I Feel/Think So I Write

My attempt at blogging is not new. When I was a young girl i understood them as journals. They were hand written and sometimes illustrated. My journey to journal writing begins at an early stage.

Every year in the month of December my father would give me the unused diaries from the past year. He made it to be an all important event. Now when I think back it was quite like the marketing stunt. While handing over the diaries that belonged to some fertilizer company or the bank that one of his friends worked for, he would ask us to keep it neat and clean because diaries were not easy to come by and to buy them is expensive. i had a big diary collection as a child but never of the current year.

I used the diaries for many reasons. I made notes of the home work that the teachers gave us for the vacations in my diary. I copied the list of craft items that I needed to buy for the coming semester. I took down the addresses of my friends to exchange letters during vacations. I also enjoyed just looking at the beautiful paintings and pictures between the pages and touch the glossy, smooth pages. I realized that my diaries were special because they were grown-up stuff, and of course I wanted to be one. But I was yet to discover what to do with them.

That year when I was struggling with my math’s and physics of class eight, I discovered Anne Frank. She took my whole class by madness. Everyone wanted to be like her, a great writer. At the time I was her age when she had started the diary. What if I died? No I rejected that silly notion. I was not a Jew and there were no Nazis in my Hostel. There were a few Hitlers, my teachers. The next year I did start my diary.

It was a struggle. I did not know how to address it. Dear diary, hey there, but I guess I had a poor imagination. I knew it could not hear me. The effort was abandoned. The next year I tried again. I was very depressed for some reason and I knew from somewhere that writing directs your anger towards being constructive. I did. It worked. So I wrote. Every time I was upset, I wrote. Every time I was sad I wrote. Every time I felt I had no one to talk to I wrote. And I wrote only during my vacations.

I abandoned my journals after 4 years of vacation writings. I was in class 11 and I wanted my own room. So the room that lead to the terrace was claimed as mine. It was small, hot and at the back of the house. But I did not care. I had used this room often to write away my anguish, to hide from everyone and read adult novels or just listen to my Walkman which my mother had “gifted” me after 2 years of pleadings. Now this would be my room. Well, I had to clean it first and out came my old journals from previous years. My love of reading lead me to read my creations. Mortified!!! Is that all I can say? I felt embarrassed of my own self. How could I be so naive, mean, silly, and disturbingly sensitive? I was mortified, humiliated and appalled by my outbursts on black and white. I read and then tore the wretched diaries. I also promised myself that I will never put such stuff on paper. I did but on writing pads that were disposed just as soon.

So the point that I make here is that. I can only write when I feel. I am unable to write about things which make little sense to me. And this is for my father who always believed that I am a good writer but I let my emotions rule me. They still do, they always will dad, but I have learnt to channel them. Through my writing I will connect with myself, my childhood and my relations with others. I like people, events, things that inspire me towards better. This blog is an attempt to save and celebrate everything that has made me who I am today.