Nothing here

 Hey, I'm just trying to figure out if Office.com is more convenient than Apple Pages for keeping notes and accessing them later. Technically, I can access both from anywhere, but it feels better integrated to use Office on Windows and Pages on Apple devices. I'm not sold on LibreOffice yet—it would definitely take me a while to adjust to its somewhat rough interface. The way LibreOffice formats text, especially how it looks in emails (and even within LibreOffice Writer itself), puts me off. So, maybe I should stick with Office.com for most of my needs.  

This is a basic word processor, but it’s good enough for what I need. I’m very comfortable using Word; I’ve used it forever, both pirated and licensed. Now that I’m more financially stable, I believe in buying original software and avoiding piracy. I don’t use pirated stuff anymore, but with Word, a "lifetime" license really just means support for the product’s lifespan, not mine. It’ll reach end-of-life in about five years, which they don’t exactly spell out clearly. It’s a bit of a dishonest marketing tactic. 

I was thinking of jotting down my thoughts here. It doesn’t matter if anyone reads them—not even if I read them later. But I want to be fearless and keep writing as much as possible on topics as varied as astrophysics to fishing in a swamp full of little green floating plants. I don’t know the English name for them and won’t look it up; in Bengali, they’re called *kachuri pana*, or just *pana*. 

The truth is, I need someone to talk to. As I age, I find there are fewer people I can talk to, and I'm struggling to meet their expectations—or they, mine. This sometimes leads to breakdowns in communication, some of which can’t be repaired. The good thing about getting older, though, is that people feel less inclined toward drama. Teenagers, with all their energy (and time), can get dramatic about everything. But mature people don’t indulge in that; they just let things go when they get too heavy. Whatever lightens you, you keep shedding as you walk down the road. I’ve let go of a lot, and I’m constantly discarding old stuff from my closet. Things that once meant a lot barely get a second glance before I toss them out. Sometimes I donate them, but not out of any sense of charity—it’s just about freeing up space. Secretly, I even thank those who accept the items. I certainly don’t believe in “earning a spot in heaven” by giving things away. It’s more like I’m discarding what I don’t need. It’s the bird eating and then dropping its excess, something I’m relieved to have out of my life. 

And by the way, since I'm writing whatever comes to mind, with no particular audience in mind, you can be sure I’m going to get it grammar-checked and even edited by ChatGPT. It’s just me, ChatGPT (as editor), and you, my reader (if you’re out there). The only assurance I can give you is that I’m a real, breathing person who has no desire to become a cyborg. And if someone tries to push me into that, I’m not sure I’d resist. I have no control over where humanity is headed, nor am I particularly concerned with it. I’m practicing being here and now, breathing and typing. And ChatGPT is my perfect writing companion. 

Musings on my writing

Perhaps I owe it to this blog to let the world know that I am working on a novel in my mother tongue and that explains why I have not posted here anything for a long time. I am too busy writing, and getting busier procrastinating.  

The reason why I am posting this, though, is that I am frustrated that my novel has got stuck somewhere in the abyss from which I am not able to extricate it. I have a serious doubt now if my novel can be finished after all. But no point doubting, I will have to finish it.  

What do I gain writing it? Why am I struggling so much to finish my novel after all? Well, when I was young, I had this vision of becoming a great writer, someone who will earn his living writing. That has already been fulfilled. I am a journalist, and I have to write every day. So much so that I am tired of writing, and very cunningly and suddenly, of course, I take a day off for nothing. Or, there are days, perhaps once a month, when I don’t write anything at all even when I am very much on my duty. That’s my strategic timeout.  

There is a saying, be careful of what you wish for. Though, I shouldn’t complain too much. This is what I really wanted. I am not fit for any other job other than that related to writing. I was fired in my very first job as an accountant.  

So, why am I writing the novel? And why in Bengali when I have written my blogs in English (very bad English, that is)?  

Well, there are multiple reasons for that. English is not my native language. I can’t think in English, and most importantly, I cannot write the kind of English needed to write literature. I also had this strong urge to write in my mother tongue. I have been nourished by a steady stream of Bangla books in my childhood, not so much in English, and I wanted to write my book in my mother tongue purely as my homage to the language. Though, as a child, and in my teenage years, I always perhaps loved English more than I loved Bengali. 

Is that it? Umm ... Yes! But as I grew up, I really fell in love with my own language Bangla. These days I don't like to read in English. Even the Agatha Christie books I am re-reading in Bangla!  

There is also the question of my identity. I am a Bengali, yes, I don’t live in Bengal anymore, but why should I write in English? My daughter, my nephew will grow up one day and would want to read my book. They will learn Bangla to read it. Or maybe not. Who knows what Google will come up with by that time? Accurate translations perhaps? The whole book can be translated in a blink of an eye by Google in any language? Doesn’t matter, I have written it in Bengali, and my message to my kids is in my language. That’s what matters.  

But here are the practical problems that I am facing. No, writing in Bangla on a computer is not one of them, though, that’s a minor irritant.  

The basic problem that I am facing now is that I am realising I am not good in Bangla either! I am realising that I am able to communicate my mind better in English after all. May God have mercy on my soul.

  

So, I am confused. After writing nearly 40,000 words, two-third of the book perhaps, I am confused again if I want to write in Bengali, or in English. And that’s a great struggle really even after considering I have lost the plot of my novel. It is not progressing as I wished it to be. Either the characters are heartless towards the writer, or they are naughty kids who refuse to do what their parents want them to do. 

Me, as the father, can only hopelessly watch as my characters run rounds in the park like brats. There are so many of them that I cannot run and catch all of them. So, like a resigned old man, I am sitting on the park bench and wondering why I give birth to so many of them pesky kids? Sometimes I wonder too if I indeed gave birth to them. Most of them sprang from nowhere and seized control of me, I can figure that now.  

Writers who can manage to have tight control over their narratives or characters are indeed people to salute. I can do none of that. I am just hoping when the kids are tired of running, they will come to their father and hug him tight and will do what I want them to do – go sleep on the bed and let me relax too.  

I cannot relax till I finish my novel. I am not able to write anything, that is true, but I know the peace won’t come back in my mind till I finish the project. This is not like the previous one where Ian Vincent Mulder coaxed me to write and I wrote, and he edited and I again lobbed half-stories to him. This is a crying shame that I could not take advantage of his British discipline, rather, I suspect, he has become an Indian lazy person after facing me for the last 15 years.  

But why do I want to write? Answer is that I have no option left now. I have to finish the book, otherwise I will die and have to be born again to finish it in my next birth.  

The real question though, is, why did I start it? Yes, that’s the real question. And here’s my not so brief answer:

 

I started it intentionally, and well after I left the dream of becoming a famous writer behind. I don’t want to be famous anymore. I just don't want to be disturbed. That will give me perhaps more happiness than  fame gives to a celebrity. I don’t expect anybody would read my work. My wife read a few chapters, gave her valuable feedback. Perhaps a friend or two will read it too in my lifetime. I hope my kids will read it sometime in the future. But that’s it.  

The reason I started writing it is because I have nothing much to give to the world. I am not an artist. I am not a singer, I cannot play a drum, I cannot paint. Damn, I cannot even juggle a few balls and entertain kids. I have no avenue to connect with things around me, except for a few words that I can put together hastily.

I am deeply grateful to this earth, to the people around me, to life itself, and for everlasting friendships that came to me out of nowhere. Who would have thought I would become friends with Ian, a white man, double my age, and quickly make him compensate for the fatherly guidance that I missed so much in life?  

I never ever thought that I will truly be able to make writing my profession. I prayed for it frantically when I was a kid. I did not want to be anything but a writer. I am a writer as much as my talent allowed -- I am a journalist. And I came into journalism completely by accident. I am grateful to people who made it possible, but deep down, I know Existence played its part. 

Call it by any name, God, Existence, Providence, Chance, Fate, Accident, or Freak, ... whatever, it just wanted to show there's magic everywhere. Miracles do happen. And life is beautiful if you go with the flow. 

My sudden entry into journalism was a clear sign. Excellent things happened to me in life, a boy with very mediocre intellect. And I cannot but explain them only by being grateful. I believe excellent things happen to people all the time. God is kind. But we need to accept what life gives us with a deep trust. I believe that I am not good enough to understand the grand scheme of life. I can only accept without complaining. I have seen too many people push away what comes their way on its own. But early on, I decided to spread my arms in embracing everything that came to me. When I opened the wrapper after some time, I found the boxes were filled with diamonds. I accepted them with humility too, knowing well, if they want to go, I will let them go. I was careful not to disturb the flow, I am but a speck of dust in this great universe. These principles helped: When you want to make God laugh, do make plans. And, when life gives a lemon, make a nice lemonade. 

 

And so, my book is a humble submission to this great Existence. It is my 'Thank You' note. Maybe it will be utter trash to my reader/s, or even to my friends and kids. But I know, Existence will accept it with love and kindness. Not every kid is talented, but does the mother stop the other from singing? The mother enjoys every kid of hers. My book is that kid's song to his mother.  

I just hope Existence allows me the time to finish it, and do a great job of it, the best job that my humble talent allows me to do really. I just want to say a sincere Thank You! 

Ian, my friend

Ian and I don’t interact much these days, at least not now. There was a time when I wanted to be a writer, and I thought Ian was my gateway to the world of fame and eternity. I don’t know myself well, but as far as I do, I am not selfish. But in Ian, I initially saw profit. And so, he edited my stories and I dreamt of writing ten stories and getting them published and become an instant hit. This is partly because he himself used to think that my stories were wonderful and fresh. I pitied him really, for I knew I was not special. Not at all.  

I was never sure about myself, but Ian was. He persisted when I long gave up. We started interacting on emails, I think it all started in 2005 or 2006. I was 25-26. By the time I was 28, Ian turned into a friend, and I no longer could think of him as my ladder to success. This is also the time I came to Mumbai and soon lost interest in writing. The city overwhelmed me with its daily struggle. Life was no longer comfortable and fun as it was in Bangalore. But I loved the people here more, and decided to stay back. I am in Mumbai since then, got married, my kid was born here, I bought a flat and settled for good.  

Everything changed, but there was only one constant – Ian Vincent Mulder. No longer my editor, or my ambition, but my dearest friend. Perhaps the only one apart from my parents who would wait to hear from me. I confided secrets and took guidance from him that I wouldn't tell even my childhood friends. I trusted him blindly, knowing here is the man who has nothing but good for me in his mind.   

What prompted me to write this post is that I discovered an audio file in his blog, it is personal and so I don’t want to share the link, but it filled me with sadness hearing his voice and his struggles with recent illness. The post was of 2017, but I discovered it only today. I guess he is much better now, we have definitely interacted after that. He is as eternal optimistic as ever. I am critical. Over the course of the years, when I became a true journalist (read cynical) I have no idea, but my way of seeing the world has definitely changed. I am no longer an optimist, not pessimist either, but perhaps a realist. Which is perhaps a shade of pessimism.  

Anyway, hearing Ian’s voice, perhaps I heard him quivering somewhat, it filled me with sadness. I didn't keep my words, he wanted good for me, he wanted to dedicate himself for my talent. Perhaps, I should have been kinder to him, perhaps for him only I should have written more stories. But then I am dead from inside kind of. No stories come to me anymore. I am not creative. I write news reports, what I see I write. Somewhere the imagination has been wiped clean.  

Looking back, I think the reason why I stopped creating fiction is that I didn’t have the language required. I am neither good in English, nor in Bengali. Why would anything come to me. Whatever I can write is in this simple English that perhaps doesn’t make a good read, definitely not as a literature. It is perhaps okay for news reports, not literature for sure. Ian offered to edit and rewrite my stories wherever required to make it suitable for an English audience, but it also somewhat took away the fun of writing for me. Perhaps realising that, he just edited copies and fixed the language here and there, but I had lost the creativity and so like a spent cow, I was destined for the journalism slaughterhouse. Frankly, I have done relatively well in journalism, but I look back at my old self with nothing but envy. It's a full transformation I went through, and only Ian stayed with me as constant.  

When I heard his voice today, I became emotional, and wanted to write something to shed the mushiness. I think I owe an apology to Ian, but we have created seven-eight stories together. He has a wonderful blog too, not sure if he would want to share the link publicly, so not tagging his new blog. Who knows, maybe one day people will read our stories/blogs and be happy. One thing is for sure, both of us don’t want to be famous anymore. Just writing for the sake of it, like a form of doodling.