Thursday, February 22, 2018
Sunday, February 18, 2018
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Monday, January 8, 2018
Pains of being a Writer
At the mercy of the sea I sat at a fisherman's hut reading 'Slow Man'. It was a great novel filled with impeccable writing and readable contents.
The beach was a mere ten feet away from my chair, which was just a bamboo bed built for the fisher folk to rest or sit after their fishing work. That means the tsunami can wipe me away making my life more peaceful. Olive green waters rose and swam back into their own hands by licking into the salty sand with happy hopes of wiping away humanity.
I was an outsider by all means with my book and my need to digest words and write them back.
After an hour of reading I had to close my book for the fisher folk had arrived earlier than usual. 'Off you go away'. 'You mongrel' typical of Indian hospitality. Perhaps they smelt my 'readingness' from afar.
And as usual I had to let go off my perch and leave for the streets. The street lay ahead like a flattened snake circling around a faith center which had departed people in the grave yard. I looked at them with surprised eyebrows to find out what pain they endured to be lying there and turning into beautiful pink flowers.
The writer in my country is a rarest specie that seldom is seen. I always try to befriend writers in a faint hope of creating a writers group where we can share and learn from each others writing. But I guess writers are solitary and cannot mingle. Yet I have been witness to colleagues busy in chat and masala talks about the previous days adventures, and nothing vaguely related to writing ever crossed their conversations, ...ever!
Yet I always longed to be circled by writers, young and impatient who wanted to get the words off their chest. Perhaps I never approached the right crowds in this endeavor. It never occurred to me that I was paddling the same boat at the same place for decades and there isn't any water left to take me across to the other bank.
Why couldn't I be like those happy writers in newspaper publishing houses brimming with assignments to travel the seas and explore the world and also write about it? Why was I this unfortunate writer who was always verbally abused for sitting at my desk and writing? Why should I be this joker or porn star entertaining people with my body and verbal skills?
Isn't being a writer more than enough to be one? Should I wear so many hats to remain a writer? These are just few of the pains while being a writer.
One of the most saddest part in my life is the constant presence of evil. Out of nowhere comes a person who disrupts my writing. I don't know who these people are!
Whenever I sit to write in my room I get loud noises and banging on my door. They don't want me to write. They don't want me to live. They want me dead!
It's not a joke it is a fact of my sad story. The only place I am allowed to write in India is a browsing center where people aren't bothered about my presence and are happy to get a price for the time I spend there. A business proposition I suppose.
But that mans just to write for an hour I need to offer a dollar or more.
This is my situation. A group of people waiting to disrupt my writing and anther group in the office waiting to verbally abuse me. I sometime wonder how other writers are allowed to write in peace.Do they have a magic in their hands to get hours of peaceful writing time? How do they do it?
This is my pain. Not being able to write because I wasn't born to think or write. The society decides what I must do. Why do I have to live like this? Rather cut my veins and lie obscure waiting for the graves.
The beach was a mere ten feet away from my chair, which was just a bamboo bed built for the fisher folk to rest or sit after their fishing work. That means the tsunami can wipe me away making my life more peaceful. Olive green waters rose and swam back into their own hands by licking into the salty sand with happy hopes of wiping away humanity.
I was an outsider by all means with my book and my need to digest words and write them back.
After an hour of reading I had to close my book for the fisher folk had arrived earlier than usual. 'Off you go away'. 'You mongrel' typical of Indian hospitality. Perhaps they smelt my 'readingness' from afar.
And as usual I had to let go off my perch and leave for the streets. The street lay ahead like a flattened snake circling around a faith center which had departed people in the grave yard. I looked at them with surprised eyebrows to find out what pain they endured to be lying there and turning into beautiful pink flowers.
The writer in my country is a rarest specie that seldom is seen. I always try to befriend writers in a faint hope of creating a writers group where we can share and learn from each others writing. But I guess writers are solitary and cannot mingle. Yet I have been witness to colleagues busy in chat and masala talks about the previous days adventures, and nothing vaguely related to writing ever crossed their conversations, ...ever!
Yet I always longed to be circled by writers, young and impatient who wanted to get the words off their chest. Perhaps I never approached the right crowds in this endeavor. It never occurred to me that I was paddling the same boat at the same place for decades and there isn't any water left to take me across to the other bank.
Why couldn't I be like those happy writers in newspaper publishing houses brimming with assignments to travel the seas and explore the world and also write about it? Why was I this unfortunate writer who was always verbally abused for sitting at my desk and writing? Why should I be this joker or porn star entertaining people with my body and verbal skills?
Isn't being a writer more than enough to be one? Should I wear so many hats to remain a writer? These are just few of the pains while being a writer.
One of the most saddest part in my life is the constant presence of evil. Out of nowhere comes a person who disrupts my writing. I don't know who these people are!
Whenever I sit to write in my room I get loud noises and banging on my door. They don't want me to write. They don't want me to live. They want me dead!
It's not a joke it is a fact of my sad story. The only place I am allowed to write in India is a browsing center where people aren't bothered about my presence and are happy to get a price for the time I spend there. A business proposition I suppose.
But that mans just to write for an hour I need to offer a dollar or more.
This is my situation. A group of people waiting to disrupt my writing and anther group in the office waiting to verbally abuse me. I sometime wonder how other writers are allowed to write in peace.Do they have a magic in their hands to get hours of peaceful writing time? How do they do it?
This is my pain. Not being able to write because I wasn't born to think or write. The society decides what I must do. Why do I have to live like this? Rather cut my veins and lie obscure waiting for the graves.
Sunday, December 31, 2017
P.S SUBJECT: Don't Leave Me Alone 2017
Dear 2017,
You were as evidently and truly been my only friend in the past 364 days. Today you are leaving me all alone in the dark.
This year I found out many truths about myself. I found out that my body has decided to take matters on itself rather than wait for me.
The darkness grew wider in the mid months and you still held a light in the form of my friend whom I never met.
My body wanted to runaway in the streets like a mad man.
And I wanted to kill myself like the disabled young man who was dragged and drugged.
And he was left to die in the vegetable market since he had no hands.
'Good kids' (from well to do families) wanted to show him what 'fun' life is when people can do anything to your body and you sit disabled and die.
Three more girls were murdered and one left to die but escaped. The people around couldn't believe their eyes.
Few more children were killed using latest technologies.
Small groups understood the power of larger groups and so decided to give away their kids to large rich families and they never heard of them again.
Some people cheated me with my money some people cheated me with false love.
All in all I cried an cried more than ever in front of my boss requesting that I don't want to be verbally abused any more.
Verbal abusers found new ways to torment my ears and torture my soul, their words directly made a wound in my already bleeding and patched up heart.
People started to violently abuse me for the first time perhaps they know now that I don't have anyone.
Aimlessly I wandered in the streets like a mad man searching for a clue about my existence.
Where do I live? Where do I go? Where did I come from? I don't know.
Crows and dogs comforted me by smiling and wagging their tails and greeting saying 'Oh you are one among us now.'
Yes, I replied.
'I am with you now.'
I had a past. I had a future but today I don't know who I am.
Crying is not helping me anymore because there is no channel for the tears to flow.
No way to go! Absolutely nothing!
Oh 2017 you know how to force a person into becoming a slave.
Perhaps now I know I am slave. A slave to young and sweet people who trample me under their shoes.
They press hard until my brain freezes and bleeds.
That's my life if you love to hear bed time stories.
Insults, Verbal abuses and physical threats!
Now I know why I have freedom and rights.
I have the right to remain silent when young beautiful people kick my bruised ears with their words and spread rumors about my past.
A past that I myself am not aware of!
How do these young managers know about my past?
Is it written on my face.
And a dark spirit followed me where ever I went.
I felt warm in the presence of a ghost.
Perhaps the ghost understood that I am one among them now.
Tears flow endlessly as I enter a new dawn tomorrow.
When all is lost, why does one need hope
I hope that - you the reader understands better and goes on to win the coming year.
Oh 2017 you are leaving me alone.
A loner has only his shadow to cry on.
I have lost!
Sincere Regrets and Regards
Nikhil Sukumaran - Still a victim of verbal abuse, rumors and bullying.
You were as evidently and truly been my only friend in the past 364 days. Today you are leaving me all alone in the dark.
This year I found out many truths about myself. I found out that my body has decided to take matters on itself rather than wait for me.
The darkness grew wider in the mid months and you still held a light in the form of my friend whom I never met.
My body wanted to runaway in the streets like a mad man.
And I wanted to kill myself like the disabled young man who was dragged and drugged.
And he was left to die in the vegetable market since he had no hands.
'Good kids' (from well to do families) wanted to show him what 'fun' life is when people can do anything to your body and you sit disabled and die.
Three more girls were murdered and one left to die but escaped. The people around couldn't believe their eyes.
Few more children were killed using latest technologies.
Small groups understood the power of larger groups and so decided to give away their kids to large rich families and they never heard of them again.
Some people cheated me with my money some people cheated me with false love.
All in all I cried an cried more than ever in front of my boss requesting that I don't want to be verbally abused any more.
Verbal abusers found new ways to torment my ears and torture my soul, their words directly made a wound in my already bleeding and patched up heart.
People started to violently abuse me for the first time perhaps they know now that I don't have anyone.
Aimlessly I wandered in the streets like a mad man searching for a clue about my existence.
Where do I live? Where do I go? Where did I come from? I don't know.
Crows and dogs comforted me by smiling and wagging their tails and greeting saying 'Oh you are one among us now.'
Yes, I replied.
'I am with you now.'
I had a past. I had a future but today I don't know who I am.
Crying is not helping me anymore because there is no channel for the tears to flow.
No way to go! Absolutely nothing!
Oh 2017 you know how to force a person into becoming a slave.
Perhaps now I know I am slave. A slave to young and sweet people who trample me under their shoes.
They press hard until my brain freezes and bleeds.
That's my life if you love to hear bed time stories.
Insults, Verbal abuses and physical threats!
Now I know why I have freedom and rights.
I have the right to remain silent when young beautiful people kick my bruised ears with their words and spread rumors about my past.
A past that I myself am not aware of!
How do these young managers know about my past?
Is it written on my face.
And a dark spirit followed me where ever I went.
I felt warm in the presence of a ghost.
Perhaps the ghost understood that I am one among them now.
Tears flow endlessly as I enter a new dawn tomorrow.
When all is lost, why does one need hope
I hope that - you the reader understands better and goes on to win the coming year.
Oh 2017 you are leaving me alone.
A loner has only his shadow to cry on.
I have lost!
Sincere Regrets and Regards
Nikhil Sukumaran - Still a victim of verbal abuse, rumors and bullying.
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