Thursday, November 05, 2009
Lutyens Delhi. Gawking at nameplates. White bungalows set back in enormous gardens from another age. If you lived in one of these, how could you relate to the baccha-party in the basti (slum) that I walk past everyday? How could you even see?
Different lives, different frames of reference.
Traffic-less- Monday was a holiday there. A golden pall over India Gate and North block (?). Viewed for an instant.
Sarvana bhavan.A crisp dosa. Bliss.
Opulent, exquisite hotel. Limpid, mughal-style pools. lush inner courtyards. Luxury palls.
Trees with room to grow. Space for branches holding up a vast canopy. How I envy that.
Spiffy Delhi airport. India middle class is out buying. Nice and lively is GOOD.
In On Writing, Stephen King details about how he was a compulsive if precocious writer, and how he began peddling (illegally, but of course) cyclostyled pages of mystery stories he’d write as a schoolboy, and how his school placed him as a part-time sports columnist for a tabloid after school hours. Early genius, even though he had his share of rejection slips.
Back to my schooldays. Writing was elitist, “good” writing made it to the notice board, your best handwriting on special marble-finish lined paper, pink or blue, crisp sheets from the toniest stationers in town, Kalpana’s. I never made it to that shortlist, not once. Somewhere along the line this feeling bred, that one had to be “permitted” to write.
Which is pure balderdash.