Dialogue and Hearken
a conversation between two friends
Hi Everyone !
It’s been a long, long time since I wrote. Hence, I thought of taking my friend’s help to make a ‘comeback.’ This is a post in the form of a conversation between me and Sinchan Chatterjee who has recently started a blog. She is a writer whose words are beyond my imagination and therefore, I invite you all to visit her blog. In fact, you will find the second part of this piece on her page. Regarding my writing commitments, I will try posting twice every month but I apologise in advance if I am unable to. Thanks for your continuing support and love. I hope you enjoy this relatively unique post. Looking forward to hearing from you.
Hi
Manhar here.
I haven’t written for the blog in over 2 months.
That’s why I need your help!
Hello, I am Sinchan,
I have not written in many moons, and this
seems like something that would end that eclipse
I feel it would be an adequate question to start off with asking, why did you think we should write something collaboratively?
Well, I was out of ideas and couldn’t gather the motivation to write on my blog. Since you are a great writer and a dear friend of mine, I thought you would valuably help me get over this “writer’s block” if I can call it that.
Have you ever gone through a phase like the writer’s block except that it is not limited to writing. A phase of dull stillness where you can’t think creatively. You feel unenthusiastic even about the things which you really want to do like reading books. I have three books which I have started but I am not making great progress on either of those. What is this feeling, this emotion about?
Ah, that is a good question, and one that I have always had difficulty putting into words. I think for me, and I have talked to you about it as well, the phase of stillness looms more frequently than tangible days of “productive” (however that is defined) reading or thinking or even being. I have observed, to get out of that loop, it helps if you go back to old novels, one you know you adore so dearly, one you would complete it in a sitting. About the feeling, it is confusing to put, in concise sentences. You feel guilty, I suppose, when you see the title written on multiple spines staring at you, asking you to open them, but you cannot fathom the energy or will to even attempt doing that, but I think the primary feeling is that of despair. I believe we stop reading or writing because words get heavy at times, but it is the said lack of words that also causes despair.
Now that we are on the subject of literature, books, reading, writing, all of that jazzy stuff, you have a very simple yet profound style of writing, and it always bewilders me as to how you manage to write not convolutedly, which seems like the most basic thing one needs to do when they write, but I feel I constantly struggle with it. I am curious to know how you do that.
Well, first of all, your writing style is just different, there’s nothing wrong about it. I can see why you say it is convoluted - it indeed is complex. However, aren’t our thoughts convoluted and complex too? Do we think in straight ways? Moreover, isn’t writing supposed to elevate the ordinary to the extraordinary (to borrow from Wordsworth)? So, where you see confusion, I see beauty. When you say “you haven’t written in moons” - it brings a smile to my face and I wonder, how do I put across my thoughts in such poetic terms.
Coming to the question, how do I do what I do? Hmmm... For starters, I really don’t know what it is that I do. I have liked writing for a long time now and it began with perhaps, writing essays in school. Maybe it is because of the manner of my training or the way I think, writing for me is about putting to paper your thoughts in a way that makes sense to you. I don’t always think about the reader while writing - it is more about giving expression in a clear, coherent and hopefully beautiful manner to the fuzzy thoughts inside your head. It may sound counter-intuitive that I write simply because I don’t think about the readers, and perhaps it is indeed simply because I don’t know enough. I often say that I need to improve my vocabulary and use better words to beautify my prose and poetry. However, I will confess that every time I read something I have written, it feels good and satisfying, especially when you know that it is not editable and it is etched on paper (read screen). I think it is because I write sincerely. There is no element of gaudiness involved or to be on a safer side, let’s just say I try my best not to be showy.
Fuzzy thoughts transcending to coherent words is so difficult, and you do it beautifully.
I was watching this video yesterday where I found this question, and I thought it would be interesting to plagiarize it. If an author had to write a book about you, who would you choose?
You ask difficult questions, don’t you. See, I haven’t read a lot of those famous English authors. I have read a bunch of Indian authors and I think both Arundhati Roy and Anuradha Roy write beautifully. But I really don’t think they’ll be interested in writing about a person, let alone me. However, since we are working on hypotheticals, let’s just leave it at that. Since we are on the subject of books and authors (which we invariably find ourselves stuck at), do you sometimes feel sad when you end a book? I am sure you do. I have written about this on the blog - “When I finish a great book and turn over its last page, I feel a void. An emptiness which can only be experienced when you have been immersed into a world of words and suddenly are thrust out of it with the last full-stop of the author’s pen.” But I am a little curious to know what it means to you? Recently, I read a (motivational?) book by Mitch Albom (everyone should read him!) titled The Timekeeper. It was about how mankind has caged itself in its own creation - time. How we keep looking at our watches and keep counting time as it passes by - sometimes waiting for it to end and sometimes wanting it to stay still. However, the irony is that while I was reading the book, I myself kept looking at my watch since a class was scheduled; and after I finished the book, I was back to square one. So, what is the value of what we do? I know these “existential crises” have sort of become cliched now, especially when someone like me, who has nothing to write about and wants to just keep pressing those keyboard buttons. But still...
This is so strange. These are exactly the two names I thought you would say, primarily because you do not stop talking about Anuradha Roy. About your question, that is extremely existential, which you have just casually tossed up in the air, so let me write about the first part of the question, and push existentialism for future me.
There is a beauty in putting down a novel, so many thoughts go through me, and it usually makes me want to write, it’s the same when I watch something very compelling too. I don’t end up writing, let’s not talk about that. However, it’s also very sad (which in itself is such a strange word), it feels like a world you thought you were a part of, has suddenly ended, the people you love-hated, or hate-loved, or love-loved, no longer exist, and you are left, on your bed, or on a chair, with your back against a wall, or simply facing a wall, but you are left with a whole new life, which is a pretty beautiful way to look at it I feel.
Now the part I was dreading to think about. There was this thing I read in psychology, that whatever we do has a purpose to it, but does it have value? Depends on how you define it I suppose. Whatever I do in a day - attend classes, drink coffee, eat, read (barely), watch things, is to kill, or to put it more productively, spend time. We assume time is something that deserves spending, which is why it looms on us, sometimes even hauntedly, to do everything we do. So that becomes our purpose. A want for affixing value to it might only add on to our anxiety and stress. We can choose to let the time pass, and hope we find stillness within ourselves, if that makes sense. I have begun to sound pretentious, I will stop before it gets worse.
I believe we will keep going in circles trying to find meaning of things, so I am going to change courses and ask you about something else. Politics. You are pretty aware of almost all things happening in the world (as everyone should, I believe) and there is this “comfort” people have found in not talking about the happenings around us, not realising literally from what we eat, to our thoughts, everything is dictated by the politics of society. I can’t think of how to end the question, so I am just going to ask for your thoughts on it.
First things first. I plead guilty for seeking that comfort - although my inherent restlessness and love (?) for this country keeps coming back to trouble me and shoving me out of that comfort. There was a time when every time I got angry at a situation, I would message my teachers and friends saying it was a dark day and I was saddened but after a point, it became so regular that calling a day black or dark seemed banal. I have talked about this before - but this comfort and indifference is something I both seek and fear. I seek it when I am done with the world - with all its hate and poison and its absolute nonsense. Every time I open my news app, there is only news of more hatred and more poison and more nonsense. Yet, I cannot bring myself to delete the app. I fear the day when I will be okay with it all. In fact, this is also something I have said before (oh gosh, I have no new ideas, it’s all the same wine in a new bottle). From my (political) poem ‘Suffocated’: “Ergo God, I ask you this/Eke out my suffocation/Stretch my pain/Just don’t let me be okay.” What ‘bout you?
I will have to agree with you about how there exists this persistent fear, that all this gloom, and darkness, and the sheer disrespect the world, or more specifically the government has for its people, would eventually make me indifferent to it, I am very consciously afraid of that, but I do believe it is for people like me to use that fear and actually at least attempt to do something about it? You wrote a paper on revisionism of history a month or so ago, which genuinely made me very fascinated, and I think it is very relevant, and not in the light of colonial revisionism. We are part of history, which seems to be very conveniently “saffron-washing” (I am very proud of this phrase by the way) history, and it is important (though extremely tenacious) to feel that discomfort, and in the least think about it.
This piece is so elegantly written... it merges a quiet haunting poetry with effortless prose making it such a delight to read
Beauty and grace encompassed in all your words ♥️