Most writing is the result of a particular combination of a moment of frustration, a moment of discovery and a moment of keen introspection. Writing is a lot like dancing in a closed room, in this manner—you shut out the world, in annoyance, when you discover some disturbing fact related to yourself and then you try to know yourself better even as you try not to probe too deep. There’s this strong desire to study your own self, accompanied by a cold fear of what you might discover in the process. Yes, it’s a lot like when you close your room and dance to your favourite track—your technique sucks, your movement lacks grace, and you don’t bother to perform well simply because you know nobody’s watching. And when you open the door and step out you realise that you didn’t dance that bad, after all. In fact, someone might even like it. Your random movements suddenly transform into something wonderful. I dance like that. I write like that, too. But I wouldn’t know if they’re really related that way, writing and dancing—I just make up such nonsense when I’m bored. When I’m bored, I come up with all kinds of crap and give a speech to Zaphod. Zaphod is my loyal iPod. I listen to him, and he listens to me. He sits with me on the couch, and listens without interrupting me. He never makes faces, he doesn’t scowl, and he doesn’t tell me to shut up. I like him. He’s a good listener. I have never been a good listener. I interrupt people a lot when they talk, sometimes I start to argue with them even before they finish speaking, and I refuse to listen to them if they say disagreeable things. I also interrupt them when they say something interesting—I tell them to repeat it so that I can write it down. I like to write down things that people say. Once, at a party, I saw this girl who was dancing beautifully. I went up to her and requested her to repeat a movement so that I could write it down. ‘How can you write down a dance step?’ She asked, amazed. I told her how dancing is a lot like writing. She was impressed. You must be pretty frustrated, I told her, to dance in such a wonderful manner. The expression on her face suddenly turned into something hostile, and she stormed away without a word. People never understand me, I guess. That’s why I talk to Zaphod. He doesn’t understand me either, but at least he doesn’t misinterpret my words. He never thinks about what I say. He simply listens. I guess that’s what makes him a good listener—good, but stupid. Shruti is a good listener, too, but she isn’t stupid. She’s one of the most intelligent people I know. We’ve been best friends for fourteen years, ever since we met on our first day of college. I have to pay her a visit in the hospital today—she had a heart attack.
I sit by her side in the hospital. She looks up at me with tired, sad eyes. Her eyelids are half-closed. She speaks in a whisper, and her face becomes unrecognizable with the strain of effort every time she says something. She asks me whether I’ve brought her flowers or not. I haven’t, I tell her. How could’ve I been so thoughtless? We don’t talk much. I just hold her weak hand in mine and we sit like that, without talking, for a long time. But when you’ve been friends for years, you don’t need to say anything to each other. ‘Will you come to see me again,’ she asks as soon as I get up to leave, ‘sometime soon?’ I nod my head. Of course I would.
Back home, I sit on the couch with Zaphod in my lap. I tell him about Shruti. I tell him about our first day in college. I tell him about all the wonderful moments we’ve spent together, and the shared memories that we treasure. I start wondering about why we love each other so much. What binds us? I haven’t a clue. The doctors say that I might lose her—that makes me feel strange. Yes, strange is the word. I tell this to Zaphod. He sits still in my lap, lifeless, and suddenly I miss Shruti. A hint of some unknown feeling greets me, and I discover what binds us together. I should’ve taken flowers for her today. But I don’t say that to Zaphod. I stand up and walk to my desk. I must write our story. I don’t want to forget any part of it. I sit down to write what happened when we first met. I write about her friendly eyes, about her opinions that I’ve always disliked, about our common crushes and about our shared passion for Ibsen and Guevara. With fierce inquisitiveness I set out to discover how we became best friends, afraid, at the same time, that it’d lead me somewhere so deep within myself that it would be very difficult to come out again. Ever.
I’ve tried a new style: dialogue between characters has been minimized, and the protagonist’s thoughts form the story.
This piece starts with an assertion, and the conclusion emphasizes it. To be precise, I have built this story around a statement. The protagonist states an opinion in the beginning and then progresses to other things. (Towards the end, her thoughts become slightly disconnected.) She gets frustrated when she realizes how disappointed her friend must’ve been on learning that she hadn’t brought flowers—that, and her frame of mind, end up reinforcing the beginning.
The protagonist believes that most writing is the result of a particular combination of a moment of frustration, a moment of discovery and a moment of keen introspection. I don’t agree.
