Back in 2015, when I wrote my first book, I was a college student. I didn’t have much money in my pockets. Neither they were empty, for I’ve kept my dreams in them. At times, when I came down with a thump, I could feel the heaviness of the pockets. Although it was difficult to walk with the extreme desires, I managed to give them independence and let them fly high.
The only success I got over the past years is to have a purpose behind waking up at five (sometimes six) in the morning and settling myself for reading and writing. What else a writer wants? Having a book in the hand and misty morning falling outside his room is the greatest pleasure for him.
Since I love reading the books of saints, contentment has also become a large part of my life.
How would a contented person tell of happiness? The words from a book of Ruskin Bond are the suitable ones: Happiness is a mysterious thing, to be found somewhere between too little and too much. But it is as elusive as a butterfly, and we must never pursue it. If we stay very still, it may come and settle on our hand. But only briefly. We must savor those moments, for they will not come our way very often.
Satisfaction in life does not mean I’ve given up my desires. They have their soft spot in some corner of my heart. I take care of them.
Desires do not have any end. You may have a desire of grasping the world, but this is a sure way to lose everything. Money is the primary motive of a man which often costs him too much. No money can make you feel satisfied. The good money is which can be shared with all, be it your knowledge or your never-feel-down attitude.
I’m lucky that I’ve understood it. The rest is in the hands of God; may His blessings remain forever.
I call myself a poor writer because my readers do not handle my writings with care. They are always hustling, running towards the end of the post, and not understanding me. It is wrong to blame them on my part as a writer. They have their own life and if I had care whether people would like my work or what they think about me after reading my stories, I could not have written down a word.
I’m a happy writer because I do not stick myself with a particular writing style. In fact, I’m a multi-personality boy. Sometimes, I become a motivational writer and sometimes, I write the stories on loneliness. I’ve an unpublished collection of erotic stories too.
I can be the most indiscipline person. At the same point, I got irritated on seeing people being indiscipline to me. I’m good to you now, but the next moment I can ask you to fuck off. This happens when I’m unconscious or unaware towards my emotions.
Haven’t you ever felt happy, angry and sad throughout the day? Well, most people are cheerful when they wake up in the morning, but with the passing time, waves of different emotions arise and at night, they feel melancholy and disheartened before drifting off.
Writing helps me to understand myself in a better way. As I mentioned earlier, I try to find contentment in little things. The string around my wooden spool is enough for flying kites in the whole winter season. When the spring swept in, I would watch the plants grow. The peepul tree at the corner of my house is hundreds of years old, but when the leaves begin to sprout it would make the tree looks gay and flashy.
In the summer, I would lie on my bed and see the battle of flies and lizards on the wall. And then I would find myself celebrating the win of mosquitos. The monsoon is for cultivating my love for nature; I would climb the rooftop and have friendly dialogues with the rain. And then the rain would set my mood and I would have a new story to write.
‘How long will you carry your books in these boxes,’ said Chandu, a childhood friend of mine, looking at my collection of books overflowing the old boxes. ‘As long as someone will gift me a bookshelf,’ I replied. Or should I tell him that mother had emptied an old, iron shoe rack to gift me on my birthday? And Chandu passed a smile looking at a book whose cover showed a naked woman lying on the bed.
Chandu was the same friend who suggested me to become Mast Ram and write sex stories. ‘Hawas bhari hui hai pure India mein (In India, everyone is full of lust),’ Chandu opined when I was confused to choose my genre. When I told him that I write on spirituality, he laughed and said, ‘Not bad. India mein Ram or Kaam dono khub chaltaa h (In India, writings on both, God and sex, works).
The book was I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale by Khushwant Singh. Chandu looked wonderingly at the bare body of the woman, as though he found what he was searching for. He took the book with himself before departing. He assured me that it would be his return gift on my birthday.
I haven’t asked the birthday gift from my father. Our relationship seems complete. He understands on looking in my eyes when I would need him the most. Sometimes, we fight with each other, but it is a sign of a pure, eternal friendship which is something difficult to find in this world. True friendship is bliss. Sometimes, even if the two friends talk less with each other, the silence between them makes the bond stronger. There is a great joy in the silence. This silence is love, perhaps.
As the sun shimmers on the windowpane of my room, a new day has begun. Today is my birthday and it is surprising to me that I’ve spent 22 years in a blink. As I see myself in a mirror, hung outside on the balcony, a question comes to my mind: How much I’ve changed with time? I smile and climb the rooftop to fly kite.