Mihir Kamat

Category: Musings

  • I’m back at my writing desk, again

    It’s been a while since I’ve been at my desk penning a piece, and as always, I don’t know where to start. This one’s a bit personal, so I guess I’ll dive right in.

    I’m not an accomplished writer, not even a good one. I’ve quit more things than I’ve started. But why did I start them? Why did I foolishly embark upon a journey filled with words and rhymes and sonnets and novels and posts? Why did I feel the need to spend countless hours glued to a laptop and type out a largely unsuccessful book, which sold a total of 124 copies in its entire lifetime? Why, then, am I still at it? I ask myself this question every single day.

    This is not my primary job. This does not pay the bills. I haven’t even written a single piece in over two and a half years. Why, then can I not hang up my fictitious pen and walk away? Why then do I feel a need to look at my unfinished poems? Why don’t I give up and give myself a way out from this gut-wrenching, emotional world of creative writing? Why can’t I let a typo on a flyer go without letting someone know all about it?

    Why, indeed?

    The answer probably lies in my past. My favorite pastime as a kid was to read the dictionary. A mint edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, rarely the true companion of a six-year-old, alongside an atlas and a general knowledge book. I imagine a curly-haired six years old me running around wearing shorts, probably shirtless since I dropped food on it during my last meal, sitting in the corner learning about words. Words turned into sentences. Sentences to prose. In a few years, I had notebooks filled with rants about my day, and other things teenagers ramble on about. I had many friends and more notebooks to fill with things I did with them. I’d observe them, and write about them. And then read it back. And write some more. And then eat, and go to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

    Notebooks went digital in the new millennium. I discovered my friend’s weblog, as it was called then, and I had to get one for myself. I wrote about train rides and college lectures and first crushes and the associated heartbreak, all in a myriad of languages. I began to receive likes and comments from strangers on the internet. Those strangers, somehow, felt closer than my closest friends.  I’d stay up all night waiting for the like counter to increase, replying almost real-time to commenters. My writing was now no more a personal thing, it was public and getting more views seemed to be the thing that replaced my need to have a personal space. I expanded my range on topics and took part in weekly writing challenges, and in a few months rose to pseudo-stardom when one of the sites featured my poems submitted to the weekly challenge, and I had a few thousand likes overnight. The spike in traffic boosted my fake ego, and I continued to write what I thought people liked. But the enthusiasm was short-lived, and soon I began to feel left out.

    I should write a book, yes, that is what I should do! That was me in my late twenties, now well employed with only a few hours to spare every day, hours that I should ideally have spent sleeping. I should start small, I told myself, and I got on the self-publishing bandwagon. And I pushed “At First Sight” out of the womb of my creativity, had a cousin proofread it and another friend review it just to make sure I wasn’t kidding myself. Then I pushed the publish button, and I waited.

    And waited, and waited.

    The only copies that sold were bought by friends and family. Others were ones I gave away to random strangers over the internet. I’m glad I gave those away because some of the kindest and honest feedback I received were from people I gave away the book to. But I didn’t get the validation my ego sought, and in a year I decided to kill the project. That was the deciding blow to my writing career, and I didn’t want to, nay, feel like I should focus on it anymore.

    I had many ups and downs in my life. More recently, I met a wonderful young woman whom I married and then fell in love with. We had our tender moments and our stupid fights and makeup sessions, where more than once I ended up in tears not knowing why we were fighting in the first place. I knew then that this was the woman I was always meant to be with, and on some level, she knew this before she married me (but wouldn’t admit in public). And as I walked into the sunrise of my married life with my bride, I didn’t feel the need to tell anyone else about how I felt. My thoughts were hers, and hers, mine. I felt complete.

    And yet, somehow incomplete. Those thoughts are precisely what I documented all my early years. What I felt in my heart and saw with my eyes.  During my late night talks with my beautiful wife. When I’m in the shower or sitting on the pot. When I’m stuck driving in traffic. Before the likes and the views. Before the comments and reviews. Maybe I should limp on, try to get better?

    I’m not an accomplished writer, not even a good one. I’ll still probably quit more than I can start. I’ll still take more of those corporate dollars just to keep the heat on in my home. I’ll still spend time arguing with my wife about what I haven’t done wrong yet. But writing? Should I still be at it?

    Yes. Because some things can never be let go of. Writing is such an integral part of me that giving up would feel like I cut off my right arm. Who then, would write about it?

  • The scent of you

    I detect a touch of dissent
    Waking in my every sense
    As my nose follows your scent
    All I need is a weak pretense
    To sniff in your direction, sweet smelling
    Purer than a fresh breath of air
    Of roses or lavender, there’s no telling
    Is a whiff of your fragrant, silken hair
    I hold you close, I hug you tight
    A tender kiss I lay on your cheek
    I pull your face in, to the light
    A wink is all that I can sneak

    You may be busy, with things to do
    But I can’t ignore the scent of you.

    © Mihir Kamat, 2017. All rights reserved.

  • Life at the end of the tunnel

    I stare out at the heather skies, feeling the wind chill on my face and forearms. There’s going to be ice out there one day soon, but not yet. Just not yet.

    I see my neighbors potted plant wilting away, not for lack of love, but for lack of sunlight. It gets me thinking about death and how all things die. It’s never bothered me that I may die tomorrow, get hit by a bus or struck by lightning. People die. Pets die. Batteries, for sure, die when you need them the most. Some die naturally. Others killed for known or unknown reasons. Some fight to live. Others destined to die. But everyone, everything, cannot live infinitely. Everything, eventually, has a limited lifespan. I’ve come to accept these facts of life. But something else bothers me.

    We as human beings, do too, but are blessed with much, much longer life spans. Modern medicine also stacks the deck in our favor, by prolonging life and delaying death. We have the power to effect change, to think, to create, to destroy and recreate, to procreate, to smell, to taste, to love, to be loved. But it’s sad that we end up killing – our hopes, dreams, aspirations, motivations, taste buds, marriage – for reasons that may or may not be important. I see wars, hate crimes, religious intolerance filling my news feeds, but I choose to ignore them. I’m addicted to the unadulterated humanity I’ve experienced all my life. I find it in abundance all around me and refuse to denounce humanity with the example of a few rotten eggs. Why then, do we choose to be messengers of death rather than messiahs of life?

    That stupid, dying plant teaches me a lesson. It’s time has come, time to fade away in the autumn of its lifetime and ready itself for the bittersweet embrace of death. Death comes to all, why should that insignificant piece of vegetation be any different? I look at that potted plant and the way it stands in the bullying breeze it tells me that it wants to live, but can’t because it can no longer fight for itself.

    So that’s it then, it is when I’d stop fighting for myself that I’ll be doomed to die. There has to be fight left in me. I might not be thinking of dying so soon, but I see my life for what it has become. A routine. The banality of waking up in the morning, crunching numbers at a desk then retiring back to bed, only to rinse, then repeat. I’m taught that, in all the hurt and pain of the daily routine, I need to find comfort in the smiles of strangers and the warmth of my friends. Good times, don’t last very long. And I must reciprocate. Love and tolerance are not a one-way street, I must give much more than I’d ever expect to receive to make my life richer, more meaningful.

    I stare out at the heather skies, feeling the wind chill on my face and forearms. There’s going to be ice out there one day soon, but not yet. Just not yet. The darkness that covers my home feels like an extremely, cold, dark tunnel. A tunnel whose end is life itself.

    I must embrace life at the end of that tunnel.

  • Listen to the silence

    Listen to the silence

    This post, originally written in 2007, feels closer than ever today.

    Have you experienced times when you ran out of words? Times when silence did most of the talking? Or Moments when your heart made all the decisions?

    Let me assist you in recalling…

    That moment when you passed your exams, especially when you knew you were sure to fail in a subject or two. And you did much better than you had expected! When you sit alone in your room after the news sinks in, you get kind of numb, don’t you?

    That moment when that girl or boy you have a crush on, smiles at you! You don’t say anything, just smile back! That smile means the world to you. Definitely the beginning of something special.

    That moment when you’re parting with an old friend and the train has just started. All you do is wave goodbye and think about when you would meet again. The heart is heavy, but there’s the hope of seeing each other tomorrow.

    That moment when you’d applied for a job and are told, “You are through! Congratulations!”

    I can go on and on…

    Have you thought about why we never say anything during such moments? It’s as if the words are simply understood. The feelings conveyed through our silence. Happiness, agony, frustration, excitement; everything seems crystal clear during these instants.

    Can you imagine the importance of a silent moment in a song? When Bryan Adams stops for a while along with music, before he goes on in his husky voice… “Please forgive me… I can’t stop loving you!”

    These moments of self-talk are the most important in our lives. Those promises, those decisions. These are the moments which define what we become in life. When was the last time you spoke to yourself? Silently? What does your heart say? Does it accept you for who you are? Or does it ask you to improve? Or ask of you not to give up on something? Or to give something your best shot?

    Next time you go silent; listen carefully to what your heart is saying. Listen to its joy, listen to its pain. Listen to its fears; listen to its desires. Don’t make your heart shut up and go off to sleep.

    And treasure your precious moments. Every time you do something, every time you are with your loved ones – be it friends, family or that special someone. However small the moment, if it’s special – go on, feel good about it!

    © 2013 Mihir Kamat

    Feb 17, 2014 – And quite fits this weeks writing challenge.

  • The storytellers

    We are the story tellers. The dreamers. The seekers. We’re those who see things that others can’t. We’re those who dream with our eyes open. Who see the extraordinary in the seemingly mundane. Or those who like to live differently; see every day in a new light.

    Our stories pull rabbits out of hats. Or paint larger than life pictures, with a million colors splashed across a blank canvas. They take you on a journey. To exotic, magical places, with weird, rhyming names. They feature big, old, bearded men who hold the source to great power and wisdom. Or wizards, witches and fairy godmothers who appear as if from nowhere. Our stories are incomplete without magic wands or potions. They bring to life mystical creatures that take your breath away with their heroics. Like vampires and werewolves. Or centaurs and giant spiders. You could hear the sounds crystal clear, resonating with their every word. Like the song of a humming bird. Or the rhythm of the pouring rain. Or the quiet splash of a teardrop. Our stories portray the different shades of human emotions. Like joy and excitement. Or grief and despair. Intrigue. Anger. Jealousy. Lust. They teach us of hope; of how good eventually triumphs over evil. They teach us to be simple, yet creative.

    And you, yes you, are the fodder for every great story. Everything around us is an inspiration. A spark that lights up the dark corners of the brain. A chore that keeps the idle mind busy. You may call what we cook up fake, half-truths, or blatant lies. But the truth is you are very much a part of it. You are a vital ingredient to every great story. Our characters are really sharp; you can associate them with people around you. That mustached baddie might just remind you of your boss. Or that lady in pink brings to life memories of a loved one.

    There is no shame is falling in love with a good story. It might give you a reason to hold on for a little bit longer. Or inspire you to go that extra mile. Or where no human has gone before. It might implore you to think outside the box. Or to take an extra step to be kind. Not because you can, but because you should. They make us aware that it’s never too late to chase your happily ever after.

    Every story is a dream come true. And we are the story tellers. The dreamers. The seekers. We cook up the unbelievable; it makes life that much more believable.

    © 2013 Mihir Kamat
    Inspired by today’s Daily Prompt – Fantasy.

    Image courtesy of idesignnetwork.com