I have written before about my constant broken attempts at keeping a journal. My paternal grandmother kept a journal throughout her life. Sometimes she would read to us from her diary. When she lost her husband to cancer, and after a couple of decades when she lost her young and very vibrant second born son to the same epidemic. She took refuge in her diary.
My grandmother had studied in an English medium hostel run by a group of nuns in Calcutta for a year because her father thought that his adolescent motherless daughter needed some good female role models in her life. But after a couple of semesters of staying away from home she was taken back home because my Great grandfather found life difficult without his youngest child and only daughter. But those few days living in the residential school were enough for her to understand that personal journals are ones best friend and will always be patient with you.
She inspired me.
Like my grand mother, I went to a hostel since I was seven years of age but unlike her, my tears did not affect my parents sensitivity and I lived through ten years of precious moments that were lovingly named “Golden Years” by my class (The teachers called our class the most intelligent batch and the terrible nightmare that came true in the same breath, but those stories some other time). But as disorganized as I was (am) I always jotted my innermost sprites on the first scraps of loose paper sheets on sight, mostly my father’s official register sheets and lose them just as easily. That’s how my parents got to know how much of a shock and jarring case I was. Of coz I was mortified and promised not to write from the next time.
But, my love for books and adolescence brought me to new authors and role models. I read “Daddy Long Legs” by Jean Webster and soon after I read “The Diary of Anne Frank” by Anne Frank. This really hit at a spot; we were approximately the same age. And this was the first serious introduction to the holocaust, the way it affected countless children’s (actually the world) lives and death. Our whole class read the book around the same time and it affected each of us equally and inspired many of us to start our journals(some wrote stories and novels). But, I had one trouble. I could only write when I felt something intensely. At that young age the only thing one truly feels is rage(me thinks!). And so that is what it was and still is (now I have intense feeling of love as well :-)).
So last year when I started reading blogs of strangers and more than once felt a familiarity with some of them I felt connected to a level; a part of that imaginary community and felt the camaraderie that I lack in my present state. But commenting on posts just did not seem enough. I have so much more to share. And, thus here I was again, this time not afraid to share what I truly believe in, feel inside- in my heart and in my mind. I am confident this time that my writings will not be destroyed anymore- good or bad- read or unread. Reflected upon by fellow companions or not. I am here this time.
The only thing I still have trouble understanding is the widget craze. I fail to understand why people put certain widgets to count how many people are reading their blog, which country they are logging in from and so on. Why do you care? When those people are not making the effort to acknowledge your feelings by leaving you a thought, what makes you want to acknowledge them and build your hopes on them? These thoughts came to my mind because after a long time I finally received a couple of comments. Thank you Goofy Mumma. It made me very happy.
For some time I did not tell many people about my blog. But, gradually I told a few friends about it- trying to test their reactions. Most of them emailed me back in spite of my constantly urging them to leave a comment they felt more comfortable emailing and now after these many months even the emails have become less frequent. I don’t blame them. They are still just as precious. Some never referred to my journal and some just never contacted me after I told them about it (ohh.. they are alive, I assure you!).
Thus, my serious disinterest to count who has read my blog reflections. I have my moderation option which for now seems safe enough to keep me away from hooliganism. But, still the comments make me happy.
So, if you are reading me and feel anything that has anything common with me and my feelings, why not share it with me? I want to know, I have friendly company :-))