The Walking Unread

It starts with one transition. And before you know it, you are staring at empty pages and wondering how in that brief momentary weakness, you thought you could pursue hobbies like writing, singing etc in this lifetime. Very recently I heard Vikram Seth give an interview. He had started off in a 9 to 5 job, realized he cannot work in a place like that and started writing instantly and like a writer’s fairy tale he was instantly picked for publishing. He worked and still does in a different time and place: One without education loans and retired parents. Meanwhile, in a world far far away Seth’s namesake runs an organization that openly embraces the existence of these mundane responsibilities. So while Seth paints beautiful paintings and reads poetry while publishers sit biting their nails over when he will deliver, two doors away there lies a pile of papers which read of lost authors almost accomplishments. We, the walking unread, are a huge population. We thrive in the fact that a few loyal friends read what we write. We feel bad when the number of views on our blogs fall below 100 and every night when we listen to likes of Seth talking, we dream of the day we will own a book that has ugly connotations of India and reeks of social and cultural stereotyping. I know this reads like the rant of a self obsessed desperate author. But it is more like an attempt to rewrite illogical systems. I work in a bank as some few and numbered readers of this blog might already know. And my world is different. In my world, Murakami and Seth are considered same genre. In this place, people laugh off all kind of philosophical discussion and they have no time wonder about the higher questions of existence.

Which world do we belong to? The walking unread belongs to a class that stays put in this world all their lives and for those two seconds of rants on bloggers, dream of what it would be like to be a real writer. I love this world. The challenge of an empty page is a bigger appeal to me than that of an empty excel sheet. For now, it’s just a return to my favorite challenge. Tomorrow can be reserved for the mundane and morbid.

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