The first time I got applauded for writing, I was six years old, maybe almost seven. It was at my paternal grandparents’ home in Calcutta. My parents and I had come down for a vacation from New Delhi. My first story, a suspicious blend of two or more fairy tales, was one they had already heard. This time though they asked me to read it out loud to my grandparents as well.
In spite of the many decades that have passed since that moment, I still remember how it felt to have a captive audience and how much the four of them clapped after I finished reading my story. I had written it in red ink, by then established in my mind as the ink of choice of all my teachers at school, and so, undoubtedly, powerful. Why wouldn’t I channel that? Why would I write with anything but that?
That applause has stayed with me all these years. It’s what’s buoyed me up during all those years and years of my books coming close to getting a contract with a publishing house and then not. That applause and the encouraging words I received that day, convinced me to no end that my words were valuable, that there was an audience for it, that they needed it.
Ha!
I don’t have that epic level of confidence in my writing any longer. It’s hard to maintain that level of confidence when my writing has been rejected as often as it has. But I write because it’s more important to me than anyone’s approval or any book contract. I write because I love it more than anything else. I write because that’s how I make sense of the world and hold on to what I need to. That applause in my grandparents’ drawing room also makes me want to rush out to all the six-year-olds in the world, and tell them they and their dreams and their passions, likes, and loves matter.
Some things haven’t changed. Red is still my favorite color. It still reminds me of my school teachers. Most of them nice. Some not so. But all of them, powerful. Why the hell wouldn’t I channel that?
Photo courtesy: Jenn.jpeg @jenn_jpeg