Today a friend said on my Facebook page that she was amazed at my consistency in writing. I felt motivated and pepped up to write more.
The writer epithet, which has been elusive for me, is coming true? I started dreaming. Dreaming that my next book of poems is being published by an internationally known publisher. Forget the name. What's in a name after all. Dreaming, that I have written a novel, and I am signing a contract with a major publishing house. Dreaming again, that these books are being launched in a cozy book shop in Shillong. Then of course the inevitable press coverage, book launches, press releases, the rush of the media. I am traveling, why not only in the North East, but all over the country.
Then the dream is rudely interrupted. A voice snaps. You cannot travel for a month like this, like a peripatetic soul, you must take permission from your organization. I tell the voice I will take earned leave. The voice subsides and the dream continues.
Interviewer: Mr Guha, when did you start writing?
Me : When I was twenty four.
Interviewer: So late?
Me : Yes, I had to read first to write.
Interviewer: Ok, ok, when did you first write poetry?
Me: When I was twenty seven. Interviewer:
That's great. So now you have been writing for the last twenty eight years.
I say yes, smugly.
And who has been the most profound influence on your writing.
Oh, the interviewer exclaims.When did you first start writing fiction?
Me: When I stopped writing facts.
The interviewer gasped. Are facts written he asked.
Of course I say. Fact is fiction, and fiction fact.
Interviewer: Mr Guha, what will you tell the public, the youth especially, what is your message to them.
Me: Dream, dream, dream.
And I continued dreaming. I was busy signing autographs.