Untold stories.

More often than not, I find myself stunned by the autobiographies of people. An autobiography, is one's perception and view about self. An autobiography fascinates me, how one elaborates only  those areas which seem important to oneself, how one portrays himself, how one manages to pen down the struggles, the memories, the humor, the mistakes, without being weighed down by embarrassment or self-pride.

That is the beauty of autobiographies. Nobody questions them. A few may, but a few years down the lane, it is what it is. Maybe it doesn't near even half the truth of what actually happened, but the script lives on. A laugh in the sea of sadness. Maybe, the autobiographies only portray the 'laugh' and eliminate the rest of the sea. Safe enough.

Who would want to be categorized as a depressed poet/poetess? Rather highlight only the happy part of life and gain audiences, right? Don't all of us want to be safe? Don't all of us want to be told how optimistic and brilliant we are?  We all want to be famous and inspiring and happy, don't we? And when we want all of that, we're no longer free. We dwell on the destination and ruin the journey. Likewise, people(read writers) emphasize the happy part, edit the major changes and delete the actual story behind.

Yet again, a different opinion.  I find the journals, autobiographies, biographies of people who are able to pen down their sadness, their frustration, their struggles, their failed attempts, their lost hopes, their suicidal attempts fascinating. Moreover, it takes guts to write about such instances. The guts to present the truth, the guts to be criticized, the guts to accept. Also, this doesn't mean I'm an admirer of sadistic stories or events. What if poets write sad poems and stories? They are able to bring out the abhorrent lump of their lives in most beautiful a form. Isn't that something to be applauded and honoured for?  Any fool can know, the point is to understand.

Consider Sylvia Plath as an example. I can't help myself analogizing her in whatsoever a topic, but when you admire a personality so deeply, this is what happens. Anyway, back to the point before I dawdle away to my admiration towards her. Right from her childhood she was consummated with woebegone trauma, she tried to kill herself innumerable number of times, even though she was one of the most successful woman of her time, having a full-bright scholarship to study literature in London and write and write and write. She wasn't a coward, she wasn't a depressed-dark or bipolar diagnosed woman, rather she was a courageous woman who knew what she wanted, who stood confidently and fought amongst the odds, who did no harm to whomsoever, and won hearts with her metaphors. What had she gained by Ted leaving her, but her voice? What could she do now, but listen to her own voice, her words so rusty of being kept to herself that she had to pour herself out? Her writing was lifting off the page. Like a risen soul. A beautiful soul that was suffocated not  by the silence of silence, instead her own silence.

Likewise, behind every action is an untold story, more-so-even, an unnoticed emotion, an unfound truth. To be able to cycle away from cities full of empty people is overwhelmingly amazing. To be thumped down by the routine is sadder a death than any tragic suicidal event. Thus, a few great souls chose the latter. That is how  (auto)biographies should be. Clear transparencies, if not for the truth, what use is of great fictitious stories, that one can never achieve in reality?

The next time you criticize someone or categorize their writing under gloomy, sad, dark, what-so-ever poet/poetess, hold on, ask yourself, do you have the guts to pen down all about yourself without condensing the truth? If the answer isn't in the affirmative, you ought to credit those who could.
'In the deepest and most important matters, we are unspeakably alone.', said Rainer Maria Rilke. And when you're alone, words flow out like water from a dam. To accept and purge the pain, is to excel. Not depression but outrageous courage.

 © Deekshita Srinivas. 2014. 

Too often, the only escape is to write.

And then, the technology has soared high; skyrocketed. So much so that, they could even overtake us and control us. Technology gave comfort and convenience a new definition. It has come to occupy the top notch position of this era. You, who doesn't even know me in person can read what I post. As I sit here, post-dinner, I can ramble about all that interests me or I wish to convey.

Computers, keyboards, voice-recognition software that doesn't require one to manually type the instructions is all around me. But you know, what? The old typewriters had a magnificent trait that no touchscreen/keyboard seems to possess. The type-type-type-type-and-bang-that-carriage-back can never be metaphor-ed with whatsoever technology. Beg to differ? Maybe you like the keyboards better, but those typewriters, they leave me awestruck and overwhelmed.

Ernest Hemingway knows it best: "There is nothing to write. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." To bleed is to pour your soul into words. Typewriters seems to be more supportive for the same. Such good lovers they are. They not only listen and embrace our words but also reciprocate. Reciprocate with a loud thud when the carriage hits back. What a support! What a relief!

And then, thirty centimeters away from my fingers, sits my mode of communication. Correction, one among the many modes of communication. A mobile. It doesn't interest me. I use it and it is one thing I can not step out without. But, it doesn't interest me. Whereas, the black landline telephone that is off at the root, packed neatly and placed in one storage bin, interests me. The inquisitive contented feeling of typing the number and waiting for the call to be received is beyond words to describe.

Whatsapp, Facebook, Twitter, Hike, so on and so forth. Words that are found as errors by the computer are the new modes of communication. In my opinion, rather acting as a slaughterer of communication. At the touch of a button, oh no buttons are obsolete, at the touch of the icon on the  screen, one is connected. But do we really converse? "Hi, hello, how are you?" What after that? Aimless and hopeless ramblings which somehow end up with the block icon selection.
Again, the inland letters, telegrams, postcards, air mails interest me. I crave to write letters. I crave to look at them. I crave to send them. The stamps cry out to be used and not just sit in a book of stamp collections. The photos long to be printed and sent out to loved ones rather than being posted online.

And no. I am not against the technological growth. I am not against modernization or social life. Somewhere between the ease of usage we have all lost the zest.
The other day, as I mention the word "letters", I could see my father's face light up with nostalgic happiness. He recalled all the instances wherein he sent letters and received them. The impatience to open up the letters after weeks of waiting and to rush through the words at once can never be replaced with the ignored messages on your mobile.

The language was alive then. The communication was alive. The conversations were alive. Most of all, the happiness was alive (read, 'not through emoticon'). If there was one thing I wanted this year, it would be a typewriter. I strongly feel, I do not belong to this era.

 Meanwhile, I look at my fresh and empty letters, postcards and air mails, alluring me to write and send them on a journey. Time to write. Time to be alive.

© Deekshita Srinivas. 

The Library.

Humongous number of books, journals, magazines and newspapers stacked up the shelves. Is that what you see? Perhaps, to an avid reader, a plethora of happiness. Is that all?

Well, the library certainly did serve my purpose. Books, yes. Happiness, yes (I'm one among those avid readers). But most of all, the people. Seated across the tables, wandering along the shelves, whispering as low as they can, aiming to touch below 20 hertz.

One reader with his collection of books, gazing through the pages of the book; as though there hid a treasure between the pages of the book. Probably he isn't able to absorb what is conveyed. Probably he is lost in thought. Probably he is just engrossed into his book. Probably, he's waiting for someone. But that happens in Cafeterias, right? Never-mind. Let's just call him 'The ponderer.'

At the right most corner, there is one woman, probably in her 40's, gazing. No, not at the book. Her gaze widens to her own world. She chooses to follow Newton's first law of motion. Probably the library has an aura of peace to her. Probably she has got nothing on her mind. She is still. And that's that. Because stillness is not the same as nothingness. Probably she is at her peace.

To the other extreme are a bunch of happy-go-lucky students. Giggling, whispering, winking and at the same time cautious to not disturb the others or grab the attention of the librarian. Probably they're done with their examinations and having a fun time borrowing the works of favorite authors. Oh yes, all the giggling and whispering only after each one of them had an attractive book in each of their hands. By attractive I mean, good authors.

Meanwhile my friend is busy juggling across the pages of a book that contained a zillion things to learn, that actually made no sense but was absolutely omnipotent for the examination that was to commence in a few hours.
What was I doing? Why wasn't I doing the same? Well, observing people seemed much more interesting. Much more knowledgeable: do not ask in what context.

A few walked in and a few left. A few slide across the shelves. Ah, the beguiling attribute of used books. Experience wins hands-down over description. There is something about the used books. Alphabets scribbled in a hustle, ink marks, an old leaf from the autumn fall, and if you're lucky, a message. A message in a book, that travels past hands and libraries and shelves, right away to you. Curiosity spurs imagination inside the heart.

That's for an enough. I resume to my books. The same kind of books that my friend was fighting a war with. Just different color, different author and different publication. But unfortunately, no message in a book.
Better luck next time I mumbled to myself. :)


© Deekshita Srinivas. 2014.