After a real long time, I thought I’d write about something. After all, there are so many changes around me…the workplace…the life…the weather…the people…I know I’ve already mentioned these before.
So what do I write about? My new place? How I have painstakingly decorated it with potted plants, and ethnic lampshades, and Madhubani paintings?
Should I write about how the old man next door has the hots for Varalakshmi aunty down the road? How the neighborhood chick runs around with the neighborhood hunk and makes out frequently? But that would sound so pseudo Shobha De…and I would hate that.
So what do I write about? The saffron and gamboges cushion covers? My new Lemon high heels? Am I turning into a wannabe? Or a ‘me too’ socialite? No…I am just trying to find the right kind of thing to write about.
Maybe I should write about the floods in Karnataka, or the Maoist uprisings across the eastern states, or Australian cricket’s dirty tricks, or RBI increasing interest rates. Am I becoming a pop philosopher? No…I am just trying to find the right kind of thing to write about.
I should probably write about my reality. How I wake up at supernatural hours, supervise the maid, run to get the office transport, sleep all the way to work, with my iPod playing ‘six feet from the edge’ in my ears, work like there is no tomorrow…come back home, supervise the cook….if he is not around, make my own instant noodles, call up Amitava, wherever in the world he is…my life is kind of sad…isn’t it? And who’d want to hear about that?
I’d rather talk about the cucumber green chikankari kurta I bought…and the wonderful party we had last weekend when Amitava was around…the Irish and the Scotch whiskeys we served…the orange-flavored vodka that I gulped down and got brutally abused by Amitava for drinking so fast…the Romanian Chicken I cooked (I’ll send you the recipe Ketchie)…the delicious Black Forest that friends got for us…how I completely, totally, absolutely enjoyed reading Chetan Bhagat’s ‘Two States’, how Dukey, the friendly Basset Hound in the neighborhood is friends with me, and sometimes scares the shit out of me when he stands up on his hind legs…life seems a lot saner this way.
So what do I write about? My new place? How I have painstakingly decorated it with potted plants, and ethnic lampshades, and Madhubani paintings?
Should I write about how the old man next door has the hots for Varalakshmi aunty down the road? How the neighborhood chick runs around with the neighborhood hunk and makes out frequently? But that would sound so pseudo Shobha De…and I would hate that.
So what do I write about? The saffron and gamboges cushion covers? My new Lemon high heels? Am I turning into a wannabe? Or a ‘me too’ socialite? No…I am just trying to find the right kind of thing to write about.
Maybe I should write about the floods in Karnataka, or the Maoist uprisings across the eastern states, or Australian cricket’s dirty tricks, or RBI increasing interest rates. Am I becoming a pop philosopher? No…I am just trying to find the right kind of thing to write about.
I should probably write about my reality. How I wake up at supernatural hours, supervise the maid, run to get the office transport, sleep all the way to work, with my iPod playing ‘six feet from the edge’ in my ears, work like there is no tomorrow…come back home, supervise the cook….if he is not around, make my own instant noodles, call up Amitava, wherever in the world he is…my life is kind of sad…isn’t it? And who’d want to hear about that?
I’d rather talk about the cucumber green chikankari kurta I bought…and the wonderful party we had last weekend when Amitava was around…the Irish and the Scotch whiskeys we served…the orange-flavored vodka that I gulped down and got brutally abused by Amitava for drinking so fast…the Romanian Chicken I cooked (I’ll send you the recipe Ketchie)…the delicious Black Forest that friends got for us…how I completely, totally, absolutely enjoyed reading Chetan Bhagat’s ‘Two States’, how Dukey, the friendly Basset Hound in the neighborhood is friends with me, and sometimes scares the shit out of me when he stands up on his hind legs…life seems a lot saner this way.
4 comments:
hmm, food for thought. No matter what we write about these days, we tend to get “labeled” as being a particular kind of writer. How very boring is that? Writing about the insignificant things can earn us the “frivolous” label. Writing about wars and racism sound like we are trying too hard to be “profound” (at least I am safe on this one because I still don’t read the newspapers and can’t be profound even at gun point). But yes, it is a dilemma indeed!
Here’s hoping that you keep writing the way you do….warding off the labels…and winning many more readers on your way.
whatever you write about, I'll be here to read. promise even after I die, i'll hover around your blog. :D Four things-
1. send the recipe pronto. Haven't updated the foodie space in the longest time.
2. two states, good? Rilly? His second one was trash.
3. That Basset- give him a belly rub for me, pullease?
4. You serve scotch at your place? My husabnd would like to visit. :D
y do u need to categorise?
be an un albelled writer
a fresh one for a change
i love ur writing the way it is..just let it be
as for the scotch, dog and the book thank you for making my reading time tagged with asmile
loved the book cause kamalika read ti to me..portions of it..found it romantic...and for the food you know k behsi hangla!!
Scribbler and Aritra...yeah, I hope I'll be able to write without worrying about getting labeled...and ketch...2 states is something i could completely identify with...lots of chennai-bashing... its funny...read it...not like the 3 mistakes...the basset belongs to my friend....will give him a belly rub...the basset..not the friend...we served scotch this time...:) it was a special request to amitava frm frnds...one of the few things to get from UK or Ireland...
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