DR. SANTOSH BAKAYA
In my last piece, I left you agog, while I ran after an exotic bird I had just glimpsed. What a beauty that bird was –The Common Rose Finch! Had I not observed it from closer quarters, I would have missed seeing a fabulous bird. I have seen many folks giving me curious looks as I chase a squirrel, watch the antics of a pup, or in absolute joy listen to two women exchange light-hearted banter near the community tap. Do you think that is crazy on my part? But, tell me, from where else can one get food for thought, if not from these mundanities encapsulating magic!
People who know me, are aware of the streak of insanity in me. Oh Hark! A surreal poetic narrative of 100 pages is sheer madness. Still, it fetched me the first Reuel International Prize for writing and literature [Instituted by Dr. Ampat Koshy’s Autism for help Village Project Trust]. Now a full-fledged book with illustrations by Avijit Sarkar, it validates my point that it is indeed no folly to inject some insanity into the sane world around.
I observe things and places around me, eyes popping out of sockets, ears glued to people’s conversation. This idiosyncrasy has earned me the label by my family – Peeping Tom and eavesdropper, also many kicks on the shins by my daughter from under restaurant dining tables, when I have peered into plates to see what the people are eating. But who cares, as long as I get real dialogues and situations?
“I think our duty as writers begins not with our own feelings, but with the powers of observing”. Said Mary Oliver.
In her delightful poem Wild Geese, she also says:
“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely
The world offers itself to your imagination
Calls to you like the wild geese
Harsh and exciting.” She reassures the readers and deflects their attention from themselves to the grandeur of nature.
If you are passionate about the world around you, you can even find stories in the footprints left behind on the sands of time, in the bright rays peeping through the grey clouds, the clatter of laughter coming from far away, the chirruping camaraderie of the avian fraternity, and the happy comeback of the fugitive sun after a fortnight of snow.
In the main scene in Dead Poets Society, 1989, Robin Williams as John Keating, the maverick teacher says, “We don’t read and write poetry because it is cute”.
“We read and write poetry because we are members of the noble race, and the human race is filled with passion. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”
Writing can become very addictive, be it prose or poetry, provided we take interest in every dust mote that we see, in every pebble, in every itinerant feather, in every guffaw and every titter.
When you feel very strongly about something, the words just erupt. Some poems just write themselves. One needs to keep that passion alive.
Students often ask me, “Madam, where do you get the time to write such a lot?”
I tell them: “You have to steal time. There are stories scattered all around you – there are poems scattered all around you. Even in the rustle of leaves you will find a poem, even in the dust motes there hangs a poem, even in the chirp of a bird there are notes of songs. Just look around- and hear!
Anton Chekov, my favorite short story writer says, “People have learned not from books, but in the fields, in the wood, on the river bank. Their teachers have been the birds themselves, when they sang to them, the sun when it left a glow of crimson behind it at setting, the very trees and wild herbs.”
For me, poetry is that itching in my fingers, that churning in my heart that confused babble of voices inside my head, trying to break free of the confines of the mind, hunting for open spaces, for liberation.
Also, the tingling sensation and the sparkle in my eyes when I see a bunch of grapes, still sun-warmed, and when I hear the happy chuckle of a child of a poor, emaciated mother. As the notes of a lullaby fall into his ears, he slowly drifts into blissful sleep, his tiny hand still resting on his mother’s shriveled breast.
It is then that a poem is born in my breast.
An undying passion is undoubtedly important, but it is equally important to keep honing that passion, by enriching one’s vocabulary, diction and style, by keeping one’s senses alert, and looking around with curiosity.
I remember, a day in school, when my dad had flung away my much-appreciated essay on Dickens, saying that I had to work on my style and vocabulary. Well, that shattered all the illusions I had started having in school about my writing prowess. But then, I gave myself a proper shake, cast another look at that essay, and, from that very moment, started working on my style, diction, and vocabulary.
Let me confess, now my vocabulary is not all that bad, and my style has improved too.
I think this is enough food for thought for a fortnight.
Let me go and eavesdrop on the conversation coming from the neighbour’s house. No harm in that, if you get inspiration for your writing.
I think this is enough food for thought for a fortnight.
See you soon.
The author is an academician, poet, essayist, novelist, and TEDx speaker, with more than twenty published books to her credit.
