Reality

My father asked me over the phone. “Yeah,” I said, reluctantly. He asks me questions like this quite often. I suspect he can hear the hesitation even when I think I’ve hidden it. I am working. I am independent. More often than not, I pay my own expenses. These are things I wanted, and I’m glad I have them. But whenever he asks that question, I struggle to give him an answer I believe. Usually, I say whatever comes to mind first. It gets me through the conversation. Afterwards, I’m still thinking about it. In films, people abandon comfortable lives to pursue what they really want. I find those stories inspiring. I also wonder who pays their rent while they are discovering themselves. It is difficult to make a bold choice when other people, bills and responsibilities are involved. You may want something badly and still have good reasons to stay where you are. I don’t think that makes the desire less real. It does make it harder to act on. Then again, responsibility is a convincing explan...

Delta Spirit’s “Yamaha” is playing as I write this. It’s my weekly day off, and I’ve spent most of it watching other people do things. First, Iron Man 3 at the cinema. Then Dabangg 2 at home. Between Robert Downey Jr. and Salman Khan, several villains have been dealt with. My own problems remain considerably less entertaining. I enjoyed both films. But by the evening, I was bored again, so I picked up my laptop. I thought I might write something. Then I decided it should be something important. That is usually where the trouble starts. As soon as I expect my writing to say something significant about the world, I struggle to say anything at all. I write a sentence, read it and delete it. Perhaps it doesn’t belong. Perhaps it’s stupid. Perhaps I haven’t left it on the screen long enough to find out. I’ve done it twice already. There is something on my mind, though. I recently came close to making a decision, then backed out after receiving an offer I felt I couldn’t refuse. Or perhap...

I thought studying journalism would make me an accomplished writer. I also thought life would become easier once I got a job. In my defence, I had not yet had a job. After a nine-month course, I joined an organisation that shall remain unnamed. I spent six months as an intern, a period that mostly involved getting my backside kicked, before becoming a permanent employee. According to my ID card, I am a scriptwriter. The accomplished part is taking longer. Somewhere between joining the office and becoming permanent, my days began to look suspiciously alike. I go to work, come home tired and think about doing something interesting. By then, a nap feels more appealing than anything I had in mind. I want to write something of my own. But when I sit down to choose a subject, everything either seems uninteresting or too much effort. This is an awkward position for someone who thought writing would be the great pleasure of his life. There are plenty of things I don’t want to do. Going to the...