And so, this year too, has come to its end. In the few remaining hours of 2016, all I can do is remember the entire year, and hope for the next year to be better. I know this very moment is passing, slipping away into the valley of the bygone eternity. And yet, some infinities are larger than others. For me, 2016 has been an infinity of moments that never before came, and never will again.
To begin the year with, I won medals at the College Week Cultural Programme. I think it was a great experience to participate and win gold in all of the sections that I’m strong in. There were bolts from the blue, and new people entered my life like plot twists in a mystery novel. My circle of friends gradually shapeshifted, but one person remained constant—Oishee, my soul-sister. And it’s obvious, because we’re connected by the innermost spark of life within us.
I turned twenty, and spent my first birthday without my mom. It was kinda off-tune because what with advance celebrations and pizza boxes, the real day was out of importance. The month of March was a month of relief for me and my family, because a seemingly permanent burden was alleviated off our hearts and lives. I received my 1st semester results, and to be honest, I was not really satisfied because I knew I could do better. I got a guru in my musical journey, and I must say it is quite a wonderful experience. And this marked the beginning of several journeys to Guwahati, in pursuit of music.
I was away from home for the first time for a duration of four days, as I was taken to Gauhati University for the inter-college Youth Festival, where I won two gold medals in Indian classical and Western vocals respectively, and a bronze medal in semi-classical vocals. I also had a share of the silver medal we won for the chorus. When I returned, I was welcomed by a new companion in my journey of music—my Swarmandal. The 36-stringed beauty stole my heart the moment I saw it, and my musical life was elevated to a new level. I appeared for the web auditions of Indian Idol season 9 and was sent further instructions after I was selected, but again, my priority goes to studies. I had to let the opportunity go, for better ones to come.
I lost, or rather succeeded in disconnecting myself from some negative people who seemed immovable from my life. It was immense relief and at the same time impended the entry of new immovables, since nature does not allow the existence of vacuums for too long. I was lost again, in the tumult of my own thoughts. I was torn between two selves who spoke completely opposing things, and as happens with the young mind that has been stubbornly, mandatorily dictated through such situations without the insight that it might have to decide amidst such tumult on its own, I succumbed to the waves that carried me away from my desire. But then, all was not lost, for it was not long before I realised that I was mistaken, and I persistently made attempts to rectify my mistakes. It was difficult, what with the turmoil between want and need, but I succeeded in facing the truth. I discovered things about myself I never knew, and this year has contributed in making me a person I never knew I’d become. My priorities have changed, my ideas have changed, and my entire outlook has changed. Some things, however, have only undergone a Romantic Revolution, since they have only become what they were in my ‘good old days’.
With these reflections on the past year, I hope the coming year brings me more success, more good people, more opportunities and more experience.
Friday 30 December 2016
Wednesday 7 December 2016
Fiction fragment #1: A Second Chance
I see him staring at me from the other side of the bookshelf I just picked a book from. Probably he's just trying to find some book and thinks this is it, I explain to myself. I put the book back in place and pick another one that seems more relevant. His eyes are still watching me. I sit down at a corner table and open a notebook. In a few minutes, he's completely out of my mind and I'm busy making notes.
“Excuse me!” he says, walking up to my table and taking the seat opposite me.
“Yes?” I reflexively blurt out without looking.
“Can I borrow a pencil?” he stammers. His eyes—golden brown—look at mine with hope. I produce a mechanical pencil from my pouch and nonchalantly slide it across the table, and resume my note making.
In a moment, I yield to the urge to look at him. He is busy writing in his notebook. I notice his eyelashes: thick and long, curled as if some artist painted them on his face with utmost care with the motives of thus making a masterpiece. His hair is wavy, neatly trimmed and combed with a schoolboy side parting—he probably could've been a schoolboy if not for the stubble he kept, apparently in order not to appear like a schoolboy.
I get back to my notes as I perceive he's about to look up and make eye contact, but, as is the problem with us girls, I keep stealing glances at him to see if he's watching me as intently. On one of those glance trips, his eyes meet mine. I give a wry smile. He follows suit.
Damn! He caught me looking at him. Is he going to think I'm interested in him?
Forty five minutes pass this way, and then he returns my pencil with as much politeness as I'd been rude while sliding it across. “Thanks!” he says.
“My pleasure.” I smile as he gets up to leave.
“That's a great book that you're reading. Very comprehensive.” he says with an almost prophetic air.
“I guess.” I smile—now both inside and outside.
“But,” he says, “Not as well written as I normally prefer. My own collection has better books.”
I simply smile and nod. He walks up to a bookshelf and returns with a humongous volume. “Here. I think you'll find better references in this book.” he puts it on the table and sits down again to walk me through the chapters. I gaze at him in awe. This is impressive!
I jot down points and he points out paragraphs to me. After half an hour, I say, “Okay, can we just come back tomorrow? I think I'm saturated.”
His lips curl into a smile and he closes the book. “That's way more endurance than I had when I began. I didn't last even ten minutes!” he laughs. He replaces the book and vanishes. I put my pen back in my pouch. I take the book I picked and put it back in the shelf, at the exact place where he'd been looking at me.
At the baggage counter queue, he's four places ahead of me. His turn comes in a bit and he takes his bag. As he walks towards the entrance, he notices me. I see him stopping to wait and a smile plants itself on my lips. When I have my bag, I walk up to him.
“So,” I say, “Thanks for the help.”
“My pleasure.” he raises his eyebrows as he says this. I get why. Afraid that an awkward silence might seep in, I introduce myself. “By the way, I'm Neena Singh.” I hold out my hand.
He takes my hand and shakes it. “I'm Abhro. Abhro Kanti Banerjee.”
“Oh! Bengali?”
“Yes.” He smiles.
“You come here everyday?”
“Almost.”
“So you're into Soviet history too?”
“Not really. I just read for pleasure. I'm a student of Parapsychology.”
“Wow! Ghosts and spirits? I love ghost stories and horror movies!”
He smiles and says, “I study phenomena that orthodox psychology can't explain. Not ghost stories and horror movies.”
“Okay, whatever. They're all in the same category for me, you know.” I laugh. “Anyway, let's have a cup of coffee at Stevens'?”
“Sure.” he obliges.
At Stevens', we take a window side table and order two cappuccinos. “So, what's your story?” he asks.
“Me? I'm a student of History and besides I like dancing. I live in the college hostel and visit home once in a while.” I say.
“No, I mean the story of the dreams inside you.” he says as if I should know that when someone asks me my story I'm supposed to tell them about my dreams.
I pause for a moment and try to recall the last bits of surviving dreams in me. No use. All that I see is my ex, hand in hand with a dolled up girl, saying “You know what, let's live together. The three of us.”
I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. The coffee arrives.
“I...I have no dreams. I just have plans.” I stammer, and pick up the glass mug.
“A plan,” he says, “is a dream with a deadline and a decision to act.”
I can't think much. I only hear my ex say, “Trust me, she's very good. I've been with her for the last three years. She won't give you a single chance to complain.”
Complain? You cheat on me and then ask me not to complain? When all of my dreams revolve around you, you break them like a wrecking ball wrecks an illegal building, and you tell me SHE won't let me complain?
A tear escapes my eye and begins rolling down. Shit! He shouldn't have said DREAMS.
“Are you okay?” he asks, probably worried about me creating a scene.
“I'm fine.” I sigh, and dab a tissue on my cheeks.
“I'm sorry if I triggered unpleasant memories.” he says, almost reading my mind.
“It's okay. I'm still healing. I'll be fine with time.” I say.
We finish the coffee and split the bill. As we walk out, he presses my hand and says, “Listen, I've had a bad past too. Give it time and plenty of chocolate—dark chocolate, milk chocolate, candy, drinking chocolate—just drown yourself in chocolate. You'll be fine, I promise.”
“Well, maybe now I will be fine.” I wink at him and we laugh.
As we part, we exchange smiles and he leaves the smile on my face till I fall asleep.
The best part about dreams is that they can grow back to life, stronger than before everytime they break.
“Excuse me!” he says, walking up to my table and taking the seat opposite me.
“Yes?” I reflexively blurt out without looking.
“Can I borrow a pencil?” he stammers. His eyes—golden brown—look at mine with hope. I produce a mechanical pencil from my pouch and nonchalantly slide it across the table, and resume my note making.
In a moment, I yield to the urge to look at him. He is busy writing in his notebook. I notice his eyelashes: thick and long, curled as if some artist painted them on his face with utmost care with the motives of thus making a masterpiece. His hair is wavy, neatly trimmed and combed with a schoolboy side parting—he probably could've been a schoolboy if not for the stubble he kept, apparently in order not to appear like a schoolboy.
I get back to my notes as I perceive he's about to look up and make eye contact, but, as is the problem with us girls, I keep stealing glances at him to see if he's watching me as intently. On one of those glance trips, his eyes meet mine. I give a wry smile. He follows suit.
Damn! He caught me looking at him. Is he going to think I'm interested in him?
Forty five minutes pass this way, and then he returns my pencil with as much politeness as I'd been rude while sliding it across. “Thanks!” he says.
“My pleasure.” I smile as he gets up to leave.
“That's a great book that you're reading. Very comprehensive.” he says with an almost prophetic air.
“I guess.” I smile—now both inside and outside.
“But,” he says, “Not as well written as I normally prefer. My own collection has better books.”
I simply smile and nod. He walks up to a bookshelf and returns with a humongous volume. “Here. I think you'll find better references in this book.” he puts it on the table and sits down again to walk me through the chapters. I gaze at him in awe. This is impressive!
I jot down points and he points out paragraphs to me. After half an hour, I say, “Okay, can we just come back tomorrow? I think I'm saturated.”
His lips curl into a smile and he closes the book. “That's way more endurance than I had when I began. I didn't last even ten minutes!” he laughs. He replaces the book and vanishes. I put my pen back in my pouch. I take the book I picked and put it back in the shelf, at the exact place where he'd been looking at me.
At the baggage counter queue, he's four places ahead of me. His turn comes in a bit and he takes his bag. As he walks towards the entrance, he notices me. I see him stopping to wait and a smile plants itself on my lips. When I have my bag, I walk up to him.
“So,” I say, “Thanks for the help.”
“My pleasure.” he raises his eyebrows as he says this. I get why. Afraid that an awkward silence might seep in, I introduce myself. “By the way, I'm Neena Singh.” I hold out my hand.
He takes my hand and shakes it. “I'm Abhro. Abhro Kanti Banerjee.”
“Oh! Bengali?”
“Yes.” He smiles.
“You come here everyday?”
“Almost.”
“So you're into Soviet history too?”
“Not really. I just read for pleasure. I'm a student of Parapsychology.”
“Wow! Ghosts and spirits? I love ghost stories and horror movies!”
He smiles and says, “I study phenomena that orthodox psychology can't explain. Not ghost stories and horror movies.”
“Okay, whatever. They're all in the same category for me, you know.” I laugh. “Anyway, let's have a cup of coffee at Stevens'?”
“Sure.” he obliges.
At Stevens', we take a window side table and order two cappuccinos. “So, what's your story?” he asks.
“Me? I'm a student of History and besides I like dancing. I live in the college hostel and visit home once in a while.” I say.
“No, I mean the story of the dreams inside you.” he says as if I should know that when someone asks me my story I'm supposed to tell them about my dreams.
I pause for a moment and try to recall the last bits of surviving dreams in me. No use. All that I see is my ex, hand in hand with a dolled up girl, saying “You know what, let's live together. The three of us.”
I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. The coffee arrives.
“I...I have no dreams. I just have plans.” I stammer, and pick up the glass mug.
“A plan,” he says, “is a dream with a deadline and a decision to act.”
I can't think much. I only hear my ex say, “Trust me, she's very good. I've been with her for the last three years. She won't give you a single chance to complain.”
Complain? You cheat on me and then ask me not to complain? When all of my dreams revolve around you, you break them like a wrecking ball wrecks an illegal building, and you tell me SHE won't let me complain?
A tear escapes my eye and begins rolling down. Shit! He shouldn't have said DREAMS.
“Are you okay?” he asks, probably worried about me creating a scene.
“I'm fine.” I sigh, and dab a tissue on my cheeks.
“I'm sorry if I triggered unpleasant memories.” he says, almost reading my mind.
“It's okay. I'm still healing. I'll be fine with time.” I say.
We finish the coffee and split the bill. As we walk out, he presses my hand and says, “Listen, I've had a bad past too. Give it time and plenty of chocolate—dark chocolate, milk chocolate, candy, drinking chocolate—just drown yourself in chocolate. You'll be fine, I promise.”
“Well, maybe now I will be fine.” I wink at him and we laugh.
As we part, we exchange smiles and he leaves the smile on my face till I fall asleep.
The best part about dreams is that they can grow back to life, stronger than before everytime they break.
Sunday 30 October 2016
Why do daughters have to be a matter of shame?
Happy Diwali, folks! Okay I know I'm late, but it's not a big deal, right?
This year, I didn't feel like it really was a 'happy' Diwali. Six martyrs at the Indo-Pak border already, and the very day of Diwali was on 30th, which witnessed brutal bomb blasts in different parts of Assam. Didn't feel 'let's-burst-crackers' happy, at least I didn't.
So I decided to celebrate my Diwali in a totally different way. I planned to visit an orphanage with my neighbouring kids and distribute food and toiletries.
We went as planned, and when we reached, what I saw broke my heart. 23 children, out of which only two were boys. The youngest was a baby girl, who was banished from the house with her mother, because she was born a girl. Her father had driven them out JUST BECAUSE SHE WAS A GIRL!!! This made my blood boil in rage, because I felt helpless. I talk about gender equality, and here I am, doing nothing for the victims of gender bias. Here I am, writing a blog post instead of going and doing something for them.
But then, what can you expect to do in a country where fighting for female rights is nothing but ‘show-off business’? What can you tell them who consider daughters a burden? Those dogmatic 'kuch din ke mehmaan' stereotypes, have we any remedy for them? No matter how much we accomplish, we still remain women, and fail to be human beings. True, things are changing, but is it a good pace? It seems like a quasistatic reaction, and we're definitely not headed for a better future if we don't accelerate the process.
To begin with, let's stop differentiating between girls and boys on the basis of biological differences. How can biology be such a big deal that it moulds our entire social framework? Can we please stop this 'son chauvinism' nonsense? It's upto you, India. If you want daughters in law, you'll have to have daughters first. Men can't make babies on their own, can they? How can you expect to not become extinct if you don't want the other half of the species? This daughter = burden bullshit needs to stop.
With that, I put an end to my outrage. Have a great week ahead.
This year, I didn't feel like it really was a 'happy' Diwali. Six martyrs at the Indo-Pak border already, and the very day of Diwali was on 30th, which witnessed brutal bomb blasts in different parts of Assam. Didn't feel 'let's-burst-crackers' happy, at least I didn't.
So I decided to celebrate my Diwali in a totally different way. I planned to visit an orphanage with my neighbouring kids and distribute food and toiletries.
We went as planned, and when we reached, what I saw broke my heart. 23 children, out of which only two were boys. The youngest was a baby girl, who was banished from the house with her mother, because she was born a girl. Her father had driven them out JUST BECAUSE SHE WAS A GIRL!!! This made my blood boil in rage, because I felt helpless. I talk about gender equality, and here I am, doing nothing for the victims of gender bias. Here I am, writing a blog post instead of going and doing something for them.
But then, what can you expect to do in a country where fighting for female rights is nothing but ‘show-off business’? What can you tell them who consider daughters a burden? Those dogmatic 'kuch din ke mehmaan' stereotypes, have we any remedy for them? No matter how much we accomplish, we still remain women, and fail to be human beings. True, things are changing, but is it a good pace? It seems like a quasistatic reaction, and we're definitely not headed for a better future if we don't accelerate the process.
To begin with, let's stop differentiating between girls and boys on the basis of biological differences. How can biology be such a big deal that it moulds our entire social framework? Can we please stop this 'son chauvinism' nonsense? It's upto you, India. If you want daughters in law, you'll have to have daughters first. Men can't make babies on their own, can they? How can you expect to not become extinct if you don't want the other half of the species? This daughter = burden bullshit needs to stop.
With that, I put an end to my outrage. Have a great week ahead.
Tuesday 30 August 2016
Behave like a lady
No matter how common it is for women to wear jeans and do better than men at times, there will always be women who tell me how to behave like a lady. “As a woman, you're supposed to...”
Wait, who told YOU what I'M supposed to do?
Don't go out at night. Well, it's not unsafe for us to go out at night because of us, but because our beloved 'Pados waali aunties' forget to teach their sons that if you see a woman alone at night, it's not an opportunity, but a responsibility. But they aren't to blame either, are they? Who will 'behave like women' if they teach their sons to behave like men?
Don't wear skimpy halters and short dresses. Because hey, you're a woman and you live in a country where woman = object of gratification.
Don't talk to strangers, specially men. Because a woman who talks to men she's never met before, is a woman of a 'loose character'. As if character is a pair of pants which need to be secured with the belt of reserve.
Don't be strong. Because we are princesses who need the protection of knights in shining armour, and 'strong' is a word for men.
Respect your elders. Most of all, accept immediately any decision about your life that your elders take, because baby you're a liability, not an asset.
Don't talk loudly. Because a woman is not supposed to speak out her mind. Speaking out is a 'man' thing.
And what makes my blood boil is that it's not men who impose these rules on us. It's women. Because heck, we can't decide what to be, we already are women!
Wait, who told YOU what I'M supposed to do?
Don't go out at night. Well, it's not unsafe for us to go out at night because of us, but because our beloved 'Pados waali aunties' forget to teach their sons that if you see a woman alone at night, it's not an opportunity, but a responsibility. But they aren't to blame either, are they? Who will 'behave like women' if they teach their sons to behave like men?
Don't wear skimpy halters and short dresses. Because hey, you're a woman and you live in a country where woman = object of gratification.
Don't talk to strangers, specially men. Because a woman who talks to men she's never met before, is a woman of a 'loose character'. As if character is a pair of pants which need to be secured with the belt of reserve.
Don't be strong. Because we are princesses who need the protection of knights in shining armour, and 'strong' is a word for men.
Respect your elders. Most of all, accept immediately any decision about your life that your elders take, because baby you're a liability, not an asset.
Don't talk loudly. Because a woman is not supposed to speak out her mind. Speaking out is a 'man' thing.
And what makes my blood boil is that it's not men who impose these rules on us. It's women. Because heck, we can't decide what to be, we already are women!
Tuesday 23 August 2016
One Minute of Silence
One minute of silence to pray for my soul, and that's all you can offer me?
What about the dreams I couldn't see coming true? What about the things I still had to tell my loved ones? Oh right, why does it matter to you anyway? By the time I scream out in pain, you have already done your part: Stayed silent for a minute to pray for my soul.
And then, you stirred back into motion, glad that the condolence was over for good. You left the place with your friends, probably expressing a sadness that you didn't really have, because how am I related to you anyway?
Yes, it hurts. It hurts to see so much apathy disguised as sympathy among people who would rather be watching a movie with their friends than stand there, keeping their mouths shut, while a whole host of thoughts whizz past their minds. It hurts to see how my existence fades away like camphor; how I become the toast of the town for a day or two and then disappear from everyone's heart all of a sudden.
Some will say how close they were to me, how hard it is for them to cope with this loss. My family will shed tears and wish I were there with them. And I will desperately want to tell them not to cry, to take care of themselves and live their lives as they normally would. Can your one minute of silence help my desperation?
Alas! All you can do is keep mum for sixty seconds and forget about me. But if you were me, would you not say a word?
What about the dreams I couldn't see coming true? What about the things I still had to tell my loved ones? Oh right, why does it matter to you anyway? By the time I scream out in pain, you have already done your part: Stayed silent for a minute to pray for my soul.
And then, you stirred back into motion, glad that the condolence was over for good. You left the place with your friends, probably expressing a sadness that you didn't really have, because how am I related to you anyway?
Yes, it hurts. It hurts to see so much apathy disguised as sympathy among people who would rather be watching a movie with their friends than stand there, keeping their mouths shut, while a whole host of thoughts whizz past their minds. It hurts to see how my existence fades away like camphor; how I become the toast of the town for a day or two and then disappear from everyone's heart all of a sudden.
Some will say how close they were to me, how hard it is for them to cope with this loss. My family will shed tears and wish I were there with them. And I will desperately want to tell them not to cry, to take care of themselves and live their lives as they normally would. Can your one minute of silence help my desperation?
Alas! All you can do is keep mum for sixty seconds and forget about me. But if you were me, would you not say a word?
Monday 15 August 2016
Independence Day
“Happy Independence Day!” says almost everyone I meet on this day. I wonder what they mean. Is it a mockery of the oh-so-dependent person I am, or is it a reminder of what I should've been?
Independence. What a sophisticated term for something that is inherent in all of us! As the entire nation celebrates 70 years of freedom from colonialism, I fret over the minuscule reasons of my ‘Colonized’ existence.
In the two decades of my life so far, my definition of freedom has always been defined by the society. The society has always shaped me—and billions of girls like me—into conforming, ‘well behaved’ women. And we, like the well bred daughters we are, unquestioningly accepted the ideals laid down by a completely patriarchal society.
Freedom, to be honest, means the freedom to go out and to study and to vote. But when it comes to expression, we'd better keep our mouths shut, right?
True, women like Taslima Nasreen have expressed their views, refusing to compromise with freedom of expression. But has the society spared them?
My point is, we need to wage a freedom struggle against the societal system—to break free of the subtle captivity we all are suffering from time immemorial.
Let's break free of the stereotypical image of the ‘Bhartiya Naari’. When we succeed in breaking free from all these invisible shackles, then will India ever awaken into a heaven of freedom.
Jai Hind.
Independence. What a sophisticated term for something that is inherent in all of us! As the entire nation celebrates 70 years of freedom from colonialism, I fret over the minuscule reasons of my ‘Colonized’ existence.
In the two decades of my life so far, my definition of freedom has always been defined by the society. The society has always shaped me—and billions of girls like me—into conforming, ‘well behaved’ women. And we, like the well bred daughters we are, unquestioningly accepted the ideals laid down by a completely patriarchal society.
Freedom, to be honest, means the freedom to go out and to study and to vote. But when it comes to expression, we'd better keep our mouths shut, right?
True, women like Taslima Nasreen have expressed their views, refusing to compromise with freedom of expression. But has the society spared them?
My point is, we need to wage a freedom struggle against the societal system—to break free of the subtle captivity we all are suffering from time immemorial.
Let's break free of the stereotypical image of the ‘Bhartiya Naari’. When we succeed in breaking free from all these invisible shackles, then will India ever awaken into a heaven of freedom.
Jai Hind.
Monday 8 February 2016
Desires of an Artist
I wonder how many people do this, but I have a really weird habit of talking to myself out loud. Whenever I get a chance, I close the door and begin talking to myself in full volume. It's like I myself am my confidante, like a separate entity residing in the same body. I don't know if people consider it insane, but this has helped me grow from the spiritual point of view. I have resolved a lot of problems by simply talking to myself loudly.
So here I was, probably last week, talking to myself and reasoning what I want from life. I began narrating the incidents that took place in my life in the past few years, and making a mental note on what I have learnt from each of them. After summing up all I learnt, I asked myself what I want to do in life.
I began analysing a few examples of tracks people are following.
Firstly, I thought about youngsters of my age who have just passed their Senior Secondary Board Exams. Some of them are preparing for the entrance exams for various engineering and medical colleges. Some have enrolled themselves in bachelor's degree courses in various colleges. Some have taken a drop year to reappear in the senior secondary school final exams. And a very small number of them (probably the most unfortunate) have tied the knot and decided to take to household chores for a full time job.
Around 90% of them have no idea what they are headed for. Some, like me, opted for science because "All the other toppers are doing the same thing". Out of these, some fell in love with the subject, and some, like me, started looking for ways to escape. I kept dodging the difficult subjects because I hated studying them, but ultimately had to do so because failing in the final exams was not an option for me. But soon after the exams, I decided to opt out of science and take up literature instead.
As I thought about it, I asked myself why I arrived at this decision. And the answer came to my mind on its own: I am a born artist. I will never find pleasure in mechanical and mathematical theories and a robotic life. My happiness lies in the expression of my feelings. I was born to create beauty. Then it struck me: What I actually want from life is not money or fame. All I want is to be able to create something new everyday. Something that makes me feel accomplished and proud of myself. And what else can make me feel happier than the knowledge that I have created something that has brought smiles on the faces of my fellow human beings?
Yes, I want to create...I want to fill the world with expressions of the feelings that have been dormant for centuries within the hearts of people: The feelings of bliss which have been suppressed by society because it is insane to be happy when everyone else is drowning in depression. I want to give voice to the laughter of the woman who is complete in herself, who wants to drown the voices of those who keep telling her that she needs a man to be happy. I want to give wings to the dreams of a million children who know that the suffering they are going through is not going to last long. I want to heal the world and make it a better place to live in. I just. Want. To create.
So here I was, probably last week, talking to myself and reasoning what I want from life. I began narrating the incidents that took place in my life in the past few years, and making a mental note on what I have learnt from each of them. After summing up all I learnt, I asked myself what I want to do in life.
I began analysing a few examples of tracks people are following.
Firstly, I thought about youngsters of my age who have just passed their Senior Secondary Board Exams. Some of them are preparing for the entrance exams for various engineering and medical colleges. Some have enrolled themselves in bachelor's degree courses in various colleges. Some have taken a drop year to reappear in the senior secondary school final exams. And a very small number of them (probably the most unfortunate) have tied the knot and decided to take to household chores for a full time job.
Around 90% of them have no idea what they are headed for. Some, like me, opted for science because "All the other toppers are doing the same thing". Out of these, some fell in love with the subject, and some, like me, started looking for ways to escape. I kept dodging the difficult subjects because I hated studying them, but ultimately had to do so because failing in the final exams was not an option for me. But soon after the exams, I decided to opt out of science and take up literature instead.
As I thought about it, I asked myself why I arrived at this decision. And the answer came to my mind on its own: I am a born artist. I will never find pleasure in mechanical and mathematical theories and a robotic life. My happiness lies in the expression of my feelings. I was born to create beauty. Then it struck me: What I actually want from life is not money or fame. All I want is to be able to create something new everyday. Something that makes me feel accomplished and proud of myself. And what else can make me feel happier than the knowledge that I have created something that has brought smiles on the faces of my fellow human beings?
Yes, I want to create...I want to fill the world with expressions of the feelings that have been dormant for centuries within the hearts of people: The feelings of bliss which have been suppressed by society because it is insane to be happy when everyone else is drowning in depression. I want to give voice to the laughter of the woman who is complete in herself, who wants to drown the voices of those who keep telling her that she needs a man to be happy. I want to give wings to the dreams of a million children who know that the suffering they are going through is not going to last long. I want to heal the world and make it a better place to live in. I just. Want. To create.
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