Writer’s Blog

Apparently, all this time that I haven’t had a single inspiring thought, and have been cursing myself about how incompetent and unimaginative I have become, there was another soul that I know of who was going through a similar dry spell. And maybe so many others that I don’t know of. And while we were ‘unassuming’ enough to call it a ‘drying up of thoughts’, according to the comments, it is more commonly known as writer’s block.

Only, it seems even more pretentious calling it that than calling myself Goddess. I can be Goddess, but Writer is way too exalted. Those are people who have printed words attributed to their name, words that many others read, relate to and remember. Bloggers are mere mortals, not writers. Bloggers are generally opinionated fools (there you go, I’m one), mostly churning out ‘Dear Diary’ posts. Of course, there are the more worthy amongst us who keep up with news and trends and current affairs, but again, that is reporting. Many of the pages I frequent, most of whom are solid writers, whether published or otherwise, are transitioning to travel phases in their lives. So their posts are now limited to photos of their sojourns and a descriptive line or two. Not much writing. Some are outraged by the unending coverage of Gere-Shetty and Ash-Abhi. Some are exploring the joys of wine and fine dining. And some are sharing recipes.

Then there are the timid – who are actually extremely talented writers, but don’t write anywhere but their own notepads, occasionally sending a few lines on group mails to people they know – because they don’t think they write stuff important enough for people to read. Personally, that is a loss to blogosphere. Because these guys are writing direct dil se. And that's what is so beautiful about this (blog) world. There is always someone, somewhere, who will read what you wrote and think, wow, that happened to me! Where are the people who are writing this?

"some words can put you to a nice calm...while some could really make you uncomfortable...the only thing that inspires me to write is when I feel love all around me...and when I have that feeling...I see a story in everything...in every person... in every moment...in every mistake we have made...in every evening that we have spent with ourselves...in every breath we have taken...in every person we have known...in every heartbreak we have had...in everything that has touched us...the space around you is packed with ideas, stories and writing...you can't escape it...it will get you...sooner or later..."

- dedicated to a dear, dear friend who doesn't blog

The Good, The Bad, The Beautiful

It is officially over. The strike, not the marriage (phew!). During all this time, while I was playing, or pretending to play, good wife and housekeeper, not one incident stirred me enough to write something good. All the time spent in experiments with Italian cooking and makeup (no, not just Italian makeup), movie marathons, shopping sprees, entertaining, and trying to roll a perfectly round chapatti, left no room for the bad girl. The girl who lived her life in small apartments and not to forget quite an expensive hellhole in Bombay, just so she could live alone. The girl whose weekends were a haze of vodka in the evenings and Big Macs the next afternoon. The girl who freaked out enough to plan an entire day at the salon when her best friend announced her engagement, and the girl who used her kitchen for a bar.

OK, maybe it wasn’t all the bad girl. But it wasn’t completely good either. Good girls don’t order takeout everyday. Good girls don’t stay out till morning. Good girls get married at a certain age and then move to wherever their husbands’ careers take them. Good girls cook dinners and keep them warm till the husbands come home. Good girls make friends with their husbands’ friends no matter how infinitely annoying they may be, give up their entire lives, and are nice to the husbands’ bosses. They look nice when out with their man, have impeccable taste while decorating, and oh, good girls don’t smoke. Or drink more than one cocktail, for that matter. But mostly it is wine. White.

All said and done, yes, literally, because both avatars have been tried, they cannot coexist. The bad girl is reckless and rebellious and guilt-free and has no one to think of herself. The good girl is on a perpetual guilt-trip, because every decision affects someone other than her. And as much as I would like to blame it on the husband or the job, these girls have nothing to do with the presence of, or lack of, either element. Being good is considering others, being bad is considering yourself. Or the other way round. Being good is denying most pleasures, being bad is indulging them. Being good is 25 going on 40, being bad is 25 forever. And something I just cannot shake off, I have had more stuff to write about as the bad girl. The good girl comes home from work and reads the newspaper while she starts dinner, because she didn’t read it in the morning because she was making the bed and the breakfast. The bad girl comes home, kicks off her shoes, lights the one cigarette of the day (hey she can be good too, she has almost quit!), fixes herself a drink, and switches on VH1. Dinner can sod itself. (I’m reading too much British chicklit). The good girl lives for everyone’s approval. The bad girl doesn’t care.

But being both is the inner tug-of-war. The good girl knows she can’t give in to her instincts all the time. The bad girl tells her to take a hike. Maybe that is the lifelong challenge. Maybe, that is the beauty of it all, of having choices, of being whoever she wants to be, of being all that she wants to be. The good, the bad, and the beautiful.

The bad girl is up right now, at 3.30 in the morning, because she just had to write this down. The good girl is hopping mad, telling her she so won’t be up in time tomorrow. Bite me, sistah.