It’s been a tough week, I’m not going to lie. Last year, when I quit a full-time job I had worked in for over a decade to pursue a whimsical, persistent desire to write, I had expected to run into weeks like this. In fact, I am a little surprised it took so long. I will spare you the details but in summary, I’ve been grappling with what alarmists may refer to as an existential crisis. They are sort of unavoidable when you give up a career you’ve built based on the sole professional qualification you possess, to chase a dream. And the thing with dreams is that they’re amorphous, unstructured.
I like structure in my life. I need to have a plan, a sense of where I’m headed, of what lies ahead and what I need to do to get there. It is the reason why I plan my vacations - not to an obsessive degree (I’ve seen travel itineraries distilled down to the hour) but to have a clear idea of how to spend each day fruitfully. I’ve been trying to follow this approach as I plan my writing, but it feels like I’m fighting a losing battle. Writing laughs at structure and spits in its face.
There are some good days: when writing seems like a cakewalk, when the words flow with minimal effort and you wonder why people make such a fuss about it being a difficult vocation. More often, there are weeks when you are bereft of ideas, when nobody responds to the pitches you’ve sent and you feel like you’re floundering in an alien world you’ve barely scratched the surface of. No amount of planning and structuring and scheduling can help in those times. It is easy to get overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things you don’t know about the path you’ve chosen1, your own insecurities2, and your uncertainties3.
I have largely been able to keep these emotions in check but this week we went out for dinner and something happened that breached the walls of resistance. Something, which proved to be the proverbial final straw that breaks the camel’s back.
Friends, I am ashamed to admit it but I paid Rupees 650 (plus tax) to eat bhutta. And not even an entire cob of bhutta - just a few lousy strips of it. 4 There was chaat masala sprinkled on it and this was a blessing because when the waiter asked me why I was weeping, I could lie and say that some chaat masala had gone into my eyes. But the chaat masala was only partially responsible for my heartburn.
The curling strips of ‘sweetcorn ribs’ sent me spiralling into a gloom. A world where one pays Rupees 650 (plus tax) for bhutta (whatever name you assign to it) is a world I cannot claim to understand; and if I cannot understand this world, what hope do I have of writing about it?
While I’ve been wallowing in the misery induced by bhutta-gate, reading about the Fake IPL scam has helped provide some solace. I adore news reports about bizarre and comical events, and the Fake IPL story is as bizarre and comical as it can get. I’m sure you’ve read the details: hired hands who masqueraded as international cricketers, cricket games which were live-streamed on YouTube claiming to be IPL knock-out games, a Harsha Bhogle mimic as a commentator, an audio track added to replicate the stadium ambience, Russians betting on these staged games believing them to be the genuine IPL, and (this is my favourite bit) ‘umpires’ who were “allegedly alerted via walkie-talkie and instructed the bowler and batsman whether to hit a six, four or get out (sic)” depending on the bets.
The Fake IPL scam gives me hope. (Maybe because I was not cheated out of Rupees 650 (plus tax) by it.) To me, the scam brings to the fore attributes we should all strive to instil in ourselves: imagination, cunning, enterprise, courage, pizazz and most importantly, faith. I cannot help but be impressed by the faith the perpetrators had in themselves and the elaborate con they had devised. And, if you leave aside the small matter of them ultimately getting arrested, they made it work! People from as far afield as Russia were betting on these pantomime matches under the genuine belief that it was the real thing. In my book, that counts as a win.
Faith, perhaps, is what I need the most at this moment. Faith, that things will work themselves out as long as I keep plugging away, keep tapping on the keyboard in restless, relentless fervour. Faith, that I will learn to navigate the spaces that feel so utterly unfamiliar today. Faith, that the good days will become more regular and the bad weeks will become tolerable. Maybe this is a lot to ask. But for now, let’s have faith that the world will one day fall for a con of my making as well.
P.S.: Last week I’d requested you to vote for my short story in a fiction competition. My thanks to those who did! The voting period is still open, so please do hop over and submit a rating: click here to do the needful. Do feel free to share the link with friends, family and strangers to help me get more votes (God knows I need them.) Thank you!
Of writing and publishing fiction and/or non-fiction.
Am I good enough?
I continue to struggle with this fundamental question: What the hell should I be writing about?
If you’re wondering why we ordered bhutta in a restaurant, let me clarify that this item had been separately recommended to us by two friends. I will not name them here. You know who you are.
Keep writing, your are a pleasure to read! PS: The only con of your making in this piece is followed by vincing in the same word! -:)
Who eats bhuta in a restaurant and it just short of blasphemy to pay 650 (plus tax sic) Rohan this was a bigger con then the IPL (I mean the fake one).