a rolling stone

One fine day, I sat in my bed and tried to get my old laptop to work so I could finish some piece of academic writing for an overseas client.

I had a very typical start that day. Same breakfast. Same awful, recurring thoughts that made every day feel like nothing fresh and cosy was ever going to happen to me. Unless something spilled over by chance.

So just as I opened the laptop that day, I mulled over the long list of have-beens of my life story. It ranged from I could-have-been-happily-married to I-could-have-been-the-CEO. I didn't choose the random thoughts that sneaked up on me. So it was a surprise that I did get the computer up and running in little time and opened MS Word despite the junk filling up my mind fast.

But just as I randomly scrolled through my files - an indulgence, akin pretty much to checking emails, the first thing in the morning; I realized that I was typing and I was typing fast. I hadn't even received the day's work yet so what was this magical and cosy thing happening to me!

One paragraph followed another. I just never stopped to think or to just pause. Words came rushing forth in that delightful manner when you suddenly realize that you are on to something. Here's the first few words:

It was one of those summer days when you didn't feel like doing anything. Actually, in an urdu-speaking family hailing from Agra, it was very difficult for girls of my age to do anything of "their" interest without disapproval of bu'a or dadi jan. If anyone was any sympathetic, it was only my chachi - whom I loved to bits.

I was a fairly "normal" child. I ate whatever was cooked; which was normally all amounts of backyard vegetation. I wore all kinds of hand-me-downs. Some seasons, I feared I would be given bu'a's threadbare gharara - such was the protocol that girls below the age of 14 were not given anything decent to wear. They were not supposed to look good, attractive or otherwise appealing, lest they gained any amount of healthy self-esteem based on their looks. It was no wonder that till I was much older and had gained access to glamour magazines that I realized that I was actually very pretty!

I have absolutely no clue as to what came over me that made me write those words and start a novel that day. To this day, I struggle to describe how I wrote my first novel, without any prior intention or knowledge of the craft of writing. I had never published before. I had never taken any writing classes. And I had never dreamt of being a novelist. And yet it happened! I never grew tired while I sat in bed, daily, composing a piece, of more than 15000 words, in as little a time as forty two days.

I went on and on, developing characters - one after the other, like I had been observing people all my life, just for this purpose. The story also never lost its momentum and I squealed with delight as I effortlessly conquered one aspect of story after another; creating a story that spanned different historical periods, different continents and ethos that were vastly different from my own. I wore, at once, simultaneous hats to compose a piece of such magnitude - I was critiquing the social order but I was also a distant observer who just knew exactly what a prudish character should say. I have never been a prude myself!

This delightful journey did not bring me fame. I shared my work with a few publishers but nothing came of the process. But through the entire time that I was pulling words from thin air and sharing my composition with friends and family, I was happy. At long last, I had composed something of importance - just like that, which was enjoyed by a lot of people. That's a lot to say for sitting up in bed one fine day, with a sluggish start and nothing better to do.

In the end, I leave you with another excerpt. It's about the grandmother of the protagonist in the opening paragraph, that I shared above. She belonged to the early years of Indo-Pak Subcontinent - which is present-day Pakistan. So there's a lot of historical context in the novel. If you struggle with names of places or some piece of history, just google. You'll love with what comes up!

Zahra's mother was British. Her parents had met on the Ambala-Delhi train when both the families were travelling on it. Zahra's grandmother was a woman, considered by many as eccentric. Her community blamed it on the fact that she was literate and could write with a flair. Both her prose and poetry came to be preserved by her British daughter-in-law with whom she shared a great relationship. And so, while travelling together, the two families struck a match, due partly to the winsome ways of groom's mother and partly to the fact that the groom was a magistrate who had tried many Europeans under the Ilbert Bill Act and had been sympathetic to them. The groom was in protestations though. This was definitely going to be a first and he was not comfortable with it. And while he was an educated man, he was simple in his ways. To him, spending a life with a woman with so different a culture and norms, not to mention language, was going to be a tremendous challenge - and he liked his life and tastes, simple. His mother, however paid no heed and hastened to set up an engagement date, without realizing the probable perils of such a match. However this union did not attest to any of those forebodings as the later years would prove.

As a second thought, I would encourage all writers or people on sabbatical, do not worry about the craft. A good education in history, a good understanding of the human mind and a passion for words - will take you much farther than trying to make it in the freelance world with a bundle of contemporary skills.