No offence but pun intended.
First of all, my history is as blatant as it can be. I am not from a prestigious college, so, half my chances of narrating my experiences are gone. I didn’t have a professor who was against me for all four years or a friend who could bring the US down. Even a description of me at the end of the book could be very blank.
“Subhashree Srinivasan studied at Madha Engineering college, just like her 3 lakh counter parts of Tamil Nadu. She managed an MBA. Hell! Who cares from where? It’s not the IIMs”
So, the publications will not even lift an eyebrow if I said the book was narrating my academic experiences. I am lost into the labyrinth of mediocrity and randomness. Jargons do play a role, you know!
Born into a country of high emotional quotient, I have lost the race there too. I didn’t have a boyfriend who left me to pursue his career. If he did, it would have been a book. Coming from a girl, it would have actually been a personal diary of sympathy. The only other who would have read it are the ones who broke up from their boyfriends. I would dedicate it to all those who were/are/will be in love. I think that pretty much covers everyone.
“I miss the hands. Those warm fingers fondling my hair.I missed the sense that spread emotions of all layers into my body. Love,protection and care. That is what he was. I missed him.I missed him like hell.”
I am less creative. I can’t make wizards out of normal people, vampires to fall in love with the werewolves or even make God a human being! It is my inability to think out of box that restricts me to write anything at all. I am the one who is satisfied with non-fiction boring narrations of mamis and their filter coffees.
“Its eyes glistened in the dark. It paved its way to the prey. Prey in an ”out of world” form. Its breathing heavily tinted with blood. The sky turned orange helping it to move faster down the path. The dusk was nearing, so, was the death of the enemy”
My gender hinders. I mean, think about it. If a guy wanted to make a joke, it is usually crude language. I can’t use it. Either I would be considered a desperate person or too conservative to make a point. There are no grey shades if I wrote something.
“He was hot. Err..tall and simple. He wore an aura that spelt genius. He was like Greek god. He was..like..hmmm..like..hot. ya, hot.”
It is an unfair world that doesn’t let anyone write in peace.
You write about your caste, million will frown. You write about Bhagavad Gita, Russians will ban it. You translate the works of a Tamil author, the essence is lost. You write about sex, enough is enough. If you write about war, movies will be copied from it. You write about the UFOs, controversies would be created. Apparently, I am lost in the blank pages that will make no sense to anyone.
“Unfair propagation towards the religion that might cause wars”-The Guardian
“The names are already taken by me in my book. I need right-full credit”- Kootan Boogat
“I don’t like it because it can’t be made into a movie” – TajKumar Biriyani
I am not done yet. I have one more big worry which all other authors do it with ease. To whom will I dedicate the book to?
To my father, who believed that benzene structure made more sense than my English?
To my mother, who felt all my books smelt like her sambhar
To my sister, who intends to write better books.
To my friends, who asked to throw away my MBA degree and asked me to write.
To my cousins, who were the greatest and the most proactive critics.
To my hostel mirror, to which I shouted, “what the hell am I doing now?”
Now, you tell me, with so much prejudice and faulty imaginations, where and how can I write? I only can crib in many pages that my writing will not be accepted.
So, all the world’s a stage. But I am thoroughly misplaced!
Sniff. Sob. Mental trauma.
