Being our own light

 F E S T I V A L S. Festivals. Festivals. 

Doesn't work. I have been writing this word on a blank page in different ways yet there is nothing beyond the word that comes to my mind. Okay, let me confess I was reminded of my fifth birthday party celebrated in pomp by my parents when I wrote festivals. The memories of Ganpati Utsav celebrated during my carefree college days paraded in my mind. Diwali, Christmas carols at school , the colours of Holi, and the songs of garba , oh, so many bright things came to my mind on scribbling festival on paper. But no. These are the things I have written about a zillion times. I want to write something fresh. Another paper ball gets tossed in the bin. The basket has about ten to fifteen paper balls crumbled in frustration. The creases on paper talk of the intensity of my burnout. Yes, I'm burning out of ideas to write. Freak! Is that me who just published her second novel? I am not able to write on Feeling Festive. Forget the whole essay, a dramatic, captivating punchline also is not my cup of tea today. 

I sink back into my chair. I sink deep into myself. While writing has been the elixir of good things in my life, I don't know how it slowly began to add weight to my shoulders. Whatever I write needs appreciation. Some noise has to be made of my blog. Friends must comment. Family must read it. Certificates must be achieved and fame must be garnered. Where does this come from? An unidentified source within me is inflating my creativity's ego. My Muse is no longer my pet, that tags along, enjoys my pampering and petting, or demands my attention. My Muse wants social media attention. It basks in the glory of likes and comments. Suddenly, I realize my Muse has moved beyond me and I'm unable to tap my creativity. 

I need to get it back. How? When nothing works for me, I go for a walk. Long walks with an absent mind. Agendaless walks. No shopping. No visits. Not stopping to exchange pleasantries. But just walk. Left after right. Right after left. My legs tread on without directions. I come across chattering women, squabbling children, quietly walking elders and shrieking vendors. Every one is busy communicating something with the other. The world is busy building a dialogue with the surrounding. Conversations are at the core of my pulsating ecosystem.

Conversations. Conversation!

That is what I need. Eureka! I know exactly what I have to do. I need to talk to my Muse. Yes, that is my modus operandi to get back my creativity. 

Once back at my table, I grab a fresh sheet of paper. Promising it that it won't join its other kins in the basket, I start writing.

Dear Muse,

        How are you, honey? It's been some time we spoke to each other. Actually, it is you who spoke and I listened. Your suggestions have become my stories. It is you who have regaled the world. I have been only a medium. 

Darling, today I wish to share my thoughts with you. While it has been great to have you by my side always, it now feels that you are now dependent on external validation for your stories. You seek fame and face to your mind. Nothing wrong in it. But that is not what I had in mind when we joined hands.

I don't desire to make you, my Muse, my passion, my profession. You are my comfort. You are the pillow I want to rest my head on after a tiring day. I don't want you to become my tiring day. Whatever the world might say about making your passion your profession, I believe is wrong.

With profession comes the responsibility to deliver every day, on time. Are you the one who visits me routinely? You, with a mind of your own, holds my hand on your whim and fancy. You need open air, quiet atmosphere, and my unoccupied self to talk to you. The moment you realize there is someone around trying to hold my attention, you get offended and take refuge in hiding. You feel offended.

No darling, I ain't accusing you but merely introducing you to reality that we aren't working for paying our monthly bills. If I have to write to pay my bills, and use you as a medium to face my financial debts, you curl up. Refuse to bulge. Turn stoic as if we never knew each other. No, it doesn't work like that. 

This letter is a way to clear things between us. Maybe it was my mistake to have not told you of my expectations. We met. Fell in love and started writing stories that took us both to the pinnacle of success. We enjoyed people's appreciation. We accepted criticism (I'm proud of you for that). We fought grim situations. We were together in all of this.

But now, I see you are still waiting for the outside fame and glory. We need to return back to our quiet haven, a place where we worked without the desire of fame, money, or acceptance. Just the two of us. You talk, I listen. You speak, I write. Remember, sweetheart, you are my voice. I'm listening to you. We do not need an outsider to tell us we are beautiful. We are beautiful the way we are. 

You cannot be my profession, my bread and butter. I don't want to sweat it out with you. You are my leisure, my love. Yes, you are more than a hobby but certainly less than a full-time job. I'm committed to you. Married to you in a way. But let's not make our relationship a way of proving something to the world. 

It is okay if no one approves of our ways. We are sufficient for each other. On this journey of togetherness, if people rejoice with us, we are going to be welcoming of their celebration. If not, we seek their forgiveness and move ahead. Havent we read somewhere that dont wait for the light of Diwali or the colors of Holi to make your life bright and versatile? Be your own light and celebrate. Here, in your company, I feel Festive. The day we write a good story is my Christmas night. I feel I'm born again. We rejoice. We sing and light candles. These are our private celebrations. Let's continue them.

Come my honey, let's embark on the journey of our next chapter. 

Love.

It feels so good to have written this.