Revisiting again..

It has almost been three months since I left my beloved city, but as I came here yesterday, again, nostalgia has not left me since I put my feet down here. I have always been in love with Chennai. I came here, with hope, with dreams, and with a new life. But, as it is with life, it takes from you, the thing that you want it not to take from you! It took me my city, I had to leave for my home Delhi. I always missed the city- its culture; the Tamil language; mid day tomato rice/ lemon rice, tomato soup in the evenings; dosai in the dinner, idli in the morning; beaches where looking at the sea instills peace and faith in me; Lord Ganesha who always blessed me, and who was always there at the way I turned for my p.g , and who is not there in Delhi, the same Ganesha, yet so different feelings for the same deity; the temples, Nav-Grah idols; the Ramkrishna Math, Mylapore; the Theosophical Society of India, Adyar; in short, a whole complete world, life. I always wanted to stay here, but life had some other plans for me. I may go on and on in life, but the city always remains here, for me and people like me, who are hers, and yet not hers, at the same time. When I got an opportunity to visit the city again, I didn't even think once, not to go there. It was similar to a painting who calls its painter again; like a writer who writes, and rewrites, and edits, and rewrites even though he knows he has written his heart out; I can't get over the city.

Here, I have a small little family, of friends, and they remain as complete a part in the portrait, as the complete picture itself.

I travelled more than two thousand kilometres, of two days journey just to be in the arms of someone whom I love, my city Chennai. I don't know, why is it so; and I don't even try to know it, to find the logic. It simply is, and I hope it to remain..

Tomorrow morning, I leave the city again, for an another city- Kolkatta, in the great land of Bengal. For a traveller, there is no home, he is to move, just like for a writer, every written word is a part of his written world.

Leaving the city again, grieves my heart, and makes me come here again, again just to see the sea, just to see the temples, just to see the family.

I wish my charm for the city never drowns, even though any Tsunami may struck it time and again..

Thinking again, and thinking aloud, repeating time and again, the fact that, for a traveller, there is no home, the whole world is a home, and he has to leave a culture, just only to get into an another one, though not leaving the former complete, and yet being complete in the latter. Thinking this, I pack my bags and move away, into a new city, a new world.

A writer's search..

Well, I really don't know what to write. In fact, after years, I have read my blog articles again. I felt an urge to write here again, but I am really not sure what I will be writing here now. I don't have a great message to say, to say aloud; I have always cherished writing, and feel myself as a chronicler of dreams, thoughts. I will rather recall my thoughts, all these times now.

In January, at the Jaipur Literature Festival, eminent writers were there, scheduled to deliver lectures, seminars, talks. With them, a great name, V.S. Naipaul was also there. Well, it gave me immeasurable joy, seeing his name in the list of speakers. I had decided to attend.

At my twenty second birthday, I had ordered a few books, as a gift for myself. I had always longed to read Mr. Naipaul, since I had read his name as a Nobel Laureate, and that too, of Indian origin. So, I bought his 'Mimic Men', to start with his writings. I read it within the same month, and was not really excited with the book, having read it! But, I was really impressed with his prose writing. The craft of writing was brilliant, and I felt I should read a nonfiction of his, as I felt the book, which I read, lacked the power of great story telling.

One evening,  while I was walking with a friend of mine, at Connaught Place, I saw a book written by Naipaul, at a roadside book vendor. Its cover was beautiful, and the book was wrapped in a transparent paper. I was not able to open it, but the title said it all, 'The writer and the world'. I really wanted to buy it, but didn't have enough money to buy it. I asked my friend, who was rather interested in buying the Kamasutra stuffed magazine, not for its content but for something else! Well, the deal couldn't be done and we walked away, with the book's impression, the Naipaul's book, on my mind.

So, at the same birthday gift gesture, along with the 'Mimic Men', I had bought that nonfiction book too. I began reading it. I was on a journey, to Delhi and on that journey, I began reading that book. The first part was on India, and to the end of it, I had read. When I returned back to my college, somehow I lost that charm of reading that book. I put it in my almirah. I started with the other books of different writers. Somehow, I noticed his book on Islam, 'Among the Believers'. I was well into Islam, at that moment, having read Quran and was trying to grasp the Islamic fundamentalism through my Muslim friends. I bought that book, and felt his greatness reading it. I loved that book, and his writings. I bought its sequel, began reading it, and along with it, the half read book, too. Completing them, I understood why was he a Nobel Laureate, and why the greatest living writer of prose.

He became an ideal writer to me, and with that, began a bond with him, his writings that has testified time. I adore his writings, and going to Jaipur, became my dream.

Then, I was working in an organisation in Chennai, and travelling a long distance to Jaipur, by train was not viable, as I was not authorised to take such a long leave. Travelling by air was not feasible, it was costly and I didn't have enough money. I was a bit sad, on my state of affairs. Then, again I thought of Naipaul, and felt it could be his last visit to our country, owing to his age, somewhat eighty two, and health. I thought this could be a moment of a lifetime seeing the one who is an ideal to you, speak on the art of writing. Somehow, a friend of mine managed to get a credit card, which he had declined earlier, and with it, I flew to my destination. I paid my friend's credit, with my next salary.

Waiting for long hours, and an inadequate seating arrangement, with a huge crowd, was a bit tough to handle. We, I with two of my friends, were there, for the occasion. And then, he came.

He was dressed in a coat, and was seated in a wheelchair. I stood when he arrived. And in fact, the title of the talk was, 'The writer and the world: Conversation with Farookh Dhondy'. I was there, with my pen and paper, noting down the soul of the talk, and with it, experiencing a writer's quest to his writings, the quest being mine. And at the end, he cried a little, seeing the response of the crowd, and a standing ovation, by people like me, as all didn't stand. He had agreed to sign the books, and my friend, the credit card friend, stood in the line to get two of my books signed. Meanwhile, I was still seating and taking notes of the ongoing talk. He had gone to stand in the queue, in the middle of the talk. My book was signed, 'Literary Occasions', the book I had bought with my first salary..

At the end of the day, we attended a talk by Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, which in further instilled a faith in me, to fly, fly high and achieve what I dream, the unending quest to write, to find my subject and write, to express human limitations and to imitate life, to glorify it, to portray it, to be an artist, simply.

When I returned, my quest was more than before and I started experimenting with the craft.

Well, with the life of Naipaul and his writings, there is an expression of a human mind, which has been an expression of a post-colonial world.

My quest has, still, not been achieved, and with each passing day, it gets more than yesterday, and my life looks for its expression in words, writings ..