My Love Affair

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I am a writer and I love words. I chose this profession on the basis of my love of writing. I love telling stories, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean white lies but stories of life, stories of humans, stories of emotions. I feel a sense of wholeness when I write. I hold a pen and start writing in a notebook. I open up my laptop and start to type away and right now I am enjoying the simple act of typing my thoughts.  Love has no reason and I so agree with it. The pleasure of writing is in proper acknowledgment and admiration. I write to understand my reactions to different situations. I write to make sense of how others react to me. I write so that I can feel one with my thoughts.

Everything that happens is a source for ideas. Even a difficult experience can be turned into fodder for a story, poem or book. This can be transformational. I can access the minds of the readers and touch their life. I write to make sense of the thoughts in my head, to bring out parts of myself into something tangible. Writing allows me space and time to express myself more authentically than I might in conversation. Not only is the process of writing challenging and exciting, when I am finished I have the reward of a story that I have brought to life. I feel that writing is a soothing exercise which helps me to make sense of the world by exploring my own written ones. Writing expresses feelings in a way that is only possible through the process of putting words on paper–and that is an irreplaceable experience. I just love words and writing, and I want to share this love with others.

I’m hopeful that my love of writing will continue to grow. For my readers and for my friends. Anyone who has this passion knows what I mean. And with my writing I am hoping to bring the writer out in each of us. Aristotle’s definition of happiness is ‘deploying your full force along lines of excellence.’ Being a writer lets me do exactly that. I work hard. My work is good and useful. I am happy doing it.

I am participating in Half Marathon Blogging Challenge with Blogchatter.

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Festival Of Words – 7 The Lowland

 

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The Lowland – title refers to a marshy stretch of land between two ponds in a Calcutta neighborhood where two very close brothers grow up. In monsoon season, the marsh floods and the ponds combine; in summer, the floodwater evaporates. You don’t need your decoder ring to figure out that the two ponds symbolize the two brothers — at times separate; at other times inseparable.

As a college student in the late ’60s, Subhash’s younger, more daredevil brother, Udayan, becomes involved in the Maoist “Naxalite” political movement, set on bettering the living conditions of India’s poor through violent uprising. Subhash, in contrast, dutifully dedicates himself to personal, rather than collective, improvement: He earns a scholarship to study science in America and moves to Rhode Island. For a couple of lonely years in a student boarding house, he learns to live without the voices of his family. But when Udayan is executed by the police in that very same marsh between the ponds, Subhash races back to Calcutta. He goes to comfort his parents; but, as it turns out, he also rescues his murdered brother’s pregnant wife, Gauri, from her own diminished future as a widowed (and unwelcome) daughter-in-law.

The Lowland is a novel about the recklessness of youth, as well as the uncertainty and lament that can make a long life not worth living. Toward the end of The Lowland, a figurative monsoon finally hits, rousing Subhash out of his lifelong nervousness, that mud hiding place Lahiri describes in her lyrical opening. Part of the beauty of this novel is that it’s far from an inevitable end whether this hard rain will give Subhash new life, or drown him.

There is an alike nonexistence even when it comes to depicting America or contemporary India. There are passing references to the civil rights movement and the antiwar demonstrations, to organic farming and an Obama sticker, to India’s vaunted new economic policies and to the re-emergence of the Naxalites. It makes all four generations of the family appear strangely bereft, not so much upwardly mobile immigrants making it into the promised land as much as characters flailing at the boundaries of life, wanting to be let across the borders into the unexplained disquiet that distress so much of the rest of humanity.

I am taking part in The Write Tribe Festival of Words #5 from 10th – 16th July 2016 

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