Lost and Found

Only a few moments ago, I was bickering to my mentor about why and how I cannot write every day, about how I need polished images with finesse to get it going. Or the melody seems off, and words don’t come pouring out as they always seem to do. And almost immediately, like a telepath, using my third eye of imagination, I saw him smiling a bit while thinking how this kid still has so much to learn. Because I too saw the lethal flaw my otherwise seemingly sound logic was hosting, like a single dormant cancerous cell. I overlooked the fact that a writer is supposed to paint images with words, not the other way around.

Writing is a Job. Reading is a Job.

I am a Bengali kid. I speak Bengali, and never have I ever in my life met and talked with a guy face to face whose native tongue was not Bengali. And so, I was hesitant when my teacher asked me to write an English narrative about the Bengali Language Movement of 1952 a couple of monsoons ago. It was to be read in front of an audience of more than five hundred, including a few decorated international linguistics experts and teachers. And why wouldn’t I be hesitant! There I was, a student from a nameless town with skills more inclined towards the unimpressive side, and I was supposed to represent my language by writing about it in another language! A PR disaster for my university in the making while I only had three weeks!

When I finished reading my 300 words in the crankiest of voice imaginable with shaky legs in front of the podium and not once looked up towards my audience, the lack of claps and cheers said it all. I had failed to make my mark.

While being on the verge of collapsing and sobbing, I looked up at my teacher sitting a couple of meters away down in the front rows for some modicum of comfort, and my day was made. A proud, smiling face, and then, in the most miraculous way possible, the audience started clapping. This was the only instance when my mimicry of a bordereau managed to pull off some form of recognition along with a bit of drama. Such were and are my struggles.

Sometimes while dealing with writer’s block, I feel like the metamorphic version of Eddie Morra. You know! The protagonist of the movie Limitless featuring Bradley Cooper! A struggling writer living in a crappy shithole of an apartment in NYC, who has failed to push out a novella even after trying for so long. But, in a sudden turn of events, he gets his hands on a nootropic drug named NZT! Or, as referred to in urban lingo, the smart pill.

After ingesting it for the first time ever, he does what he couldn’t manage to pull off in over two years and almost finishes the book within a single night. But of course, I’m no Eddie Morra! I don’t have a drug dealer buddy named Vernon, and I do not live nearby Broadway & seventh avenue. But my bedroom matches his tho! Ashes from cigarettes on the floor and dirty dishes on the couch.

Still, I’m as pragmatic as they come. I enjoy writing about beautiful twilight and plummeting dry leaves of autumn. No matter how much I lack in vocabulary or euphuism, my fingertips seem to ploy on their own volition. For example, this was supposed to be a write-up about NYC. The image you see above was handed to me to match that end of the bargain. But, somehow, I managed to make it all about me being a sob story and how poorly life is treating me.

I know for a fact that if I continue to write, looking back, this portion of my life would seem as cringe as a Korean grandma covering Eminem’s Kill Shot. And that is what keeps me moving, the unavoidable attraction towards doing the next thing, being the next guy in line. For, after all, I am a purebred Bengali, and we are as resourceful as they come! The floating coffee shop you see above is made mostly from recycled wood and oil barrels. Signifying how it’s possible to create something so beautiful and serene from utter waste. And so I still dare to hope!