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Sunday, July 8, 2012


Some people are just so  fastidious nowadays.  After posting an essay on a site, you get 
tonnes of comments very often from different sources which belie within themselves ¬some laud 
your attempt  to write saying that they really liked it, while others  completely (and very 
diplomatically too) molest your self-esteem with ragged ridiculous words firing the essay to be trash
outright. It becomes so frustrating because you are left in a fix about what to keep and where to 
stitch to maintain the coherence of the essay.  It is impossible to win unanimous approval in such 
instances;  I learned that  spending 1700 words  (not to mention your hard work)  on paper, many 
papers on proofreading, and an entire day on listening to others criticising your essay, or trying to 
teach  the so-called erudite critics  something astute that they ought to have already known, but 
didn’t, is a futile exercise indeed.

Nonetheless, I decided to chase after this futility. If these people wanted a masterpiece and 
showed  obstinacy to accept my essay, I was  adamant to give  something to marvel at. A few 
comments couldn’t scare me. However, this thing I ventured to achieve seemed a farfetched dream;
even after an entire day of uninterrupted computer-time, my piece was far from complete. I sought
magic, something that would entice everybody; much like how Beethoven’s tunes continue to 
mesmerise all of the people of this generation. Already in my creative mood seeking the inspiration, 
I felt the grass blades smirking at me in the morning sun; suddenly the useless cycle tires, the extrastraight walls of the  houses; the hooding boards on the sky-scrapers all seemed to  utter tragic 
stories. There was music everywhere; the chirping of the birds; the swaying of the leaves of the trees 
all contributed to the same melody. Even stray dogs sang their melancholic tale. The world seemed 
much nicer a place to be in. I began to perceive the nature as it was; all the same I didn’t receive any 
stimulus to boost my mind to begin creating astute things- I still had nothing to begin with. 
When I tried walking through  those streets where I had grown up, flashbacks  of my 
childhood  kept on coming  one after the other  in my head. On the other days, if ever I walked 
through these  streets (which I always did),  I never had the time or the patience allowing 
reminiscences to blossom in my head. There were some really extraordinarily treasurable memories 
associated with these places.  You see,  I  had always been a  very  naughty child always up to his 
mischiefs. I and my buddies  often rang the doorbell of some house or the other and then hid
ourselves; the confusion the owner showed while opening it and the rage with which he shut it later 
amused us and we  laughed heartily later on.  I remember the time when we put Superglue on  the 
class teacher’s seat-the poor guy had to walk with something covering his behind for the entire day;
his pants just refused to dis-embrace the chair, and only some pieces of it survived. That was really 
hilarious. As I looked at the empty space before me, I could envision my younger self with his gang 
walking; it brought a smile to my face. Younger times were always fun. I pity my older self and am 
now destined to remain envious of my younger self; for those younger times I enjoyed, or rather my younger self did with his pals, are now over. All these memories will forever remain memories, for 
these days are long gone. All the same, getting butterflies in my stomach was a good thing; it got my 
creative side up and running.

“What should I write about?” was the question hitting the walls of my cranium like  tennis
balls bouncing back and forth. A beggar begging for some money to feed himself, should I write 
about that? Or maybe not; everybody writes about such elements of the society, don’t they? Maybe 
as a bribe to keep him from  crying for not selecting him as a topic, or as a token of pity for his 
economic disability, I provided the poor kid with a rupee coin and chose to tread on my path. A little 
ahead, I saw another sight; a stray thirsty dog drinking from a dirty shallow puddle. It was the time 
of year when diarrhoea and typhoid would be at their infective peak. I smiled with compassion at 
him, for I pitied him for his disability to fight for his survival; his days were most certainly numbered. 
What about it, I thought. I pondered over the thought for a long time before I decided that it still 
wasn’t still the right spice for my dish. So, with deepest sympathies and a great deal of regret for not 
being able to do anything for it (unfortunately, I was not born with a silver spoon); I walked away.
I looked into books, asked my teachers, browsed the internet and did what not, only to find 
that mysterious spice. There was a catch, my efforts were in vain. Inspiration, inspiration… where 
was my magic spice hiding? I sat down on a bench in the park and began thinking. Was I looking in 
the correct place? Was I doing what I was doing correctly? I wished I was. I had never written an 
essay of so great an importance before, had I? I looked into the river that passed through that park, 
there were beautifully superimposed waves silently striking the other. Some were desperately 
moving towards the others moving in the opposite direction, like two forcibly estranged lovers 
striving to meet the other. When the waves met, they vanished; as if their enemies had conspired 
for  their demise. I recalled what my teacher had taught us in class about the destructive 
interference; then I ignored it.  I didn’t want facts at the moment.  I tried to search for figurative 
meaning in the waves, tried to hear what they had to say and what the stories of their lives 
constituted. I tried to listen to nothingness. Alas! I failed. Had it been some competition, I would 
have been shattered. But, not today; I was amused to find that I felt really happy.

This escapade had not given to me my inspiration, but it certainly had left me with a clearer 
mind. I, like many of my fellow so-called “social” beings, had been neck deep in my work to such an 
extent that I had lost sight of the greatest beauty one can behold- nature. I had forgotten what it 
meant to be a little dude. I had forgotten how attached someone can be to a particular entity. I 
recall often (and my mawkish mom never lets me forget- she finds it adorable) how I used to take 
every new thing bought to me to sleep every night, as if I feared that someone would take it away; I 
had forgotten how I felt then. When I was a child, I used to jump every time mom called out to me 
because of happiness; I had overlooked that precise feeling.  I had forgotten how my heart beat in 
sympathy to anyone in need. This essay I had wanted perfect may not have  turned out  so  in your 
point of view, neither  is it so  in mine; nevertheless it gave me a chance to recall all of that. I really 
wanted to live; to enjoy but my work hadn’t been allowing me. My search for my inspiration did that 
for me. I think that I had lost myself for some time in between, the real me if you may. Searching, I 
discovered that I was my own inspiration; the magic ingredient I had so long desired. Trying to 
discover my perfect essay, I ended up discovering me, whom I hope I will never again forget.

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