My Literary Life

“I write!”

This is what I reply when questioned about my hobbies, as one of the activities of interest.

Reactions vary from raised eyebrows (very common), to mouth opened agape (very theatrical, methinks) to an occasional “Ah! Do you?” sorts. These reactions render me to go on guard for any out-of-nowhere kinds of second-category-questions (delivered in a tone that says “isn’t it obvious?”). “So, where’s your Booker / Noble?” is one of those real sarcastic ones.

Now quite habitual to these supposed jokes, I take in my stride when I coolly sign off the conversation with “Oh, I’m just one of those who prefer not to go print”.

A more humorous reaction was when a friend of mine from long past times dropped in at my place to say hi to a surprised (& happy) me. Over tea, after the whats-on-in-your-life catch up, the conversation steered over to more docile topics about daily routines. On the always-there topic of interests cultivated, I was careful to put on a careless statement like “I write occasionally” (with shrugged shoulders to support my no-big-deal about attitude).

What I witnessed was an amazing exhibition of eyeballs swinging from the writing table to me & back to the table, in a successive manner for a trillion times. I thought it all to be too funny to even laugh at, my friend resembling a Wimbledon spectator. The molars that were busy exercising his molars into sandwiches, suddenly stopped.

“Really?” is all that he managed to ask.

And just that was enough to flare me up. “Do you expect some Arundhati Roy or V. Naipaul stuff to pop out from the book shelf? For Christ’s’ sake, I just do some casual writing, nothing that ever find its way to a publication house, I assure you. And for that matter, its such a personal hobby that I shouldn’t be taking up any of this ‘eyes-popped-out’ kind of crap”.

Realizing he had hit a raw nerve, he apologized profusely and skillfully steered the now-cooled-me to other not-so-personal issues of life.

Later that day, I bemused while recollecting the incident. Why is it that writing is not to be expected from someone you know but rather some well-known name, or an established persona, who can never bump against you in everyday life? Do I smell insecurity here or is it plain surprise to find out that someone we know so well is into a field so reserved for the elite few? More often, it is a critic attitude towards a friends work, as if to check whether the written material is all ready or rather worth the literary world. Maybe it is astonishing enough to realize that your friend can also “think”.

Whatever it is, the reactions are quite incredulous kinds. I now deter to even mention my interest or to take out my note book or pen at places, to jot down a few lines. I silently jot down stuff & key it up on my PC on my weekends.

To think of it, who knows if one fine day, friends might see a Booker on the table… ;-)