I hardly know English, and I have lost my flair for my mother tongue Bengali as well. May be my quest for being a writer ends here. May be, this is the end of the road.
Or maybe, just maybe, I should not care about language and just write stories, like the first storyteller who didn’t know any language well enough to communicate to his fellow listeners. But he had a bagful (made of skin of the antelope he had slaughtered once?) of stories.
Maybe, just maybe, I should focus on storytelling rather than expressing what’s inside me. Most of the time what happens is that for want of the right word, I am left leaving out most of what I want to describe.
I am thinking, maybe, just maybe, that’s the plan of my muse. She doesn’t want me to write stories that involve lot of inner thoughts. “Just tell a story ghetufool,” is that what she is telling me?
Now that I don’t care getting published, now that what my readers think about my writing style (the lack of it actually) doesn’t matter to me anyway, let’s just entertain myself.
Let me try this. Become a storyteller. That should be fun!
Oh! and by the way. There's no Aha! moments. That was my imagination. I am useless, realised for good.