Writing and Everything Else

The theory that the fictional characters draw parallels with life events is as much true as the thought that the writing impacts and inspires us. And I say this because, on umpteen occasions, I’ve gulped down the bitterness and dryness of words before they began to moisten my mouth and eyes with their truest selves. Yet, in the list of everything that ever has quenched my thirst and kept me alive as I have crawled through my deserted nothingness, writing is at the top. My writing has drawn a lot of inspiration from my life and experiences, and in return has equally blessed me with awe.

Good writing, I have always believed and found to be true, is the next step of despair. And yet, with each passing year, I see more and more aspiring writers stopping at despair. They, somehow, don’t have the energy to follow their dreams, if they have had any. In my case, the only thing that has stood by me ever since my introverted self has begun to surface more often, it is writing. All I do is return its favor. Writing, thus, is both a cause and a consequence for me. People keep asking me random questions. I answer those random questions with nonrandom answers.

Someone asked me the other day, for instance, “what makes you write?” I replied, “the same thing that makes you breathe, go to bed, wake up again the next morning, and go to (or sit down to) work.” I said, “We all are machines running on some fuel. Writing is my fuel. You have your own version of it.”

“But how do you do that,” someone else had asked. I said that writing was akin to sitting by the lake and watching the ripples as you throw stones in the lake. What you get as you unsettle the lake bed and its cozy arrangement of quietude is the ripples that bring up what lays buried underneath. Those are some precious thoughts. I only take a closer look at those, while most fail to acknowledge their presence. This process of acknowledging, churning, observing, and translating those ripples of thoughts into words is both encouraging and enchanting. Writing is quite like learning to live. The most important thing is to take the first step. The second most important is to follow along with your senses, for they are never wrong.

The part of my answer that I skipped deliberately was that they didn’t continue to follow along. A lot of aspiring—and sometimes inspiring—individuals do not remain loyal to writing. I attribute most of my writing to the allegiance I have shown toward this experience. Even before people had begun formally introducing me as a writer, I had taken the pains of going through the labor of birthing ideas. This umbilical connection that I have with some of the posts I wrote more than a decade ago makes me a possessive parent. My sweat-soaked pillows are a testimony of how and when the right ideas were born. I’ve taken the trouble of noting it down, sometimes in my sleep.

“But I don’t have the time and the skills.” Well, I don’t doubt that you have a packed schedule and that writing requires quietude. But when you can’t let your mind astray, is that not the best time for you to focus on moments within the moments of your life? Then how can you deceive your mind to pay attention to only quantifiable, tangible activities, while you must focus on enjoying this transformation? It’s as much a matter of choice: you choose results, I adhere to the process. Yet it comes down to what efforts you put in to make it an effortless read. The beauty, cleverness, logic, or wits are only the devices with which you decorate your writing. The tricks are easy to know about but difficult to put into practice. So, what you as a novice might find hard to install might come to my stolid soul with spontaneity.

It all comes to two things: compassion and emotions. For the human within you to leap over that stile and walk the then lush green lands in soothing gleams of rays, you must have compassion. You have to live life before living it. You have to live life without ever living it. Only then you embark on this journey.

Just the Way of Life

From when the life sprouted
When coziness wrapped its fingers around yours
And opened your vision to its ‘me-ness’,
It is what it is.

From when mistakes could be erased
When errors didn’t scar us for ever
And the time was full,
It is what it is.

From when ignorance was blissful
When choices still weren’t that costly
And confessing to all piffle cames effortlessly,
It is what it is.

Until when thee acknowledges
When the build-up will reach its zenith
And celebrate the short-lived festivities.
It is what it is.

Until when days pass slowly,
When the fall arrives,
And leaves carpet trails of thee,
It will be what it must—the way of life.

©Suyog Ketkar

First Sentence Down

It is time. That time when I must
Either stand tall, perch by,
Or, at the least, crawl toward
What I might call a ‘find.’

The rest then is still there
Lingering somewhere in my mind
Laughing at me from those cozy corners
Where meet my mind’s heart and heart’s mind.

I mustn’t cry out loud,
Shout, complaint, quiver
Abuse, mewl, or be wilted.
I must go through this grind.

Attempts are harder than perfection.
Yet with every attempt
I must work it up better—
Make it more refined.

Weave thoughts. Streamlined.
Stitch together the purpose and prose.
Compose the music that runs
Effortlessly across; Intertwined.

Of all that by then is done
Is that I am the first sentence down.
That’s all it takes for me.
Thereafter, I never look behind.

©Suyog Ketkar

That’s Who I Am

Of all that I did that day,
Were things rather in plenty.
Breaking with the dawn, for once
Had I had this idea, if any…

Where my vigilant brain had caught this
Wonderful signal through my mental antennae,
And, the day had arrived where
I could turn stories into pure honey.

“Do not confine,” I’d told myself,
“If you ever must reach the uncanny.”
“You can visualize anything,” I said
“Without stepping into the mahogany.”

This was some strange business.
Or wasn’t it? For it was quite funny.
Limitless thoughts, I wondered how—
Could fit within those little crannies!

Thoughts led to thoughts,
And words popped too many.
Stories after stories, I played
Characters after characters, aplenty.

In some, I was a teacher,
In the others, I studied botany.
In some, I was a preacher,
I the others, I was involved in a felony.

Just as you have companions, my friend,
I have stories to keep me company.
The cat has only nine lives, remember.
As a writer, I realized, I’ve rather one too many.

©Suyog Ketkar

Twenty Words Tuesday: Week 29 Post (Prompt: Bride)

Thank you, Bulbul’s Bubble, for this week’s writing prompt.

So, here’s my entry for #TwentyWordsTuesday, a 20-words-story-prompt. which for this week is Bride.


Bride

His ballads adore her lips,
His thoughts occupied her mind.
Without being his bride,
Meera was one with the divine.


Sunday, that is yesterday, was the World Poetry Day. So to celebrate one, I tried conveying my thoughts via a poetry instead of a 20-words sentence. I hope that you like my humble attempt.

Twenty Words Tuesday: Week 28 Post (Prompt: Fantasy)

Thank you, Bulbul’s Bubble, for this week’s writing prompt. I really hope you like my attempt for this week’s prompt.

So, here’s my entry for #TwentyWordsTuesday, a 20-words-story-prompt. which for this week is Fantasy.


Fantasy

Her thoughts reached him. How? ‘How could he listen and perfectly respond,’ she implored and reckoned, ‘I must be dreaming.’


While it is true that women think (know?) men don’t listen to them, there are those who really do. In most cases what, therefore, is fantasy, in a few others, it is stranger than fiction. I don’t know what people might call it. I call it love. 🙂

Twenty Words Tuesday: Week 26 Post (Prompt: Spring)

Thank you, Bulbul’s Bubble, for this week’s writing prompt. I am honored on my inclusion into your mention-worthy list.

So, here’s my entry for #TwentyWordsTuesday, a 20-words-story-prompt. which for this week is Spring.


Spring

“Let’s give up the bitterness and begin this year afresh,” he’d demanded. “We’ve never looked back ever since,” she reflected.


I hope you all like my humble attempt.

The Confessions of Her Pillow

I’m jealous of my own existence. Whatever I have today, it’s because of her; it’s for her. Nothing belongs to me, yet I’m proud of what I have. To this day, and happily counting, I’m her sole counselor. I’ve consoled her on countless occasions. I’ve seen, shared every single dream she’s ever had. I’ve been inspiring her, supporting her in her every endeavor. I’ve told, “It’s as important to stop and rest as it is to stand up to a cause.” I’ve been the only support of hers for years, and she’s relied on me equally. She knows the importance of my existence. Even if she doesn’t value my presence, or so I think, she registers and acknowledges my absence. Day in and day out, she needs me. She wants me. We’ve numerous memories together. She cuddles me, caresses me, irritates me, embraces me. More so, she dreams with me, imagines with me, rests and wakes up with me, attests me, uses and at times abuses me. She loves me, hates me, but the best part is, she shares her tears with me. I’m her companion when she detests everyone else. I’ve lived through those sleepless nights when she has reached me with her tears. When she tears me down, it just tears me down. Her comfort, her confidence, and her victory, what else do I want? After all, I’m her pillow. And her story is my story. I think I’m jealous of my existence. Very jealous.

Twenty Words Tuesday: Week 25 Post (Prompt: Love)

Thank you, Bulbul’s Bubble, for this week’s writing prompt.

So, here’s my entry for #TwentyWordsTuesday, a 20-words-story-prompt. And, here’s my first attempt at writing a 20-words story based on this week’s prompt, which is Love.


Love

Passersby ignored him; a tradition for them for last two decades. “Here you’d proposed. Here I’m without you.” he sighed.


I hope you like my humble attempt.

Perfection: Seeking and Sought

It is a beloved
A want to be
With the Wanting.

It is a craving
A wish to be granted
To be Satiating.

It is a pursuit
A journey to the known
That’s yet unknown.

It is a truth
Worth unwrapping
That deserves unveiling.

It is a decision
Behest to jugement
Sought. Or is it Seeking?

It is a destination
A place to be
Only for perching.

It is, notwithstanding
A search to be
Ever growing. Never ending.

©Suyog Ketkar