The most difficult thing you will be expected to answer if you are foolish enough to admit that you are in the habit of writing is, “What do you write?” They will always ask you this and you will always have the same answer which is likely to be an awkward shrug followed by a moment of uneasy silence. This is why writing is best done in silence. If you write, you must write in silence. There’s no need to chirp and tweet about it. Writing, if done well speaks for itself. If it is done well, then it will be read by the right people and today, there seem to be very few of those going around. The only thing fewer than good writers are the right kind of readers, and this is mostly because the good writers don’t perish. If there is one thing that really needs to be written, it is an instruction manual on how to read well.
A growing swarm of poor and pathetic writers seem to flourish not because of declining standards of writing but it is rather a reflection on poor quality of readers who flock to bookshelves that are an eyesore at best. The reason for this could probably be because reading is no longer something that is opted for out of interest or curiosity, but as a lifestyle indicator.
One must have a bookshelf. And it must be stacked with books. It is almost unimaginable (the sheer horror of it!) to admit that one does not read. It is sad, of course. But what does not appeal to you does not require your indulgence and that gives you ample opportunity to indulge in something that does capture your imagination. For example: the Snapchat dogface. If you enjoy making dog faces at your phone, then so be it. Just don’t write a paean about how dog faces set you free and unfettered your soul. It probably did. But I don’t think I want to hear it. Worse still- I don’t want to read it.
What I would like to see written is about how you stepped out on a rainy evening to run a few errands. And how, while on your way back you get caught in a sudden downpour and so you take shelter near the corner cigarette store. While there you realise that you may have quit smoking a year or two ago but the old uncle who sits there in the corner shop still remembers your face and how you bought a packet of ultra mild cigarettes every two days. He also remembers you because, unlike many others who stopped by for cigarettes or paan or a handful of those brown sugary, milk-tasting sweets; you would also ask him how his day was and crack a joke or two and engage in some light banter before you stuck the first cigarette between your lips and asked him for a light. You would then finish your cigarette, smile at him and he would shake his happy head and then you would head home while he got back to his job of painting betel leaves.
While all this happens inside you, you realise with a pang of guilt that the reason you made conversation with the old man the first time was not because you were someone of a naturally friendly disposition, but rather it was only to ease an awkwardness inside you. That you had sworn to yourself that you would do all that it takes to cut your expenditures and the best way to do it was to cut out the tobacco dependency. It had only been a week since you took that oath when you found yourself at the old uncle’s paan shop for the first time asking for a pack of white and golds. To allay your guilt and your shame you began conversation with the old man as a distraction. That he was pleased by your interaction was your latest excuse to continue your guilty indulgence. You could quit the habit any old day, but poor old uncle. Who then, would talk to him? Also why would he want to talk to you if you didn’t want to buy any of his cigarettes? The last bit may be partially true only because it’s not entirely false.
So you stand there in the pouring rain and you watch him look at you out of the corner of his eye as you feign ignorance. But your conscience kicks in and you tell him that it’s been a long time since you last met and enquire how he was. In return, the uncle gives you a warm smile and tells you that he is doing fine but he hurt his leg last week so he doesn’t keep the shop open in the afternoon. That it does hurt his sales a wee bit, but at his age it is more important to appreciate his health than the contents of his collection box. When he enquires why you hadn’t been to his tiny box shop in such a long time, you tell him not without a hint of conceit, that you no longer smoke as you finally shunned the habit. This is when the old uncle surprises you with his response as he looks at you over the rim of his spectacles and gives you a grand old smile of approval.
“Very good”, says the old uncle, “very good indeed. I have always felt bad for the young boys and girls who buy my cigarettes. I don’t tell them off because I need to put food on the table. When I was young, my father used to tell me to get a job in a bank, but I didn’t want to spend my life counting other people’s money and end up feeling worthless. It is good that you have quit smoking. It’s a very nasty habit. I sell cigarettes but I never smoke them. I’m happy with my paan. My wife doesn’t like my teeth, but at least it isn’t as bad as a cigarette. The only reason I put up this shop was so that I could send my son to one of those schools where the boys are taught to speak English and dress well. If he wants to sell cigarettes like me, I have no problem, but I want him to have a choice.”
Until this point you were too stunned by his response but now you venture to enquire about his son whom he had wanted to take up a job in a bank if he felt like it. The Uncle shrugs indifferently and tells you that his son passed away many years ago. Seeing the shock and distress on your face he quickly apologises for the tone of his voice. It so happened that his son had finished his degree in commerce somewhere in Medak. He had always wanted to spend a length of time at his grandparents place, so after he got done with school in Hyderabad, his English speaking son decided to study in a college that was close to where his grandparents resided. He had finished college and gotten a job in a company whose name he cannot recall, situated in Vizag. On the way to Vizag, the bus fell into a naala and of the many people who perished, his son was one. At the end of his story, the uncle once again gave you an indifferent look and tells you that he thinks it is important you always do something and regret and mourning is wasteful after a point. This is why he continues to sell cigarettes. By now you feel that familiar yet long forgotten urge to suck on a cigarette and you ask Uncle to pass you one and blame the rainy weather. He nods and places one on the paan making counter while telling you not to make this a habit. You head home, put on some tea and finish your cigarette while sipping it.
Now if you can spin a story like that or simply write like that and have the right kind of people reading your work, then you have what most writers could ever hope for- the required flair and the right fan-base. However, if you can write like that, then people will still ask you what you write about and you are not going to have an answer to that ‘what’. You write what occurs to you and the thing about all good writing is that you just can’t put a finger on it.
_V. 08.07.2017
Righting Writing 