Creativity

I have been writing in Hindi but have hardly been appreciated for my highly original work. There are not many publishers! There are not many readers (thanks to our education system)! Although there are some publishers bringing out some obscure Hindi magazines and all, but then their kith and kin get priority and talented writers like me are left high and dry. The situation is hopeless. Well, now I have decided to start writing in English as it is the universally accepted language for communication. Thanks to the great era of the internet. You just have to write something in English, even if you normally do not, use some online translation service to translate your article into English and there you are. Ready with your article in English, then log onto the internet, find out one-of-many-eager-to-publish-your-article sites and you have published your work. To hell with these Hindi publishers and their nepotism, it makes me sick, it makes me puke, it makes me write in English.

Indians in India have been writing in English since very-very long. Although Sir Naipaul does not like it, still more and more Indians are writing in English specially after the great era of “open-economy”. If you are an Indian, live in India and write in English, choose your topic carefully otherwise you are angering Sir Naipaul. According to him native Indian English writers are still suffering from the colonial hangover. My dear, go and get the citizenship of some obscure island somewhere in the Atlantic or the Pacific and then start writing in English where your hangover will be treated as nostalgia.

After deciding to write in English there was a big question mark about what to write. I am not interested in leaving India permanently and also do not want to face Sir Naipaul’s wrath. Sorry I just cannot do that. I am a married man. Any intelligent man, like me, can commit a mistake or two but I am not an idiot who commits mistakes on the same lines again and again. I chose writing as my carrier, got married once and now I am not going to display any shades of “colonial hangover” in my writings. Publisher’s indifference and wife’s occasional wrath is enough. My first article in English was a poem, which I wrote for my wife keeping the Indian tradition of making an offering to Lord Ganesha in mind when you start something new (mind you, my wife does not resemble L.G. or any such similar looking creature and any such assumption would be considered very hostile to her). Why a poem? Why not something else? I think poetry is quite a natural form of expression for a married man. Even in Sanskrit, one of the oldest languages, poetry was the very first form of literature which came out of pain. Well, my poem was not about pain but about love (now do not say “painful love”, that would be too much). So there was this poem. You know the look in women’s eyes when they do not like something. Same thing happened with my wife too. She gave me a disapproving look and that was enough. It was high time to think about the consequences, it was time to minimise the damage to whatever things came in between her and me. There were many things viz. one table lamp, one flower pot, some books, one cordless mouse, some CDs etc. But surprisingly I saw nothing fly. Instead my wife disappeared from my sight. I got relieved but that was momentary. After ten minutes or so she reappeared again with a suitcase packed with her things and all. There was no need of any use of vocal chords. From what I heard from others, I could guess that she was going to her parent’s place. Boy! Was I relieved? Well, whatever it was, it was quite short-lived. Instead of moving towards the door she came to me and demanded an explanation followed by a proper apology regarding the whole affair and there I was blinking my eyes like a tamed monkey. That was when things dawned upon me. Somehow it slipped out of my mind that my wife does not understand English at all and I had to pay for this slip. I have been paying for my irresponsible behavior of forgetfulness specially to things and events related to my wife. This was nothing new. When she first tried to read the poem she thought she was holding the paper upside down and things got even worse when she tried to correct her mistake. This explains everything. Those eyes, things not flying, packed suitcase. Basically she was hurt. From my point of view the mistake I committed was unforgivable, but the thing which mattered most was “what was my wife thinking?”. You do not pack your suitcase everyday and that also to unpack it later on. There was this packed suitcase and I was worried thinking “something should be done before she loses conviction of her anger”. But What? Probably I was very optimistic. Gone are the days when wives used to rush every now and then to their parent’s house. That was then when husbands, as a rule, knew nothing about cooking. And that’s why it is not possible to have another Tulsidas in this age. Today’s husbands do not rush behind their ready-to-go-to-parent’s-house-wives. There is an added complication. These days hardly any wife goes to her parent’s house under such circumstances. I mean, tell me where else do you get breakfast-lunch-dinner cooked by your husband.

This was all about my first-and-last-anything in English. I mean there is no point in writing something which my wife cannot understand. I cannot tolerate the agony of the situation where my wife is all ready to leave for her parents house and does not leave. You can imagine the degree of frustration. But I do not want to give up easily. I am a man. A man of some convictions, some principles in my married life. Somebody very rightly has said that anybody can write at least one prize-winning novel in their lifetime based on their memories. And after winning some prize-wize if my conscience starts troubling me and luckily if there is any other dam(n) problem, I might start my career as a socio-political worker (I am not going to have any objections whatsoever with the words social, political and novelist). But as I have understood from the writings of contemporary Indian authors in English, that writing in English is not an easy job. You have to be an expert in coining conspiracy theories about capitalistic west exploiting poor east or something like that. You have to be really good at mathematics (which I am not at all) to understand the algebra of infinite justice. You have to keep track of everybody and anybody’s problem from Afghanistan to Madhya Pradesh. Basically writing requires a lot of original thinking. Writing a novel (in English) seems to be a pretty good idea (basically a very practical one specially when I really want to write something in the presence of my wife). By the time my wife finishes examining the manuscript and realizes what hit her, I would be away from home recovering from the mental and physical exhaustion and getting ready to face this world (read her) again. And after that whether I continue to write or not solely depends on my wife.