic of dealing with the anger and squabbles to him. And, like most other great things in life, this too came out of desperation, rage and was learned a hard way.
I have this peculiar habit of catching people off-guard by asking them about what they do on weekends. I never mean what they did the last weekend, both grammatically and intentionally. I am always on a lookout for something that I might as well imbibe. A pattern. A hobby. But most of the time I get the usual replies. ‘I slept so much that the sleep seeped out of me’ to ‘Saturdays and Sundays are the smallest days in the week’. Weekends, I am then forced to believe, are so overrated. And, especially the people who begin planning it on Monday are most helpless in answering the question. But then there is always a sliver of hope. At times, I stumble across people who attempt at doing things, who attempt at creating something, reaching someplace, learning something new, teaching someone. Art begets art. A conversation with a painter can make an exquisite topic for a writer. A dancer can become the sitter for the painter. I don’t expect them to produce a work of their own the next Monday, but there is an enchantment in that anticipation in their eyes. They glow at the mere prospect of something that is not even there hitherto. I have stared at the blank screen more often than words by me appeared before me. But the wait is so romantic in itself. I wish such romance to everyone.