It Happened Last Night ...

I was awfully waylaid in thought last night. After years of inaction, I felt the real writer in me finally threatening to break free from the fat, lazy lady, whose body it lived in; who calls herself Priya! I was pacing like a trapped animal, in my tiny bedroom; its size or lack thereof, bearing down upon me, heavier than ever before. I could, feel my skin throbbing as the tension of self proclaimed, trapped talent, strained against my lazybones. For a moment, even then outer shell of Little Miss Muffet, harboured the idea of taking the fancy trip to some desolate land and pictured herself, beautifully silhouetted against a foreign sunset and softer sun amidst strange faces. But I knew it was just a whim that my other Sybils’ would not let me see through. I-worry-about-my-parents Sybil, was queiter than I-need-a-steady-income-in-the-time-of-worldwide-recession Sybil; but they were both annoyingly whiny and effectively deterrent of anything joyful and impulsive. Besides, there was precious little I could really do with that desire, at 12:30 a.m.

I knew sleep was the only solution, but it was difficult coming. I knew that come morning, I’d be sane enough to talk myself out of all creative whimsicality and snugly embroil myself in the heart of ordinary life. But there was still the little issue of seeing the night through without completely losing my already waning mind.

Reading usually helped me whenever an emotion such as this took over! Somehow, the act of reading always seems like the most dignified manner in which one might chose to waste one’s time; it makes the gravest moment of meaninglessness, into some sort of a worthy exercise of self discovery. God bless the books!

So, as a stop gap arrangement, to rid myself of the insomnia bout, supposedly brought on by curbed creativity ... I decided to read. It was also, I glefully realised, the quickest way to an instant, back-pack-like-exciting-not-knowing-what-to-expect-next-and-therefore-thrilling type of vacation, with an occasional dash of time travel thrown in on the lucky instance.

My next task on hand was to find a book. The one’s I had read and reread a million times, were not going to in any way, feed my desire to visit the unknown, so I decide to dig into an old book shelf that I knew was full of un read books. I randomly pulled out one, that was freakily titled 'Flyaway' by Desmond Bagley - a writer who I am ashamed to admit I had never heard of - and I never knew I owned! The book I mean ...

When I finally did sleep after 25 pages of Mr. Bageley's book, it was rather an expereince of its own, owing to an interesting tryst with my subconscios mind; which decided to relay me a spectacularly incomprehensive dream. In it I sneaked into a mosque during the festival of Eid, and daringly pilfered the tasty Biryani reserved for the worshipers after their 'imam'; constantly afraid that my theft may be caught out. That singularly delinquent fear, made the entire dream as thriling as my untaken vacation. Aahhh ... maybe that is the explanation !

I am attributing my sudden, albeit weird, burst of creativity to Desmond’s delightful descriptions. When I picked up the book last night, I was a condescending reader, who was going to grant an ‘unknown’ writer with the pleasure of my readership, to his interestingly titled, 1978 edition, priced at a paltry Rs. 15, coverless and written in first person, book.

After reading the book and being unable to put it down - save for the fact that insecure Sybil has a task at hand which she is nowhere near completing thanks to this ramble – pompous prat Sybil, who is a close cousin of wannabe-bestseller-writer Sybil, has taken a real ego bashing. If what I believed to be an unknown book, holds such a wealth of knowledge on history, human emotions and narrative, how am I ever going to make it as a known author in today's ever rising sea of writers; real, reclusive and rambling alike?

I am more than half way through the book. Now I have a new set desires keeping the company of those that I had, before ‘Flayaway’; I want to be an anthropologist, write 'another' book (ahem) and run away to Africa on a battered land rover with a sunky Englishman for a guide! I need help!

My Bucket List just keeps getting longer not to mention, dustier! Kuch Toh Karna Padhega!