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.