For the love of writing.

 

Writing is telling a story. It may be true, or it may just be a figment of your imagination.

There used to be a time when writing was thought to be restricted to the elites. Something only the learned would indulge in, writing about the times they lived in, their lives and their surroundings. For common people, writing for leisure was something like cycling for exercise in the 18th century. Unheard of.

So our first stories were stories of lands far far away. Either they had gods and magical kingdoms with demons to be defeated, or we had stories of brave men fighting for justice.

Stories were told, stories were heard. Stories were remembered and then passed on. We would always imagine how the other world would be, even the ones which were close by but still beyond reach. Sometimes we would find a picture and then we would compare our fantasy with the reality.  

Writers knew that everything they wrote had a meaning and a consequence attached to it.  Not much space was taken and each alphabet was treasured. Every word had a purpose and the writers knew the cause.Their thoughts echoed through the hearts and minds of those who read them. Every line had many different meanings and even more interpretations.

The Daily happenings were delivered at the doorstep as newspapers, two inches longer and wider than now, its yellowish tinge making it all the more special.

Mornings started with the elders sitting cross legged with a cup of chai  and the paper in their hands and the younger ones trying to imitate them, sitting cross-legged and trying to open the supplementary section like a book keeping the hem in line. It was a difficult job considering the papers carrying the news were themselves half their size. Many failed. Those who succeeded, found a new world inside.

Lives were shared, Stories were told. Times changed with bold headings. Heroes were created with full page reviews. Celebrities were just frames on a piece of paper or pixilated laughing voices from a box. We lived in a world of fables. A simple, yet beautiful world.

But that was then.

The times I talk about has long gone by. The times when the only net known in households was used to ward off mosquitoes while we slept.

What we saw, what we heard, what we talked about, and eventually what we learned, we would pen down the thoughts that our mind cultivated from them into a piece of paper. Either to show it to someone, or to keep it closed in a journal, hidden from the rest of the world.

Now, things are different.

The late 90s saw the awakening of a different kind of a box. Only this one did not seem to be an idiot. A ‘social experiment’ by the CIA and a guy named Lee came up with 3 Ws and the World changed around us. Suddenly, the paper lost its magic. It was stolen by a plastic typewriter look-alike, only thinner and much lighter. The world did not seem that mysterious, and the land far away came within a click’s distance.

Lives were still being shared but they happened via a massage box on a screen. Stories were still being told, but suddenly, there were more variations than interpretations. Heroes were being created and pulled down with a click of a button. We were willing to believe, and believe we did. In ourselves, and the ones sitting on the other side. The Fog of mystery was being lifted for a world less ordinary and very much real.

The clock ticked by. People got closer. Relationships became like rubber bands. First coming close, and then too close for comfort. We now talked but conscious of every word that was typed. We were becoming writers in ourselves, writing fables of our own, creating identities that we wanted. We just needed a platform. And a platform we got.

We reached the time when the box gave us a chance to say something to the world. A story which we wanted to weave on our own. And this time, the world would be an audience. Suddenly, everyone became a writer. Everyone had thoughts that needed to be shared. Everyone had something to talk about and strangely, everyone had a listener. Every writer had an audience.

The paper was still there, yes. but now, it was just paper. you could not watch videos on it, neither would your comment re read and then commented on. The yellow tinge now reminded of old times.

Now, We live in times where clicks are paid for, and words are not weighed for thoughts, but by their numbers. Where memorable quotes are not remembered, they are re-tweeted. Where an article’s importance is not by its value, but by the number of comments it gets.

Now, every thought from every mind is God’s word. And you have plenty of gods to choose from.

I too, belong to the same group who want their ramblings to be heard and their words to be read. And this space which actually resides in servers and words exchanged by air, provides me a chance to speak out without the fear of being judged and without the insecurity of being incorrect. 

Of course I might be wrong. Who is not.

I am here to tell stories. Of my times. Of my life. Of my people. Of everything I am surrounded with. 

This space in the virtual world is a place where dreams are born. Some may come true. some may not. Who cares…

After all, its the thought that matters.

Doesn’t it?

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