THE WRITER'S DILEMMA

THE WRITER'S DILEMMA

You wouldn’t believe it, but when I sat down to write this post I was faced with the dilemma as to what to write. Well at least now I have written a sentence and so to an extent broken the stranglehold. Over the last fifteen months I have on a few occasions touched on the topic of ‘Writing’. It all started with ‘Why I write’ in two separate posts and ‘The Travails of an Aspiring Author’ again in two posts and then ‘The Writer’s Block’. So I shall not dwell again on what I had said earlier but some points are bound to creep into this exploration as to the dilemma that a writer faces especially during the initial phases of his writing life.

It is a question of ‘what do I write’ and ‘how do I realize the dream of completion of my creation and see it in a tangible form in front of me’ and last ‘how do I really connect with my readers and find acceptance and recognition’. In my very first post ‘Why I write’ I had ultimately reached a conclusion that I do it because I like it. That’s not the total truth and hence the dilemma.

As to the very first dilemma ‘What to write’ it is easy for the first time author as he draws on his own experiences and more or less exhausts himself in the process. Thus we find in a majority of first time authors the theme is largely autobiographical. The problem arises when he sits down to examine as to how much coherence he has been able to bring into his narration. The very first person who should be able understand what you have written is you yourself. If like I had earlier stated that I write because I like it then I should stop as soon as I am satisfied with what I have written. But then that’s not the whole truth, I want the others who read it should also understand and connect. Why? That is because of the need for acceptance and recognition. If this need had not been there, why publish?

Is that all? But then I was reminded of my friend KV’s observation –

When you conclude that writing is a journey into our inner world and every writer in the end tries to put together the pieces of the puzzle that is his own life, I cannot agree completely because what you say is true of only a few genres of writing. For example, a professional writer's fiction will have nothing of her personality or inner world, but a cleverly crafted story on a theme she researches well.

Very true (but I still wonder who he had in mind for he insisted on referring to the writer as ‘her’ may be because I went on referring to the writer as ‘he’. But it does not matter whatever the gender of the author is, a dilemma is still a dilemma). So the dilemma still persists – what do I want to write, in which genre? Will I be satisfied just to see my book or do I want to make money out of it, become a professional writer and give the reader what he wants? Well what does the reader want? Thus coming back full circle to ‘What do I want?’

There is a vast population of readers out there – serious readers and non-serious readers as a broad classification. There are various genres of books – non-fiction and fiction as a broad classification once again. To some reading is serious business a way of understanding the world through the documented experiences of others while for other it is a pastime (or rather I should say passing the time). For the serious reader it is a question of going back again and again to what he has read while for the other once the reading is done it has served its purpose and hence disposed of. This reminds me of Alvin Toffler’s ‘Future Shock’ where he talks about how disposable relationships whether it is with people, places or things will become in future. The book written in 1970 defines ‘Future Shock’ as a certain psychological state of perception of ‘too much change in too short a time’. Toffler says “the accelerated rate of technological and social change left people disconnected and suffering from ‘shattering stress and disorientation’ – future shocked. The majority of social problems are symptoms of future shock.” You may wonder as to why I should talk of this here. It is relevant when we consider that a large section of the population is too busy accumulating and discarding – accumulating wealth and discarding things which they feel have served their purpose or does not fall within the zone of their interest.

This is where the dilemma of the writer surfaces once again. To whom should he cater to? What are their needs? This by and large is a problem of the professional writer of fiction. He has to be awake to the reality that his book will ultimately become disposable. But how does it matter if he can ensure that it is acquired before being disposed of.

Non fictional writing is less disposable especially self-help books, books on philosophy, art, economics, biographies etc. but then again the readership is restricted to serious readers. These are readers who collect what they read.

Perhaps the most difficult genre is poetry. The takers are few for not many have the time in this future shocked world to sit back and enjoy the imagery and sensibilities of the poet. A poet is a poet; you can never be a professional poet. It is poetry alone that explores the inner world of the writer and hence can never be a commercial venture. That’s why it is very difficult to find a publisher who would be willing to take it up. It would be interesting to find out as to the number of poetry books published in comparison with the other genres. Poetry is serious literature.

I have realized that I was not being entirely truthful when I said that I write because I like it, the whole truth is I like it when people like what I write. May be I do have some altruistic motives like sharing my experiences so that it will help others, but in the final analysis I want acceptance and recognition. And how does that happen? Well that is the final dilemma of the writer – his book seeing the light of the day.

There are publishers and publishers and there are writers and writers, so how does one squeeze himself through? There are traditional publishing houses and there are self- publishing houses. There are rejections and more rejections of scripts submitted. So where do you stand, have you felt the agony of your masterpiece being rejected? You will come across literary editors who say that they are not in a position to pitch your work to a publishing house since it does not meet with their standards, but at the same time they do offer you editorial services to make your work better, of course for a fee. When you enquire whether after their editorial intervention they will be able to take up with a publishing house, they are offended and say that they do not like to work with authors who are not serious about their work.

My own experience could well highlight the travails of aspiring authors. I first experimented with self-publishing with one of the major houses and left it midway as I thought pitching to a traditional publishing house will help me evaluate the value of my manuscript as seen by a publisher who would definitely be in a better position to gauge its acceptability by the reading public. I did submit the manuscript to five of them. There was no reply from three of them even after a lapse of four months. The fourth was courteous enough to say that they will not be able to fit it due to constraints in their existing calendar but they said “however, we remain committed to giving platform to new voices. We understand that you've put in considerable time and effort on this book and would like to publish it at the soonest. To address the same, we have come up with a unique solution, where you can choose your publishing plan and the options you require to do justice to your book, under our new self-publishing arm.” That would of course entail financial outgo from my side.

Well not everything is dark, there was a silver lining for one of the publishers has accepted the manuscript for publication. This comes with a rider for though the manuscript is placed as ‘projects under consideration’ I have been informed that it will be taken up when the commissioning editor deems fit. They were also very courteous enough to add that a book under consideration with them could get published within weeks or in a few years. I do not know where I stand right now. But I guess when my patience wears out I would revert to where I started from.

For every writer his work is a masterpiece waiting to be discovered. He lives in hope that it happens sooner than later.

WAITING……………

WAITING……………

I was tempted to title this post as ‘Waiting for Godot’ but stopped after ‘Waiting’ and finished with a series of dots lest Samuel Beckett from wherever he is would have pulled me over to court and proceed against me for copyright infringements. Not that I am trying to write something even remotely connected with what he had to say in his play but something in the plight of his characters Vladimir and Estragon waiting for someone’s arrival which does not ever occur strikes a chord. But I guess I have done justice to the title here for you can add as many dots as possible and still continue waiting. But I know dear friend you are still out there ‘waiting’ to decipher what I want to say. Please don’t for I am also still waiting.

I know you would like to know what my predicament is. I do have, not one but many of them. The next question would be what stirred me up so much to make me sit down here in the middle of the night and write all this. Very reasonable I guess, is your right to know since I have already made you wait. But on second thoughts, why should I since the whole purpose of this post is to make you wait. Sorry, but right now I am waiting for sleep to overtake me but it doesn’t. Now I guess you know the reason for all this rambling.

Well this morning I was stuck up in a traffic jam and what would have taken me ten minutes took almost an hour to reach my destination. Of course it is not the first time that this has happened, but today somehow as I sat within the confines of my car I did not feel perturbed that I may end up late for my appointment which of course was to attend a hearing in the magistrate’s court pertaining to a complaint I had filed in a cheque return case. I have said enough of that in my earlier post ‘The Trial’. But having grown used to the fact that nothing was going to happen whether I was on time or not, I waited. It is at such moments I am gripped by moments of inspirational thoughts and I contemplate on the deeper aspects of our existence. Oh yes! I said life is one long waiting whether it is on the toilet seat early in the morning or waiting for your case number to be called while standing outside the fast track court. While the former brings you relief the latter only enhances your exasperation. Well I did reach late but it did not matter for my turn came two hours later and all the while I waited outside. But my previous visits to this venue had taught me that this waiting need not be painful for one could always watch other similar sufferers and draw consolation from the fact that you were not alone in this entire ‘waiting’: the only danger being that at the end of all that waiting, when your turn comes to appear in front of the magistrate you are left confused as to whether you are the complainant or the accused.

I should concede that ‘waiting’ also has its merits, for during the time it lasts  it makes you wait for better things to happen, in a sense it gives you hope. Many will not agree with me for the general refrain has always been ‘I am tired of waiting’. I am also guilty of such a sentiment for the most part. But this perhaps is defeatist. The ‘waiting game’, whether in a game of chess or when a predator stalks its prey or the mating game, forms an integral portion in the formulation of strategies to attain your objective, whatever that may be.

‘Have patience’ is another oft repeated advice which implies ‘Wait it is only a matter of time before you achieve your goal’ or ‘Don’t act in haste for you may make a wrong decision’. Waiting for an answer from your lady love could be traumatic especially if the prospect of rejection looms large. But enough I guess of all this exploration into what should normally have been responsible for inducing a soporific effect on our existence.

So we agree (I take it for granted that a consensus has been reached) that if we seriously look at our life we find that it is one continuous process of waiting. Of course you are free to decide at any point what it is you are waiting for.

Sometime ago I dropped in at my friend’s place as it was sometime since I had seen him (all this while I was waiting for an opportunity to visit him). When I enquired about his mother he took me to her room where I found her lying on a cot totally immobilised. There was a nurse in attendance. My friend then told me “She has been like that for more than a year now, partially paralysed and failing eyesight. Of course over the years she had been suffering from a slow deterioration of her mental faculties. Though she can recollect certain things from the past, the present to her never really embeds itself in her memory”. When my friend told her my name there was a faint acknowledgement with her movable hand. When I leant close to her she said in a faint voice “why does God not take me away, why does he make me wait like this?”

Before I left my friend said “It is very difficult watching her suffer like this. I should not say this, but the truth is I am also waiting for her to pass away so that she is spared of further agony.” I felt sad for him.

You spend your entire life waiting, waiting for something to happen – a ‘yes’ from a ladylove, a favourable judgement in your favour or even a portending calamity. But it is that helplessness as conveyed by the old lady perhaps is the most disturbing aspect of ‘waiting’ – ‘Waiting for Deliverance’. One can interpret whether the deliverance she seeks is from her suffering or being made to suffer before her final deliverance from this living itself. Whatever it is when deliverance comes one should not be made to wait, it should be abrupt.   

THUS SPOKE THE SAGE

THUS SPOKE THE SAGE

“What is it that you seek from me?” the sage asked.

I had come a long way to meet this holy man. The last few miles I had travelled by foot through a wooded area. The village headman had been good enough to give me the directions to the place where the holy man lived. I had found the place after walking for about an hour. It was a small hut. The village headman had told me that once in a while the Swamiji would come down to the village, sit with them, partake of whatever they offered him and then go back. He rarely spoke but would answer any question put to him.

“I come seeking happiness, your holiness” I replied.

“Why do you seek happiness?”

“I believe that it will bring an end to my suffering” I again replied.

“And what is that suffering you talk about, my son?” the sage asked with a smile on his lips.

“This very existence, it is painful.”

“So what do you mean by ‘painful’?” the sage queried.

“Well it’s an unpleasant feeling. It makes living miserable.” I replied.

“What is this feeling you talk about? Where do you think it rises from?” he asked.

For a moment I lapsed into silence and then said “I am filled with anxiety when I think that one day I shall die without ever having achieved all that I have wanted to from life. I shall die without having known what true happiness is. It makes me miserable and I suffer.”

“You really think that if you find happiness it will bring an end to your suffering?”

“Isn’t that so?” I asked.

“No, happiness does not bring an end to suffering. It is the end of suffering that brings happiness. So you see there is no way that you can escape suffering. It is a process that has to be undergone before you reach happiness.”

“And how does suffering end?”

“When you learn to live with it?”

“How‘s that possible?” I asked.

“Well when I said you should learn to live with it I meant that it would be necessary for you to understand the cause and accept the effect as a natural result of your own actions. Once acceptance is there then it ceases to bother you and the unpleasantness or the suffering as you would like to call it vanishes. This perhaps is the state of happiness you are referring to” the sage replied.

“Do you mean to say that I should accept the suffering and do nothing about it?” I asked.

“I never said that. The process of understanding and acceptance is in itself the way to overcome suffering. Life is interspersed with periods of suffering and periods of happiness. Both are temporal in nature and vanish the day you die. After all, both are sensations of our physical existence.”

“So you mean to say that there is nothing like a state of permanent happiness?”

“What I told you is true of our physical existence. This is a reality one has to accept before realising what lies beyond. It is in this process of trying to understand and accept that we ultimately transcend the boundaries imposed on us and may be get a glimpse of that permanent happiness that you talk about, though I would term it as bliss or eternal peace. You said you have come here seeking happiness. I cannot nor can anyone else give you what you want for you are searching in the wrong place. What you seek is within you and that’s where you will find the answers. Running away from reality does not take you any closer to what you are seeking. I can only say that your suffering will teach you more about who you are then your happiness.”

It was late in the evening when I walked back to the village. In that slowly descending darkness as the moon ascended and a gentle breeze blew I was enveloped in that stillness and a strange sort of bliss. I let lay the existential dilemmas somewhere within me for the moment and allowed myself to be immersed in that beyond.

WAKING UP

WAKING UP

“What happened?” I asked, waking up to the gentle nudge of an elbow of my colleague.

“Nothing, the speech is over. You may now rise and shine.” He said.

For the past one and a half hours I was in Neverland and an observer would have decided I was in a comatose condition. That’s what happens whenever the bosses speak and especially if he is the one right there at the top. When we came out of the conference hall I asked my colleague once again “What happened?”

“Forget it, you didn’t miss much.” He replied.

I remember going into the hall and taking my seat only to get up soon after when the Boss entered and then sitting down again. The next thing I was aware of was that nudge. What transpired in between is not even in my memory. I never went to sleep and that’s the truth.

Frankly there have been many such occasions when I did not need a knock on my head to become comatose. . I still remember the various times when I had fallen into induced comatose condition especially when I was studying. These occurrences were mainly during the afternoon sessions, after a hefty lunch attending the ‘Magnetic Fields’ class. As the professor waved his hands in a bid to illustrate how the magnetic lines of force flowed from one pole to the other, I would feel them pass through my head on their way . As the intensity increased I would slowly be pushed into an abyss. Then all would be dark. Once again it was that gentle nudge from the person sitting next to me that would indicate the class had ended. I would wake up to a deafening silence around me and as I stared at the blackboard filled with what resembled hieroglyphics, a strange feeling of having travelled through a time warp and landing in the midst of an ancient Egyptian civilisation would envelop me. I would turn towards my friend and ask him ‘What happened?”

“Nothing” he would say and grin “The class is over and you may now prepare for the next period. Don’t worry the professor was too involved in his magnetic fields to notice you. But I should say that you do have a wonderful knack of appearing awake and paying attention to what is happening in class and I guess those specs of yours are a big help.” I have never been able to recollect what happened during those classes and my subsequent performances in that subject will bear testimony. It was when I opened my note book to study for the exams that I would be confronted by those blank pages.

Sometime ago I saw a very interesting Tamil film ‘Naduvula Konjam Pakkatha Kaanom’. Translated in English it means ‘A few pages are missing in the middle’. It is a comedy about a man who gets injured in his head while playing cricket with his friends just two days before his wedding. Though outwardly no injury is evident and he gets back on his feet after the fall, his friends realize that though he remembers events just before the fall, like his bid to catch the ball, he is unable to recollect anything that happened during the one year preceding the accident. As a result he does not recognize his girl- friend of the last one year and the fact that he is to be married to her. The events leading to his marriage in the end and the efforts of his friend to ensure that the others do not come to know of his condition is just hilarious. Every time they try to make him recover his lost memory, he only narrates his bid to catch the ball and falling down and ending up asking ‘What happened?’ This is repeated so many times during the movie that you also find yourself asking ‘What happened?’ after the movie ends.

I have tried to understand how this happens and did refer to a few books especially Dr. V.S. Ramachandran’s ‘The Tell-Tale Brain’, a masterpiece like his earlier work ‘Phantoms in the Brain’ on neuroscience. But I should admit that midway through such scholarly works I once again lapse into those Neverlands. Ramachandran says while talking about amnesia (that’s what we are interested in right now) -

“Almost everyone has heard of amnesia following head trauma: The patient has difficulty recollecting specific incidents that took place during the weeks or months preceding the injury, even though he is smart, recognizes people and is able to acquire new episodic memories. This syndrome –retrograde amnesia – is quite common, seen as often in real life as in Hollwood.”

Well that’s what I was looking for – whether Hollywood or Kollywood this is a favourite – amnesia. There is so much more in the book and so much more to the head that if we try to delve into the mysteries of our lost memories we are sure to become comatose. I have tried to understand it my own way.

Leaving aside the trauma part of it due to a head injury most of us suffer memory loss as we grow older. This is attributed to the progressive death of those little grey cells we keep hearing about but have not seen –

“So what’s happened to him? He keeps forgetting things.”

“Poor guy, he is suffering from Alzhemiers.”

I don’t mind if they are referring to me. It suits me fine. For me now there are only two states – absent mindedness and selective memory loss. Let me clarify - my slippages are always pardoned, for I suffer from this syndrome ‘Poor man!’ they would say. While I have the last laugh for I choose what to remember and what not to.

But I should accept that I do suffer from short term memory loss distinct from the other two I mentioned above.

There have been occurrences of recent origin that would evoke snide remarks from those around me, that I am growing old. On quite a few occasions I have searched for my mobile in the pouch on my belt and panicked without realising that I was actually talking on the phone or say the time when I ended up searching for my spectacles while wearing them.

Putting aside all that light hearted banter this loss of memory due to an injury to the head or due to a sickness like encephalitis etc is a serious condition. I read an article ‘Waking up from the big sleep’ by Shobita Dhar  in the TOI few days ago. Of course this was on the heels of the news that Michael Schumacher has woken up from an induced coma but that it’s going to be a long and painful road to recovery. The article talks of those coma patients who are slowly rebuilding their lives. Waking up is never like they show in the movies. There is no miraculous recovery. Recovery is a long process and is also dependent on the extent of brain damage. In the most severe form of injury to the head patients rarely come out of coma. The article highlights the fact that though advances in critical care have resulted in better chances of recovery from coma the steep cost of such treatment keeps it restricted to a few.

That brings me to the question – where do memories go when they are lost? If it is because the brain is damaged they are lost, they ought to be somewhere or are they wiped out completely? Such an inane question you may say, but doesn’t it bother you also?

Talking of brain damage reminds me of one of my favourite Pink Floyd compositions ‘Brain Damage’ from the album ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’ a theme based on mental disorder -

The lunatic is on the grass.

The lunatic is on the grass.

Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs.

Got to keep the loonies on the path.

The lunatic is in the hall.

The lunatics are in my hall.

The paper holds their folded faces to the floor

And every day the paper boy brings more.

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon

And if there is no room upon the hill

And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

The lunatic is in my head.

The lunatic is in my head

You raise the blade, you make the change

You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane.

You lock the door

And throw away the key

There's someone in my head but it's not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear

You shout and no one seems to hear.

And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon.

THE ABSTRACT THING

“How do you like it?” J asked me.

“It’s beautiful. I like it. Whose painting is it?” I asked.

It was a photo print of an abstract painting. I have always liked abstracts. They are colourful and at the same time you could never find the form, something like KV’s briefs always colourful but out of shape. Don’t ask me how I know about those briefs, you can never miss them as you stand on your balcony and look at the clothes line down below. Another great thing about abstracts is that you need never go into details and your interpretation remains yours only whatever other people say. You can never be wrong or can never be right and that’s where the beauty of the entire abstract thing lies. I remember the time when I had hung the painting of a famous artist in my living room, an abstract painting and very colourful. Any visitor to my house would stand in front of it, gaze at it for some time and then nod their head in appreciation saying that it was very beautiful and I would look on with pride at my possession till one day my daughter came visiting and the first thing she said was “By God! Papa you have hung that painting upside down.”

For a moment I looked at her and then at the painting. I gathered my wits around and not wanting to sound like an ignoramus told her “But that’s how everyone likes it.”

She didn’t let me go off with that excuse for she continued “Ok, why don’t you turn it around and place it the correct way? Let’s see what they say now.” As luck would have it, just when I had finished turning it around one of my friends landed. He took one look at the painting and then said “Hey where is the other painting? I can see you got another one there now. Frankly I liked the earlier one better. Where is it? Did you sell it off? You should have told me earlier I would have bought it.” I just gave him a sheepish grin and turned towards my daughter with a ‘I told you so’ look. She just nodded her head in exasperation and went to the next room.

Well coming back to J and his abstract, he avoided replying to my question as to who the artist was. He just said “If you like it, get it framed and just hang it in your living room.”

That’s dangerous I thought, so I asked him “But at least tell me which side is up.”

J looked at me with a look that seemed to say ‘why did I have to give it to this guy’ but then he said “Just hang it whichever way it suits you, it will still look good. You can change it every fortnight so that it does not become monotonous.” With that he even promised to let me know who the artist was after making sure that the painting had found a place in my living room.

So I did. The first friend who walked in asked me whether it was a Klee’s painting and when I asked him as to what made him say that, he replied “I just guessed for that is the only name I know when it comes to abstract painting.” I said that I was not sure but it is a present from a friend. Well the next guy who came in gazed at it for some time and said “I know it. It is by Gsski.”

For a moment I kept quiet for it did sound familiar at least the first three letters. Then it dawned on me “You don’t mean to say you think that this is my painting?”

“Oh! Of course dear chap, who else can churn out something like that!” he replied.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Come on, don’t be upset. It’s so colourful and I can’t understand it, just like I can never understand a word of what you write in your blog.”

A few days later KV landed up at my house. I am always scared of this guy for you can never anticipate what he would rattle away and especially after what I have been saying about his colourful and out of shape briefs. But whatever he would say will never be brief. As he settled down on the sofa and his gaze went to the painting on the wall, he perked up and I could see the glitter in his eyes. I knew then it was coming and prepared myself for the torrent that flow, with anticipation.

He gave me a look and a smile which suggested that he knew it all. He said “I know this is by Yana Ndgovinni who did this painting in an Italian village Milazzo in Sicily in 13 days in November 1985. You know he did this painting for reasons other than artistic and was later hauled up for sexual harassment by the model, a young and good looking woman who posed for this painting. Yana in his defence said that he was painting her soul and he asked her to disrobe only to see the soul more clearly.”

He sounded so convincing that for a moment I did not know whether to believe what he said or that he was just pulling my legs, which of course was his favourite pastime. I realised that the latter was true when soon after he had left I turned to my favourite friend, philosopher and guide ‘Google’ who told me that even he did not know of any such artist or such a sexual harassment case.

That was it. I rang up J and insisted that he tell me the name of the artist as I was being bugged by all these guys turning up at my house and offering their learned opinions and in the process making me look like an a------e. I could hear his chuckle on the phone and then he asked me to come over to his place “Come over to my place and we shall discuss this over a peg of single malt or any other malt that you prefer.”

And so I went and when I returned home I was an enlightened man. This is what J had to say after that second peg “Boss, have two more and you will start seeing that all things around here are abstract. My advice to you is to let things be as they are. It is always nice to be in a state of suspended animation and that’s what everyone wants. Life would be boring otherwise. Anyway I shall let you know the secret of that painting if it will ease your mind.” He paused to have another sip from his glass and then proceeded to unravel the secret hither to untold –

“It is not a painting after all. It is just a photo that I took of a pattern painted on one of the fishing boats when I had gone on a photo shoot to Kasimedu. Some poor fisherman must have painted his boat in these bright colours and with the passage of time and the effects of the elements especially the salty deposits has given the boat this look. But in case you still insist on knowing the name of the artist you can always give me the credits and say it is J. You will notice that I have written J at the far right hand corner.”

Yes I said to myself, it’s the way we look at things around us and how authentically we are able to capture those moments as they come and go that determines the artist in each one of us. The boats were there, the sea was there and the colours on the boat were there and it was left to J to capture some of those patterns through his instrument of expression- the camera. Yes J was the artist and so also was that poor fisherman who made it happen through the colours that flowed from his soul.

The next time my daughter came home and when I told her the secret of my new abstract, she said “I know your pal J is a great wildlife photographer. How did he end up capturing boats?”

Though that was a light hearted look at the abstract in art, abstraction as a movement in art was a fall out of the parallel development of the existentialist philosophy. While realism involves the transcription of the scene or character as the eyes see it avoiding any selective bias, abstraction involves the emotional response freed of any imitative intentions and that’s where it relates so closely with the primal responses of the prehistoric man or peasant art. They are indications that the artistic impulse is a natural impulse in even the least cultured of folk. We may surmise that while realism is all about the perception of the external, abstraction is the realisation of all that is internal in our psyche.

  

Any movement into abstraction is always associated with the spiritual. It was Kandinsky the Russian painter and art theorist who in 1910 published his book ‘Concerning the Spiritual in Art’. He says ‘an exploration of the deepest and most authentic motives for making art, the “internal necessity” that impels artists to create as a spiritual impulse and audiences to admire art as a spiritual hunger.’

THE DEATH OF A LAPTOP

THE DEATH OF A LAPTOP

I knew that something was wrong with him about eight months ago when suddenly in the midst of our conversation he blinked. Though this was not the first time, I was concerned, for in the past I knew it was due to a lack of energy and because he was fatigued. He used to come back to his normal self once he was plugged on and the charge started flowing through him. For a long time now he was on support system for his batteries had stopped functioning. I did not get him new ones as I found out they were costly and I couldn’t afford to buy them, but then it did not matter for he was quite comfortable being plugged on directly. It was only later that I realised that he had a major flaw. He used to start getting hot and ultimately too hot for me to handle. I found that the only way I could cool him down was to place him over a cool pad when I woke him up. Of course he was quite considerate for he always kept my coffee warm whenever I placed the cup next to him while working. It was my daughter who ultimately told me that the problem with him was in his genes (you see I never question her in such matters as she is into this biotech and genetics stuff and I have grown to rely on her for such advices from time to time). She said “Pa, he belongs to the AMD family of processors and they have a habit of getting hot very quickly. Why did you in the first place get him when there are more cool headed chaps out there?”

I told her “See he was given to me by Bank and I could take him with me when I retired and do you know he was one of the costlier and smarter ones out there and I did not want to let go of the Bank cheaply. What more, this guy had the ability to turn his head 180 degrees and I could fold him and also use him as a notebook (though of course I never did have the opportunity to work with him that way but I was always proud of showing of his abilities to others around).”

She only said “Since you do not want to let go of him I can only advice you to back him up every time you talk with him, after all you have put all your bets on him and if he decides that enough is enough and calls it a day you will be left high and dry. You see all these guys belong to an older generation and have lost their relevance now. You should seriously be in sync with the new generation.”

I kept quite thereafter for I was not sure whether she was advising me or taunting me. But I did follow what she told me and diligently followed her advice of backing up.

And then it increased the number of blinks in frequency and duration. That was not the only thing. I had also noticed that over the last two years his response time had slowed down considerably and he was finding it hard to recollect his memory. It could have been due to overload on account of my persistent conversations with him, but the doctor told me that he had viral infection. I told him “But doctor I have had him vaccinated a number of times, this should not have happened.”

He replied “You see every day a new strain of virus is causing more complications. I feel that you have exposed him to all sorts of unwanted sites from where he could have picked up the infection. If you ask me his days are numbered. You should actually look for newer and better options. The pity is that you cannot even go for an exchange as no one would want him and even if they do it will be a pittance.”

That was it but I continued with him for he had been a loyal companion all these years and was privy to all my secrets. I watched as he slowly started slipping into coma and then one day he blinked one last blink and then closed his eyes. I tried to revive him with all the methods I knew (quite a few of them had been effective on previous occasions). I wrung his neck 180 degrees and then folded him in and out trying to elicit some response, but to no avail. I knew he was dead, but I called in the doctor anyway and he repeated what he had said earlier and added nothing much can be done except that he can take his brains out and give it to me to be kept as a memory. I accepted his offer.

Now he lies buried below all my dresses in the cupboard much to the consternation of my wife who is ever annoyed with my habit of keeping all dead things with me and these include all my old cameras and watches. But I calm her down saying that who knows one day there might be a museum of all my dead possessions when I become famous and rich. She knows that I am an incorrigible optimist.

My daughter rang me up the next day and said “though in a way I am sad for you, one has to accept the reality that the old order gives way to the new. There is this latest generation Laptop that I am sending you – very sleek and fast and has a good memory and I am sure that I shall at least be able to hear and see you on Skype when next time you call.”

Yes the old order gives way to the new and that’s how it will always be. So what’s the difference between us and a laptop?