Eight days into the New Year have brought with them the congress of realities merging into the ever-expanding forays of aspirations. I say this with such explicit vigour because for all these years, I have held within the limited spaces of our rented apartments, closets of my own capacities.
Within the closed subspace of my mind, there is a closet of essays inspired by lived realities, a closet of opinions engraved one by one onto political happenings, and a big closet of a “book that is yet to be made”. These are closets confined within the bigger closet of “Writing”. This closet has gotten bigger over a period of time.
Entering into this New Year, I have had enough time at hand to look at this closet. I opened the larger closet – the ignored child that had become a brutal, non-compassionate adult. The drama that it has brought into the dimensions of my life appalls me, scares me, but more importantly, it advocates what has become a recurrent pattern of living – living in fear.
I had closeted each piece of writing – an essay, a poem, a devout collection of memory – to secretly validate the fear of their illegitimate connection with me. Beyond this fear, there was also the fickleness of a closet which was ridden with secrets – what good could they serve, after all?
Stuff has accumulated over a period of time in this closet with sub-closets. With the New Year, the closet has run out of space. And, one fine night as the moon realigned itself into another horoscope sign, one tiny stuff fell off. This small immaterial, when it fell, brought along with years of accumulated writings. One at a time. Then of a sudden, more.
The closet, however, did not open up in space with each piece, each essay falling off its shelves. The closet shrunk in space. It was then, as the fears abundant once, rose to their heights, their wings open to suck in the air in the room I lay down, that I could look at them for the first time. What I presumed as fears, still floated over the thin space of air above me, but as tiny bubbles of grave intensity. They were meant to pop, sooner or later.
So, it is not a resolution to write more. This year, it is about writing steeped in courage. It is about writing to let out, not to closet it in.