Nayana Sivanandan

When I was quite small, I told myself, as if I have heard this from someone else that I want to become a writer. I am sure it was no one in my family of claustrophobic beings who detested beyond anything a life of a desolate writer. I knew it when I was quite small itself. How come then, I, a being with minute amount of self restraint and an infinitesimal fear for the authority of anyone and everyone over my life, dreamt this vision of holding a pen in my arm and scribbling through pages and pages of words until I formed a meaningful sentence, is still a wonder to me? I guess it was this whisper, which kept on telling me that this dream is my only reality and purpose.

It must be true because I was never a happy being doing anything else in the world. I did try to abide by the wisdom of my near and dear ones, who were all practical being and meant very well for me. I took up jobs that they said would secure my future. I did try. But this rendering of my soul deep within, crying to break free of all these step by step, chronology of life and check list of achievements, was hard to ignore. It resonated within me that I was wasting my life purpose over futile things. Finally I left everything for my dream of writing.

Maybe one could argue that I should have kept my job because writing hardly pays for your future. I have indeed seen many who write while keeping their day job and quite successful in it. I guess I was not that type. I was the one who wanted to swim through those harsh waves of spinning the words and steep hills of honing the imagination into words. It is no doubt a tough journey and drained me most of the days. When the universe has given me this tough dream it also has given me a resilient spouse for company, who understood the essence of my dream as if it was his own.

When the words come like a breeze uttering secrets to my ears, my heart leap with happiness. When characters barge in without a knock and start talking to me while I wash the dishes I am happy to lend my ears. When my son falls asleep, I open the laptop and start to write, as if groping through the day’s rendezvous with the story, I am happy. As I struggle to convert into words those enlightened visions that I saw, trying to capture a fracture of those visions, I am more than anything happy. I am happy because I knew with strong conviction that this is what I am born to do.

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