Autobiography of a Writer’s Notebook

…As the feather gracefully descended

back to the moist earth

the breeze softly whispered to it – ‘I’m carrying you to a poet’s study

for her muse should write your destiny’.

Look closely this time, into the white spaces of my pages and you might perhaps get a glimpse of the destiny that had been gifted to me by a force that invariably failed to be explicit and unambiguous, leaving every precious detail of life indefinable, just so the likes of me could learn to discover themselves. I always knew that my unfilled pages were born to preserve the honest musings of a dreamer or poet, though none of this I would have known if it weren’t for that dark-eyed gentleman who bought me as his notebook. He was a well-known writer by then, I was told, though rumour had it that as a boy, he had dreamt of being an adventurous sailor instead, but his father had imagined a much quieter life for his son. And thus, he and I had met.

You see, had this writer not torched my heart with stories of insane murders and deceit that made me cringe within, I would have perhaps remained oblivious of what I so desired to fill my pages with – poetry. And so I loathed that man just as much as I owed this precious revelation to him. It was on that terrifying and fateful day that I remembered the prophecy once read out to me, and inscribed on every inch of whiteness that seem blank to most of you. All this while, the imperceptible had waited in silence for the obvious to happen. And so my pages were forced to overwrite their desire with someone else’s bruised sense of purpose. I was marked with a destiny that wasn’t mine. I was made into a thriller novel that barely resonated with what I was meant to be. Like a million others around me, including my offender, I was living another man’s dream. The single consolation that I now zealously held on to was that I had discovered, at least, what I was born to do; was that a blessing or a curse?

I quietly waited now with pages filled with lines that spoke of intrigue and lust, violence and mistrust. I got the impression that that was what appealed to men most… and I wondered why. I survived the wait, and the weight of those words forced upon me, as the lines of poetry and love groaned unheard underneath the facade that was meant only for sale. Until one miraculous night, when the enchanting moonlight spilled on my ruffled pages and washed off every vulgar word written with dishonesty. I felt light once again after a very long time. Those words of love and Nature  rose and filled every space with their beauty and joy! I was no longer a ‘thriller novel for sale’ that looked like every other book on the shelf but a ‘book of poetry’ for the dreamer instead. These days, I only wait for the moonlight to melt away my miseries so I can come alive for a short while.

Madhurima Duttagupta started her career as a journalist with The Times of India. She has, to her credit, over a hundred published works across several reputed national dailies like The Hindu, Deccan Herald and The Times of India. Since moving to Singapore in 2007, she has held senior editorial positions for leading lifestyle magazines. Madhurima, who is also an active blogger, has recently authored a book titled ‘Goddess & Whore’.