Bubble Wrap

Years ago, when we were kids, the happiest moment was something new coming home. A new TV, mixie, anything. In those days, TV didn't come with 100 channels and a mixie didn't mean a thing- but we still looked forward to their arrival. All thanks to those small little bubbles they came wrapped in- bubble wrap. How much we loved bursting each one of them. My elder sister always had her go at them first and left the remainder for us lesser mortals. How systematically we sat and burst them. In a straight line, one by one.

Amazing, how that teeny weeny plastic balloon would make you feel. Years later, when I started working, bubble wrap was available much more easily. For starters, there were no elder sisters and agencies, get loads of pretty bubble wrapped showreels. So there I was, in my bubble wrapping heaven- stress busting my way to the next headline. The feeling was always the same- beautiful.

But somewhere in the middle, playing with all those sheets of bubble wrap, I got trapped in a bubble myself. And I promised myself that the day that bubble would burst, would be the end of all things beautiful. How funny are the ways of the human mind, one moment you're bursting your way to freedom and the next, you're trying every possible trick in the world, to make sure your pretty little bubble doesn't explode. But bubbles have a life of their own you know, and try as you may, they have to burst. After all, they're just filled with air and trapped air must escape.

I, Me, Myself

A few weeks and a very recent post ago, an observation was brought to my notice. It was on my writing, being self-obsessed. The writer in me, being self-obsessed. Thankfully, the comment came from my favourite critic, and the only one capable of surviving after passing such remarks. I was confused. To the point that I read and re-read everything that I've posted. And the truth was sharply staring me in the face. Yes, my writing revolved around me. But then again, isn't that what it's suppossed to be? The writer in you drawing from the person in you. So, I went back, maimed ego in hand, to the critic and asked- why would you say something like this? The answer came pat- because I've read your diaries, and here, you're writing for people, not for yourself.

After many days of pondering, ego-pampering, self obsessing, and most importantly, thinking, I am back. But the question still remains at large in my head. Do we spend too much time thinking about ourselves and what others will think? Do we draft and re-draft words to convey the desired message? Have we stopped waiting for people to form their own opinions, and have we started forcing our own world-views down other peoples throats? As a writer, I think yes.
As a writer, I think we've stopped writing. In advertising it's easy- sell fairness soap to sec b, sell washing machine to sec a and b, sell superb pre-paid connections to sec c, and let it be known to all that India is a force to reckon with, and that small time India is blooming. In life, it isn't.
In life, it's always about me. What I think. What I believe. What I feel. What I know. But is anyone really interested? It's not like there's a vacant space in some random kitchen waiting for my beliefs to fill it up.

Has the need to prove our intellect, gone beyond the desire to tell a story? Is writing just another form of showing someone, how much of what you know, so that over a random beer, you bask in a shallow halo that screams 'look at me'.