The Writing Block
Ma keeps bemoaning the fact that I don’t write anymore. Tui koto likhtish, kobita, golpo…aajkaal aar kichu likhish na (You used to write so much, poems, stories…nowaways you don’t write anything), she complains. Sadly, this is very true and the reason is, I think, a mixture of a grown up horror (in itself a tad pretentious) at the pretentiousness of the solemn poems that I wrote when I was younger and sheer laziness of mind. When you are a kid you can unabashedly think of rhyming words and then ‘construct you poem’ around it (though, of course, you don’t think of the process of poetry writing in such grandiose terms). I remember one of my poems going as: I have a sister who can dance I have a sister who is in France I have a sister who is naughty I have a sister who is haughty… And so on… The cuteness of these poems are ‘awwwwd’ at, and rightly so. And then comes the stage where you have to compose solemn, serious verse pondering on the meaning of life and deep metaphy...