TWF: A Tribute To Your Love

Every unpublished writer is a burden on his friends, family and colleagues. He or she is a pain to everyone around.

It's my experience, for the last few years.

Before my marriage, I was sharing a flat in Sharjah with two of my The Gulf Today colleagues, and good friends. We three shared a love for literature, music, girls, and what not. We used to meet in the drawing room for drinks, movies, talks, hosting common friends, etc. But we would withdraw into each one's rooms with our individual dreams. We hardly encroached into our personal space.

We had distinctive characteristics, and we respected each other's personality.

One day I took a printout of the new chapter of my book which I had been writing for a couple of years. I was so thrilled at it, thought it was okay writing. In the night, after the usual couple of drinks, and when the youngest one retired into his world of dreams, I approached the third one, who did book reviews for our magazine. I presented the pages of my manuscript and requested him to take a look. He took it, browsed through it and promised to give it a peaceful, mindful reading on the weekend, perhaps over a few shots of his favourite rum and soda.

He was a sweet fellow, and more than trusting in him, I had high hopes--that you see in any aspiring writer.

A couple of weeks went by. No mention of my manuscript or writing talent in any of our drawing room meetings. So many cans of beer and pints of rum after, nothing was coming. Each time he spoke of a new writer he was reviewing, I had expected him to mention my name as an after-thought.

It just didn't come. I waited for over a month. I was beginning to get impatient. It was beginning to hurt me. One day after making sure that he was in the bathroom, I tiptoed into his room, making sure that I was still hearing the sounds of the shower. I ran my eyes all over his study...in the piles of books...in his drawer...No my pages weren't there. I knew he had kept it somewhere safe. I walked back and when I was about to shut the door behind me I saw it. My pages! But it broke my heart. They were under his table. I went in in a flash and picked them up. They were all dusty and had tiny threads of cobwebs beginning cover them. It was evident, he hadn't even touched it.

I hurt me. I walked out with the pages.

This week we are planning to hold the first, and an informal, meeting of Trivandrum Writers' Forum (TWF) at the Cafe Coffee Day at Kowdiar. I don't know how many would turn up. But I want to set up a platform where those who write in English can read out what they have written, and the crowd will not be one of run-away readers. They can discuss writing, writers, blocks, blogs, and dreams.

The TWF is no great shake, but an evening to share dreams and encourage each other. Let our youngsters dream of colours and words, for I know some who have lost the magic of colours, the warmth of words and even their dreams. And, it has hurt me--personal, but it is true.

I am taking the initiative as a tribute to my love whom I am trying to bring back to the world of colours and words. Because, even when she has allowed that passion to leak out of her life, she has believed in me, and has always treated and loved me as a writer--published or not.

Thanks. You know it.