It’s been a few months that I haven’t scribbled another word in this blog. Well, almost a year.
Gradually I am starting to realize how much might authors suffer when nothing comes to their mind, their typewriter is silent and there is no flow of ideas, no story to tell – a condition when added with work and study – becomes the biggest excuse to procrastinate. Maybe it is called a writer’s block.
Today I opened my pages trying to pen something. As I stared into the vast expanse of this huge compound led by a McDonalds outlet in front of me, everything became inaudible and invisible as a thunderstorm, short-lived but vociferous made much noise – as if it was a youngster seeking attention. Monsoons in December is my first source of quirk; it has always been the start of the dry season at this time in India. In this green, tropical country with eternal spring, gleeful social media posts by friends and family back home regarding the ‘chill in the air’ and their annual revamp of winter wardrobe made no sense. I felt a tinge of jealousy not without the joy of being able to wear lighter clothes. This part of the world has impressed me already. Lately, I’ve been thinking of getting one of those pretty, frilly orienrellas. They don’t promise to protect against rain or sun but make you feel a little more special than usual. And why not, if I were a young East Asian girl, I would have also made an effort to look perfect even on exam day. I would have also invested in pinks and peaches, ruffles and laces. I do think now that not taking life too seriously is a hard-to-adopt, but a really good idea!
Months went by, and came June. My course is over and so is my tropical vacation. I am back to India and trying to re-adjust to the life here. The first two days were horrible – not only I was incredibly perturbed by joblessness but also a fear of loss of freedom. Indeed, the little red dot gave me the feeling of so much independence that back in my own home town I felt nervous. As soon as I cleared immigration and exited Kolkata airport, I landed into a humid, noisy taxi bay with three out of five men staring at me as if I am a durian being carried in a Singapore bus or MRT – obnoxious yet delicious. While I tried shouting at them as my usual self, nothing came out my mouth; living for less than a year in a mild dictatorship and an extremely comfortable society has admittedly made me slightly more tolerant than ever. All I did was to smirk and leave.