The past one month has been one long psychedelic trip. A lot of what I’ve been involved in is speculation. Not blogworthy material. Nothing blogworthy seems to have happened to me for quite some time now. Either that, or I’ve become remarkably inarticulate.
The world around me seems to be rapidly changing. Filmstars are dying, musicians too. Weddings are happening, and bad breakups too. A chatty, informal group gives way to a more specific, sharper one, not that I’m complaining. I’ve been reading a lot, and my To-Read list fills up quicker than I can say Netflix Contest, and yet, it’s been ages since I read fiction. Southern California is getting almost as wet as Bangalore, and all the stores are running out of umbrellas.
In the midst of all this, I’m trying to keep my sanity.
Shades of past emotions drift past me, sometimes hovering long enough to remind me of an aftertaste I’d felt long, long back. But more often, they just give me a tantalizing flash of a more creative, carefree, stimulating time, and disappear before I can put my finger on those precise emotions.
Story ideas come to me in the shower, and by the time I reach for my comb, they have left me, possibly never to return. Except for those microseconds when a similar train of thought reminds me of some or the other aspect of my stories, vanishing into thin air before I can be aware of and smooth them out in my head.
Random things have been coming back to me in the past week… some interview of SRK reminds me of how crazy I used to be about Bollywood flicks once upon a time. Watching some movies again which I hadn’t grasped completely the first time I saw them – Aayutha Ezhuthu, Siraichaalai – brings back memories of movie trailers on channels that have since ceased to exist, and of an idealism and argumentativeness that seem to have been knocked out of me. V-Day decorations bring back numerous instances of love-at-first-sight. Coming across my alltime favourite novel, RK Narayan’s The English Teacher on Google Books, after a very very very long time brings out the dormant novelist in me, the veteran of sixteen failed novel-writing attempts (most not more than a page), and the desire to create a work, nay, a masterpiece, a saga of ideas, idealism, inane humour, trivia, love, longing, self-discovery through or without a significant other… a wonderful work where there is attention to detail, where the tiny details set the mood for a deeper tale of complex human emotion. Just reading the first two chapters of The English Teacher brings up a past self and latent feelings, memories and trains of thoughts, which make me want to put the book down and begin writing something myself, which motivation vanishes the moment I put the book down.
I lie back, listening to the rain pounding outside, and soak some more in the wave of past emotion ebbing away.