Well....

For the last year or so I've been pondering over writing a novel. I've made bits and pieces starts on nnumerous occasions, each time giving up in a day or two. I know what I want to write about. I know the general direction in which my writing is going to move. But when I start words betray me. This strange phenomenon has become a common thing in my life. I converse with myself beautifully. But the moment I try putting down the same thing on paper or perhaps even sharing it with someone, I find myself at a complete loss of words. It seems strange. Almost eerie. I used to feel the same in drawing classes. I could see a picture on the canvas of my mind. I could peep into this world of thought & could note the most minute details. And yet my sketch would not resemble it the least bit.

Should I go abroad for further studies? My whole life lies here in Bombay. Of course family & friends & yes you guessed correctly. But more than all that, I belong here. I am a creation of this land. My appearance, my clothes, my language, my attitude, my extensions protruding into the outside world, my thoughts, my dreams and even the 'I' in me belongs here. Will I survive elsewhere? Willl 'elsewhere' allow me to be myself? Or will it hack me into pieces, modify each one of them the way it wants & refit to create a new me? Will 'elsewhere' pamper me like this place has? Will 'elsewhere' be a surrogate mother to me? Will I feel at home after losing my way elsewhere? Will I get a free glass of water after roaming aroung 'elsewhere' looking for some unknown objects in the hot sun? Or will 'elsewhere' shun me, wanting me to start travelling in a car?

I think I will do what I've always wanted to do. Go & come back. To go never to return doesnt fit my idea of perfect universe. I hope it doesn't fit hers too.