Dear Sir,
This is not a good time. The last few weeks have been testing - in ways I am not enjoying. Sleepless nights over adverse orders, new doubts about old stands. Some pain; some anguish. Some residual grief from a past forgotten. Or so I thought.
You know how I always end my pieces with some vague messaging on how I love the hustle of the days. This wasn't one of those days. Haven’t felt one of those feelings. It was numbing. My relationship with spring in this city has always been tricky.
About the piece I missed Sir. I tried. I promise I did. In these last two weeks I have tried and failed. I wanted to turn in something topical – something in time. Like I somehow always manage to do. Something sharp with deep cuts. Something balanced. Something funny. You know my rule right — one for me, one for them. Not this time – there isn't a policy evoking that kind of emotion. No courtroom rhetoric strong enough to make the prose turn.
Is this what they call writer's block?
Do other columnists also face this?
Am I a columnist now Sir?
You know how I always end my pieces with some vague messaging on how I love the hustle of the days. This wasn't one of those days.
No reader cared enough to check either- except my sister. Which was also a grim reminder of my writing mortality. You also did not push much - you were being your kind self. Letting me be – the hustler with only so many hours in the day.
There was also a fever. The seasonal kind that descends without warning and takes the week with it. Nothing dramatic. Just the body's quiet insistence on being attended to for once. It was a difficult time to write. So, I chose the easy way out – I did not.
Sir, you understand more than anyone how writing needs inspiration. So, at the end of my writing wits, I began penning down all possible inspiration. I thought I'd draw from reality.
Women's Day was around the corner. I thought I'd write about all my heroes. Who made this journey possible. And so I began writing about incredible women in my life. Topical enough, right?
My house-help. She makes it all possible. I thought I'll thank her. For being there for me — helping me attain all the male markers. The ‘housewife’ I always wanted. Keeping domestic sanity intact as I went out forging the insane. She quit midway through the ode though. Turns out she herself needed some help back home. And so, between having to pick out clothes on my own and ordering meals over Zomato, I could not find time to close that piece. To be honest, I was also resentful of her leaving and did not want her to feature as a star in my piece anymore. Human failings Sir!
I began again – this time writing about my mother. The woman who sacrificed it all at the altar of her feminist daughters. Raised them to be men. With all due respect to her struggles, I just could not find it in my heart to praise the sacrifice. I felt like I would disrespect her lifetime if I worshipped her super-humanness. Reduced her to motherhood. She raised us to be fathers. And it is a good life. Being a father. And so I began writing in praise of her failing. Her not so perfect mother moments. Her periods of self-care and leisure. Days when she did not wake up to make tiffin in time, or days when she did not stay up beside us studying for that math exam overnight. Days when she did not love my father with all her heart. Those felt real. Those felt worthy of highlighting. But I was not sure if she would be okay with that glorification. And so I gave up. Unlike her.
This piece Madam had to be about law you tell me. Oh yes Sir, I must turn to law now. To keep my promise.
I am encouraging my young niece to take up law these days. I tell her change is coming and the future is women. Maybe through this piece I can also be a little honest and warn her. She needs to know it may be a little longer before the world of men gets used to women being all over. The world will therefore be cruel. Sometimes in more ways than she can imagine. I will urge her to not give up – and also to always keep her guard up. As she always must - while walking busy streets or crossing dark alleys. It will be similar. She should be fine.
Was this law enough for you?
The truth is Sir — law is in everything I wrote. The house-help who left mid-ode, the mother who raised us to be fathers, or the death that came too close. None of it was separate from the profession. Law didn't give me a story this fortnight. Life did. And I am not always sure they are different.
I will file this instead. Call it a column about women — it qualifies. Or call it a missed deadline with an explanation. Either way, it is all I have this time.