My Experiments With Words

I sit hunched over my desk in my dim and suffocating apartment, the heavy shadows pressing in from all directions like silent observers. Before me rests my grandfather’s typewriter, an ancient beast of a machine, its iron keys cold and inscrutable under my trembling fingers. The room, filled with the stale odor of dust and neglect, seems to tighten around me as if mocking the dream that has brought me here—the dream of writing something that would make the world pause, if only for a moment or just make me happy because I love writing. But the blank pages always threw stares at me, empty, indifferent, like a vast, white desert or anything barren. 

My mind as always is a tangle of thoughts, of doubts. I have tried, for hours, to wrestle something meaningful from the void, but nothing comes. The harder I try, the more confusing the words become, retreating into the shadows like frightened animals. The silence grows eerie, almost unbearable, and I always feel a cold sweat forming on my brow. I have been sitting like this for days—no, weeks. The novel that once seemed so alive in my imagination now lies dead on the page, reduced to a few scattered phrases that mean nothing to me anymore. I cannot write. Did I just describe a paragraph infused with jargons about my inability to write. I could have just said —I cannot write. Well, I could write all day about my writers block than to churn out a story. 

But, all of a sudden, like a bolt from the blue. I am seized by an inexplicable urge to abandon the novel altogether and try something different. Poetry, perhaps. Yes, poetry—a simpler, more direct form of expression that might allow me to bypass the paralysis that has gripped me. There is something liberating about the thought of writing a poem; it is like a breath of fresh air in this suffocating room. Ok, I just made that up. Just the poetry thing. The room is indeed suffocating The typewriter, that old machine with its clacking keys and faded letters, seems to whisper to me, beckoning me to come closer, to try something new.

I remember the old suitcase in the attic where I first found the typewriter. It was my grandfather’s—a man I had known only in faded photographs and half-remembered stories. He had worked his whole life as a clerk at the post office, a quiet, unremarkable man who never made any ripples in the vast ocean of the world. But there was something in his eyes in those photographs—a kind of distant yearning, a quiet sadness that had always intrigued me. 

Without fully understanding why, I decided to revisit that suitcase. I have an odd compulsion to see it again, to touch it, as if it holds some secret that I’ve missed. I rise from my chair, the old wood creaking beneath my weight, and make my way to the attic, my footsteps echoing dully in the stillness of the apartment. The suitcase sits where I left it, covered in dust, its leather worn and cracked with age. I lift it with a strange reverence and bring it back to my desk. 

I open the suitcase, and the smell of old paper and time wafts up, filling my nostrils with a sense of something forgotten, something buried. Inside are my grandfather’s things—yellowing letters, a faded photograph, a pair of cracked reading glasses. “Poor thing must have gone through I lot”, I thought. And beneath all this, the typewriter. I lift it carefully, as if handling a fragile relic. The machine is heavy in my hands, its iron frame cold and unyielding. I set it down on the desk and feed a fresh sheet of paper into it. 

I don’t know why, but I decide to type out a poem—something simple, something familiar. My mind turns to Charles Bukowski, whose raw, unflinching verses have always been a strange comfort to me. I decide on "Poem - 8 Count," one of his shorter pieces. Maybe it’s the simplicity of the poem, or perhaps it’s the starkness of the imagery, but I feel drawn to it, compelled to bring it to life on this old machine. My fingers, stiff and hesitant, begin to tap the keys, and the clattering fills the room like a rhythmic chant. I type the poem word for word, my mind strangely detached, as if watching from somewhere outside myself:

"from my bed  

I watch  

3 birds  

on a telephone  

wire..."

The words flow from my fingers without thought, without intention, and as the last line clicks into place, I feel a peculiar sensation, like a soft tremor running down my spine. I look up, and suddenly, I am not staring at the walls of my cramped, windowless apartment anymore. I’m also not staring at those cracks which I always thought was caused by my cries. 

But, now I am sitting near a window—a window that was never there before. That never existed. I feel a sharp intake of breath, my heart pounding in my chest. I blink, trying to clear my vision, but the window remains, as real as the desk in front of me.

It is an ordinary window, unremarkable in its simplicity, but it opens up to a view I’ve never seen. A quiet neighborhood lies beyond—a few trees scattered about, their branches swaying gently in the wind. A single wire stretches from one pole to another, and on that wire, three birds sit, perfectly still, just as in Bukowski’s poem. I watch them, my eyes wide with disbelief, my body frozen in place. Time seems to stretch out, elongating like the shadows in the room. The birds sit there for what feels like an eternity, their small bodies almost blending into the gray backdrop of the sky. And then, without warning, they take flight. 

I feel a rush of adrenaline, a sudden surge of energy that courses through my veins like liquid fire. I am overwhelmed with a sense of wonder, of astonishment. I stand up, my chair scraping against the floor, and take a step towards the window. I reach out, almost afraid to touch it, afraid that it might disappear. But it is solid, real. My hand touches the cool glass, and I feel the rough texture of the wood frame beneath my fingers. I am no longer in my apartment. I am in the poem. The words have come to life. “Am I high as a fucking kite or Am I just high on Bukowski’s alienated words?” Or “Am I caught up in a Kafkaesque nightmare?”. 

The realization hits me like a wave crashing over rocks. This typewriter, this old, forgotten machine, is no ordinary typewriter. It has power—real power. The words I type are not just words; they are spells that can bend reality to their will. They are highly capable to create a dent in the imaginary world of thoughts. My mind races with possibilities, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. I can feel it—the sudden lightness, the sense of liberation that comes from discovering something extraordinary. It is like finding a hidden door in a familiar room, a door that opens up to endless possibilities.

But the feeling is fleeting, and soon, I am in a need to understand more. I turn back to the suitcase, now filled with a strange, new urgency. I run through its contents, my hands trembling with anticipation. Beneath the old letters and photographs, I find manuscripts. My grandfather’s manuscripts, neatly bound but yellowed with age, as if they have been waiting for this moment, for someone to discover them.

I pick up the first manuscript, my hands shaking slightly, and begin to read. The handwriting is meticulous, almost obsessive, and the words pull me in with a force I can’t resist. The story is dark, surreal, filled with a kind of raw existential angst that feels both foreign and strangely familiar. Page after page, I am drawn deeper into this strange world, a world that seems to reflect my own fears and desires back at me. My eyes devour the words, my mind racing to keep up with the narrative twists and turns.

The hours pass unnoticed. Outside, the city moves through its routines, but here, in my small room, time has ceased to matter. The sun sets, and the room darkens, but I am still reading, still lost in the story. By the time I reach the last page, it is nearly dawn, and my body is aching from sitting in the same position for so long. But I don’t care. I feel electrified, alive. This story—it’s incredible. It’s a masterpiece. I kissed the book. Not just because I loved it; because it made me realise that my grandfather was still alive through those words. In that very moment, I felt, he’s immortal. 

Without thinking, almost as if in a trance, I feed a new sheet of paper into the typewriter and begin to transcribe my grandfather’s story. Word for word, I copy it, my fingers moving of their own accord, as if guided by some unseen force. The keys clatter rhythmically, almost hypnotically, and I lose myself in the act of creation. I am not thinking, not even aware of my surroundings. I am simply a vessel, a medium for these words that have been hidden away for so long.

For the next month, I work tirelessly, transcribing the manuscript, bringing it to life on the page. When I finish, I send it to my publisher without a second thought. And then, the world erupts. The response is immediate and overwhelming. Critics hail the novel as a groundbreaking work of art, a masterpiece that delves deep into the human soul. My name is on everyone’s lips. I am called a genius, a visionary. My work is even shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. 

But amidst all the praise and accolades, I feel only a deep, gnawing unease. I know the truth. The story was never mine to begin with. I had not churned out those characters. Every interview, every appearance felt like I am slipping further into a web of lies, each question tightening the noose around my neck. When they ask about my inspiration, my process, I had to fabricate elaborate stories, each one more intricate than the last. “Am I just good in producing tons of words when it comes to fabricating lies or writing some nonsense about how I can’t write?”, I had no answer too. With every word, I felt the weight of my deception pressing down on me, suffocating me. 

One evening, the pressure was too much. I come home, feeling as if the walls are closing in on me, and I sit down before the typewriter in a frenzy. I start hammering the keys, each strike a release of the frustration that has been building inside me. The sound is deafening, chaotic. But when I look down, the page is blank—no words, no ink. I stare at the paper, disoriented, my breath shallow. I pound the keys again, harder this time, but still nothing appears. The realization hits me with a cold, numbing clarity—the ink is gone. The typewriter, this magical relic that brought my grandfather's story to life, is now just a dead machine. “I could easily find a new cartridge”, I thought. 

But, I sit back in my chair, feeling strangely empty, like a balloon that has slowly deflated. My heart is still racing, but there’s no longer any outlet for my frustration. I am left alone with my thoughts, my guilt, my stolen success. And yet, in this moment of loss, I feel a strange sensation creeping over me, one that I recognize from before—a lightness, a sense of clarity, like a fog lifting. It’s almost identical to what I felt when I first realized the typewriter's power. 

A quiet understanding settles over me. Whether gaining a superpower or losing one, the result is the same: an unmasking, a stripping away of illusions. The power that had once thrilled me now feels like a burden removed, a false shortcut I no longer have to rely on. There is a freedom in this, a freedom I hadn’t realized I craved. The choice becomes stark—either continue in deception or find another way forward, an honest way. 

With a deep breath, I carefully place the typewriter back in my grandfather’s suitcase, feeling the weight of its iron frame settle into the worn leather. I brush my fingers over the keys one last time, feeling the cold, hard edges beneath my skin. It feels like saying goodbye to an old friend, one who had both helped and betrayed me. As I close the suitcase, I notice something small wedged in a corner—an old pencil, worn and dull, nearly forgotten among the papers and relics. 

I pick it up, turning it over in my hand. The wood is smooth, darkened by age, and the eraser is worn down to a nub. It feels strangely comforting, almost familiar. Perhaps it’s the simplicity of the object, or maybe it’s the stark contrast to the typewriter’s complex mechanisms, but I find myself drawn to it. I decide then and there to leave the typewriter in the attic, untouched, and to write my next book by hand—with this pencil. There is a purity in the idea, a return to something raw and elemental. 

I sit back at my desk, a blank diary before me. For a moment, I hesitate. The page stares up at me, stark and unblemished, and I feel the old fear returning—the fear of starting anew, of facing the vast emptiness of the page without the crutch of magic or shortcuts. But then I press the pencil to the paper, and slowly, deliberately, I write the title of my next book: "My Experiments with Words." The words feel weighty, substantial, as if they carry the promise of a different kind of journey, one grounded in truth.

I close the book, feeling a small flicker of relief, a sense that I am finally stepping away from the shadows that have haunted me. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I feel something close to peace. I am free—free from the burdens of my grandfather’s typewriter, free from the chains of my own dishonesty. I am ready to write again, this time without any magical intervention.

But my newfound peace is short-lived. A few hours later, as the light outside fades to twilight, my phone rings. It’s my publisher, his voice crackling with excitement. “The title of your next novel—‘My Experiments with Words’—has generated an incredible buzz! People are going crazy about it! The world is waiting for your next masterpiece!”

I feel my stomach drop, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. How could they know? I haven’t told anyone. I glance at the diary on my desk, the title staring back at me in my own hesitant handwriting. The realization comes slowly, like ice spreading through my veins—the pencil. It has the same power as the typewriter. Anything I write with it becomes real, becomes known.

Anger surges through me, hot and blinding. I pick up the pencil, now feeling its weight, its deceptive innocence. The thought of continuing under this curse, this shadow of magic that warps my reality, fills me with a rage I can’t contain. Without a second thought, I snap the pencil in half, the sound sharp and final, and I break it again and again until it is nothing but splinters and shards on the desk.

I stare at the broken pieces, my breath coming fast, my chest heaving with a mixture of fury and relief. The pencil is dead. The magic is gone. And now, finally, there are no more shortcuts, no more tricks. I am left alone with nothing but my own mind, my own hands, and the blank page before me.

I take a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs, and then I reach for a pen—a simple, ordinary pen. I place it on the page, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I begin to write. 

Vishal Aryan Komara