Category: Writing

Brownness, Myself, Writing

No Words

Sanjay Sabarwal
English: Man with a turban, Bhopal, India. Fra...
English: Man with a turban, Bhopal, India. Français : Homme avec un turban, Bhopal, Inde. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

.

The music fills the room and my soul. Silence is my best friend while I pray for the music to enter me. I wait for inspiration. Nothing. Silence. I keep waiting.

No words come to mind.  I am blank.  The heart is too full of hurt and regret to allow anything out to anyone.  Time passes. The coffee cools.  Outside, I see a few old couples power walking.  Usually one is ahead of the other.  What is it about doing things as a race?  But that’s not true either. I know that’s my perception. My need to compete with anything. Always me. The “I” never lets go.  Me. Me. Me.

I notice the old man.  I have been seeing him for years. He is an old turbaned Indian, clean shaven, riding a bicycle.  Slowly. Methodically. Sometimes he is a carrying a child but mostly he is alone, chugging along. I often wonder who he is,  but really the main question I have for him is: Why the turban?  I want to ask “Are you from a village” or “Are you a Sikh who does not believe in keeping the hair?”  Where are you going, my friend?  Do you realize you have become a staple in my life?  A quiet one.  Someone who seems to ride by me whenever I am struggling with who I am.  You are a sign, but I just don’t know about what.  I watch you slowly go by me, and I am tempted to run out and stop you and ask “who are you, my friend?”  Yet, I know how crazy that is. s

So I sit here, watching you go by while the coffee has gone cold, and the words still seem to be eluding me.  Silence. The music keeps playing…

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Brownness, Myself, Writing

Spring Cleaning

Sanjay Sabarwal

 

I read somewhere the best way to spring clean is one small area or cupboard at a time.  Yesterday, I started with my medicine cabinet, one of the smallest in my house.  It took me an hour to get rid of expired medications, open packets of various sorts and 15 different kind of pain patches (both wife and I have had at one point or another back spasms), and try to coordinate what medications go on which shelf.  One hour.  And I still wasn’t quite happy with it. It wasn’t as clean as I wanted it to be. It wasn’t shining or perfect the way I wanted it to be, but I finally let it go because I was tempted to go on to another cabinet.  All the while, I could not believe how much crap I had stored in the house ( I can’t blame my wife since I lived at this house by myself for a long time). I wanted at that moment to clean it all!

Feb Challenge Day 24_inside your bathroom cabi...
Feb Challenge Day 24_inside your bathroom cabinet 6 (Photo credit: raganmd)

It kind reminded me of my writing.  I start with a blog post, and the next thing I know I want to write a novel.  Yet I know, it’s a step by step by process but somewhere I fall off. I can’t seem to figure out between doing too much, too little or nothing at all.  I don’t know how to be steady. I don’t know how to take it step by step. It’s as if I am hardwired to either sprint a marathon or sit on the stand and watch others go by me.  I have always been the type to need the recipe or manual on how to do things.  Well, guess what, life doesn’t come with one (no shit Sherlock), and so I flounder. I don’t look at what I have accomplished: a clean drawer and a blog post, but more at what I did not get to.  I read somewhere that you have to acknowledge your successes no matter how small. I think I am more afraid that I will become content with just that, and that is something I am just not willing to accept.  So I push myself. I will spring clean the whole house, and I will be a writer.  There is no middle ground!Back Camera

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Brownness, Journal, Myself, Random, Writing

Indian

Sanjay Sabarwal
shalimar the clown
shalimar the clown (Photo credit: dltq)

 

Cover of "Bombay Time: A Novel"
Cover of Bombay Time: A Novel

 

Cover of "Junglee Girl"
Cover of Junglee Girl

 

 

I still cannot believe the words that come up on this screen.  My cup of tea steams, waiting for me to drink it down.  The dog watching my every move, believing any second now I will take her for walk.  The quietness of the morning, interrupted only by rare passing cars or the random barks of dogs who think they can take on the cars, seems loud.  The hardness of the chair I am sitting on, digging into my butt deeper and deeper as if looking for something inside me, makes me realize how much effort it takes to put on these tiny words onto this screen.

 

The remnants of a dream come to me just now. An old couple I am visiting insist I take the 2 books I was admiring in their library. I don’t know who they are, but I confidently tell them to feel free to come borrow anything from mine. I also brag that mine is bigger (Freud anyone).  At that, I look around and see what I have.  There’s Bharati Mukherjee‘s The Holder of the World right next to by Bombay Time by Thrity Umrigar.  Then there is Junglee Girl by Ginu Kamani, overwhelming Love from Punjab by someone named Dhillon. My Indian collection is a source of pride for me.  I used to visit the book store, and look for any Indian authors because I believed it was important to have them in my library.  I don’t know when my enthusiasm waned, or when I stopped buying any books.  Perhaps it happened when I realized that I had more more than I could possibly read in 6 months or maybe it came when I look at the titles, and most of their stories don’t come to me.  Lately, my memory is not what it used to be.  It is a fact that I am painfully aware of, and makes me want to reread all the books in my library especially the Indian ones.  Salman Rushdie‘s Shalimar the Clown beckons me, and does the anthology Our Feet Walk the Sky. But then I realize it’s not just about the Indians, it’s about all the words that surround me.  They all are staring at me, almost wishing for me to create my own. Silence…

 

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Myself, Random, Writing

Prison

Sanjay Sabarwal
English: Writing «Shit_happens»
English: Writing «Shit_happens» (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Words escape me.  I am like the prison where I can’t hold them captive.  Instead, I am constantly on a state-wide hunt to be able to say something.  Yet, I know that’s not true exactly either. I hold one big prisoner: Fear.  And in the interrogation room, I question FAITH and BELIEF.  I don’t know if I have the actual ability to write more than a few pithy blog posts, and maybe by some luck, a short story.  So I sit here on this hard chair in my library surrounded by words of others, waiting for inspiration. But if I am being honest, maybe I am just praying for talent, or maybe I am asking someone out there to get me started.

Either way. I sit here yet again posting about not writing, but hey that’s considered writing, right?  What is it they say, if you want to write, write!  So here I am pushing out words like dry turds, hoping that at some point I can make real shit. OKDOGA, maybe not shit shit, but more like something that is more than just empty words.  Yet, I also know that’s not what the real battle is about.  Part of writing is being truthful to yourself, and others, but I am not ready to share what is inside me.  I am afraid. I am not ready.  So I sit here alone, wondering what is it that I want to do with myself. Now that’s a question, I have struggled with all my life. Even at 41, I still don’t know what to do. I don’t mean to suggest I am unemployed, but more that I am uninspired.  A lot of things intrigue me, but nothing has come forth that has taken me prisoner.  I am free in the worst way possible.  I want to be imprisoned, but nothing is holding me back.  Not yet anyway.  Here’s to hoping, that someday I will be free…

Myself, Writing

Going Back To Cali Cali

Sanjay Sabarwal

Today starts my efforts to become a different me.  Ok, maybe that’s a bit over dramatic.  What I mean perhaps is today  I begin the process of going back to who I was just a few months ago.  I was working, working out, writing, and just all around doing the things that made me who I think I am.  A few months ago, something happened to me that radically changed.  I don’t mean to be secretive but it is the kind of thing that those close to me know, but is not really information you share with others unless you want sympathy. That’s exactly what I DON’T want so instead I will annoy you with this mini non-explanation.  I can no longer work out due to medical reasons.  I can walk.  That’s about it.  For someone like who has always ran ahead without thinking, this usually means torture.  Yet, I realize that the universe is trying to teach me a lesson.  All the directions and signposts I missed while racing, I now I have the time to stroll by to read and learn.

The one thing that did come back to me through this recent trauma. I missed writing. Like bad.  The kind of missing that suddenly made me wonder why I stopped in the first place.  I have always written when things are bothering me, but reading some of my old posts made me realize that a lot of them were almost vendetta-like. I was more interesting in hurting others or whining than really writing so hopefully that stops.  Recently, I have been reading www.zenhabits.com, and one of the suggestions from the site is breathe, and let things flow through, and as my very wise best friend Jemal told me to be a rock and let the stream go through instead of fighting it.  So today, I will begin the process of becoming a rock. To breathe. To stay calm.  To not worry about the life lost, but celebrate the very wonderful life I do have.  Here goes.

Writing

Time

Sanjay Sabarwal
Punjabi
Punjabi (Photo credit: John C Abell)

I have been meaning to write. I mean it. I really did.  If only somehow, I could have transcribed the words from my brain to the blog, life would be easy. No wait, on second thought.  That’s probably not a good idea.  I am coming to the end of a workday, and somehow it seemed fitting to close out the business hours with something on my personal to do list.  Something that I can say I am truly passionate about.  Before you say self-pity, I meant the new convictions in my life.

I recently turned 40, and let’s just say it hasn’t been easy to NOT feel sorry for myself.  I want to read more, work out more, write more, travel more, do all the things I have been promising myself now since I was 18.  Then it hits me. Why not start now?  What is really stopping me?  So here I go again (Sorry family and loved ones).  Writing, that is.  But there will be a change.  That much I promise you.  I am going back to my roots (no I am not going to write in Punjabi).  I will become a columnist. What will I write about, you ask? (at least,  I hope your asking)  The life around me, my new passions, things that piss me off.  Perhaps it will be much ado about nothing, but I will be writing, moving the fingers across the keyboard, keeping the writer in me on life support, because I know HE is dying.

So here goes to the new me.  Wish me luck!

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