Joys Of Writing

The year 1976 was a ‘watershed’ year for me. Prior to this, there was a recognizable spark for creative writing in me, I was faintly aware of that, but it was not pronounced. When I reflect on that phase in my life, I can remember quite vividly how I began to write. Two of my close buddies, and remember they are brothers, were instrumental. I shall, therefore, write about both of them.

The first to listen to my stories or even read them was this guy called Cheena. He was younger to me by a couple of years and I used to frequent his house quite often. The reason why I went to his house was, however, not to meet Cheena but his elder brother Kitcha. Now, Kitcha was my classmate and a brilliant student in our school. He always stood first in the class and he achieved this quite effortlessly, while the rest of us had to slog and toil to acquire decent numbers. Kitcha and I are close to each other and I consider him more like a brother than a friend.

My interactions with Cheena happened during my visits to Kitcha at his house. I was fond of stories and so was he. My interests were Crime and Thrillers and so were his. My involvement with stories did not stop only with reading fiction but also imagining it. I would make stories in my mind and narrate them to Cheena who would gleefully lap them up. The more he opened his big ears, the more the storyteller in me responded.

One fine day Cheena rushed up to me with a magazine in the Tamil language. It is a very popular magazine and they had announced a story-writing contest in their latest issue. He enthusiastically waved the magazine at me and said:

“ Ravi, this is the opportunity you were looking for. See, a story contest! You must write a story and send it for the contest.”

“Cheena, this is great. But I’m afraid I cannot participate.”

“Why? Your stories are so good”. 

“ You may like my stories, I too like them, but they are all in my head. I have never written a story. Also, remember that this story has to be in Tamil. I speak Tamil but can hardly write in the language. Telling a story is one thing and writing one is different.”

“Nonsense, this excuse is ridiculous. You tell me the story and I will write it in Tamil. OK?”

The idea appealed to me, but I was still not sure that I can do it. Cheena was a kid and gullible. He liked me and I liked him. I made up stories for him, especially for him. These stories were born out of pure imagination and I would forget them as soon as I finished narrating to him. They were meant to be like two-minute noodles, cook, eat, digest, forget. Nothing more.

Cheena was adamant to make a writer out of me and I did not wish to disappoint him. I sat down and began writing a story about how a secret Pakistani mission was conducted in India. I don’t recall the whole story now but it went something like this. Four Pakistani spies infiltrate the Indian Air Force. Their mission is to deploy bombs from the aircraft on 26th January, Republic Day when the IAF fly-past happens. They somehow manage to get control of a MIG 21 which is scheduled to participate in the event. They are supposed to emit tri-colour fumes but they manage to smuggle lethal bombs into the aircraft. Of course, the conspiracy is uncovered in time and the plan foiled.

Both of us were thrilled with the story. I was also happy that I could write stories. Cheena worked on the Tamil translation and read it out to me. It was better than my English version and we decided to send it for the contest. We waited with bated breath for the results, and when they were announced, we felt disappointed. Our story could not make it to the final cut. I remember Cheena reading out the winning stories to me. Both of us felt our story was much better and deserved to win.

Well, this was the story of my first creation inspired by Cheena. But I would not be doing justice until I tell you how his brother Kitcha inspired me to write poems. In 1976 Kitcha presented me with a Diary which his father had got from somewhere. I asked him why he did not keep it for himself.

“Look, Ravi, this diary is useless for me, but valuable for you. You are a writer. I know you and Cheena wrote something for the magazine. You will be able to use this better than me for I do not write much.”

I thanked him and that very night I decided I would start the diary by writing poems. I wanted to begin right away and so I took out my pen, opened the diary and began writing. I wanted my first poem to be a dedication to my friend. After a great deal of thinking I wrote the poem, which, I would now like to reproduce for you readers. Just remember that it was inspired by my friend and I was not adept in writing poems. The poem is titled “MY FRIEND”.

Never in all the world

Kan you find a friend so

Rich in heart and broad in mind

Irresistible, adorable and kind

So understanding and patient

He is that

Nothing can perturb him

Any trouble I face, he is at

My side

Asking me not to fret

Cracking jokes, always smiling

He is an optimist, enjoying

And absorbing the gifts of Nature

Receiving failures gratefully, as

Inevitable steps to success.

Well, that was my ode to my dear friend. Now you may wonder why I have marked the first letter of each sentence of the poem in bold. Well, my friend’s formal name is N. KRISHNAMACHARI, and if you read the bold letters down, you will find his name. Childish, wasn’t it?