I come from a long line of writers, from people who enjoy creating immense meaning out of the mundane. And I have realised, being a writer myself, something that is very unsaid, but of paramount importance to us: we like having someone hear our meaning out, someone who will be an audience, a consumer of your meaning every single time we write something.Â
I realised this because since I have been about 7 or 8, I have noticed my dadu is always reading out his latest short story or novel to my dadi. He always approaches it through a “Does this make sense? Are you sure? Do you like it?” and although he’s someone who has 25-30+ published and reviewed, very loved books, a retired RBI GM with 2 masters and a PhD, I have slowly realised none of that matters to him. He doesn’t look at the shelf of his awards and feel proud or at peace with himself. He knows he’s worthy of all of those, that tens of thousands of readers that read his writing adore him beyond his knowledge, and he likes that fact, But what of that one person who he unconsciously creates all of this for?
The only damn thing that matters to him, what gives him the motivation to keep writing, is my dadi’s “Haan haan, bohot badhiya” even on the days she’s distracted by solitaire. All that he can hope for is her very simple nudge. What could matter more than the acknowledgement of your creation, the appreciation of your experience from somebody that knows you and shares in it with you? Nothing.
This realisation naturally changed a lot for me, because I couldn’t help but reflect on how even if you have the entire world doting on you, it tallies to almost nothing if the one person you do it all for doesn’t witness all that you are and all that you do. You create meaning only with the hope of someone else calling it meaningful too, even if you both are the only ones to think so.Â
When you realise things of such nature, you know where a lot of your very raw, natural behaviours come from and how they make you who you are.
I love hearing back from people when I share my writing. More people resonate with, cry to and adore my writing than I could ever ask for, and every day it reminds me of how intimate the sheer act of being human is, and how much love oozes out of mere words. But I still care, from time to time, for just one person to sit opposite my bed with their legs folded and listening to some unsung musings I might very possibly be the only person who cares for. They would gasp and nod and laugh periodically, at some seemingly important set of words I read out with emphasis. And they would not know what I refer to at all. But they might care, just because I do, and in that interaction of listening and reading, the two of us would create art all by itself.
What is love if not the shared experience of meaning? If it isn’t the deepest and intimately shared language of love and care, I don’t think it’s anything.