Writing

Writing is an exercise we are coerced into by our junior school teachers assisted duly by their invariably fat spectacles and equally fat wooden rulers. All Bengali parents think their child to be a protegee who will grow up to be either a Rabindranath Tagore or at least a Sukumar Ray. However jokes apart reading and writing are institutions we are luckily introduced to very early in life.

Unlike most people I began life with, i.e. cousins and nursery school friends I quite liked writing. I loved to see my name featuring in the index of the school magazine each year. I would run my fingers on the printed page where perhaps a half page poem or a two page story had been published. Call it self-idolatry or whatever other fancy term, I just loved it. And I still do. I would love to see my name at the end of any piece of writing. Just for that, if not for the sheer joy of writing itself, of the secret music my words played or the fierce duels they fought, i will write.

To express myself, to have my catharsis, to be as disagreeable as ever, to have my silent fight, to move away from someone and bear the pain with a smirk, to unconsciously fall in love or out of it, to put the right words in the right place and have that orgasmic thrill, to have my own adventure, to live I would write.