Wednesday, January 31, 2007
An area in abeyance
I want to write something good, but don’t know what. If I just start typing anything, it may turn out nothing more than gibberish, yet I have a feeling that just writing will help me reach something that may turn out to be distantly meaningful. I have been carrying a book daily in my bag to office, and whenever I open it in office — the bag, that is — I feel a certain sense of security in having something relatable to look at. Just the sense that there is a figment of deeply lived life resting right next to me, in those pages, waiting to fill me with wonder and bafflement, joy and passion, all at once. There are hours to pass, when work’s done, and the hands invariably reach for the book, to its first page — with the beguilingly heady promise of its contents. It is this notion that makes me defer completing "To the lighthouse". I believe I know the book already, in all its twists and minor glories, its crests and troughs, the lingering emotions, the nostalgia, tragic pain. It’s all fine, I find telling myself. You know it all — and reading it, gobbling it up in one go — will take away the promise of that charm forever. You would, in reading it, meet the man you’d become and whom you think you already know — this soul who’s completely, unabashedly your alter ego, filled with mystique and silence, merciful, almost a barge of naked emotion, filled to the brim with immensity — the immensity of faith, grief, love and the others. And it is this notion of your "other" that you postpone meeting, since what lies after that, is an area in abeyance, with no pointers to what it holds.