Part 1: The Making of a Budding Author

It took one excerpt from Little Women for me to open MS Word in my desktop computer and start typing a strange, whimsical piece in Vivaldi font. The excerpt described how Jo March managed to publish her short story The Rival Painters and then read it aloud to her sisters. The idea of reading one's own words, weaving a full narrative and forming an image right before the listener's eyes carried an appeal which made me tickle. With a handful of newfound motivation, I began typing a tale of four siblings who enter a fantasy land via some porthole, if I remember it correctly. Looking back, all I can do is ask C. S. Lewis for forgiveness as my young mind had foolishly tried cosplaying him. The story ended up stillborn as I introduced no conflict and hit a dead end. It had filled only two pages.

My attempts at writing though, met no dead end. A sudden surge of interest in constellations made me conceive another plotline. It was nothing more than a concoction of characters like the Gemini twins trying to save a a rabbit from Orion the hunter, or a maiden shunning the Centaur. My plan of penning down these celestial beings on mortal paper was a partial success. I had showed the manuscript to our librarian at school. She was pleased, showered me with praises, even wrote a positive remark on the online portal but it never got published. I lost the manuscript eventually and never learned about its fate; possibly digested by silverfish. The obsession of including as many characters as I can was reflected in another plot about a large group of cousins. This one, how must I even try describing it? I had imagined our house as a city which I had named Limerick; the staircase served as the fault mountain range called Ode Mountains which led to the Royal Palace and beyond that one would find a river and a forest (The bedrooms). 

After these attempts at starting a good story, I eventually deleted all of them as they sat idly in the desktop's memory. After my sister refused to read any further after one page, I found them futile. Being a fifth or sixth grader then, I had tried my best to narrate the plotlines only to meet the remark that I drag along instead of being concise while narrating. 

Once when I was in eighth grade, a paper was given to each one of us. It contained two paragraphs which were two different openings, we had to continue any of those stories but not necessarily finish them. One was about something taking place in a park while the other one simply described a wall clock. We were soon told that this activity, if done properly, would garner us an entry in the Quill Club writing programme. The Quill Club was a familiar name, it had collaborated with our school a year ago from then. They had selected a few students who went on to write a short story each, these stories were published in a single book. I had held that book and was frantically flipping its pages, finding my seniors' names, photos and stories inside. It broke me, feeling that I missed something important. Thus when I gazed at the two paragraphs lying before me, I knew I had to give my best. 

Therefore I thought, and I thought hard. The wall clock description was a fairly good hook, I could see the clock's ornate, slender needles and the Roman numerals on its face. But why was it so crucial to begin with? At the back of my mind, a story from a Marathi blog surfaced within minutes. It was about a soldier's wife discovering that his watch controlled time. Everything would halt when the needles stopped. Soon my pen began moving, writing in my best possible handwriting. It was in first person. The narrator fiddled with the clock and soon discovered how he toyed with time itself. 

In moments of self-reflection I wonder, was lifting an idea really worth it? My thirteen-year-old self hardly regretted it and it was certain that one would not have given it a second thought, especially when the lifting actually worked. When the shortlisted students were summoned for the next step, an interview, I was elated to hear my name. 

As I entered the room, I saw the mentors seated there. Mr Kumar was a fairly tall, middle-aged man with grey hair, an equally grey moustache and a slightly tanned complexion. His attire was formal, with a pair of trousers and a tucked in shirt. Mrs Mittal, perhaps, stood at a similar height; her dark hair was tied in a pony tail and she bore a slightly darker complexion. She sat as if attempting to dominate the chair, her elbow resting on the armrest and her face pressing against her poised hand. I made sure to sit before them only when they allowed. For some reason, Mrs Mittal had asked Mr Kumar the spelling of 'Sahyadri' when the interview was going on. To this day I wonder what the reason could be. 

Their questions were mostly on personal taste. When Mr Kumar asked in his measured voice, "What do you wish to be in the future?" I had answered while trying to keep my dim voice steady.

"A botanist, sir."

"A botanist." He nodded.

"Why do you want be a botanist?" Mrs Mittal asked.

"Well," My heart shook, fearing that I might face a loss of words. As warmth crept up to my face, I spoke, "I have a deep interest in science, also I feel that I must explore something which describes the world better."

I was shocked by my own response, wondering how I conjured that up. But as I saw them nodding approvingly, I was relieved. 

"Which books do you read?" 

"Well," My mind scrolled through all the names of many writers. The creator of the 'whizzpopping' gentle giant and a hat wearing peculiar confectioner, another one who painted the picture of a girl in the attic of a school who talked of the French Revolution and had befriended a mouse. Not to forget the humorist who poignantly talked of a chawl's past during the war in the heart of Bombay; the writer fondly called the most beloved personality in Maharashtra. 

"I love many authors but, I really liked Pride and Prejudice." I had issued Pride and Prejudice quite recently from the library and was halfway through it. That name slipped out first, later I mentioned Frances Hodgson Burnette and Louisa May Alcott too. Upon mentioning the author of classics such as The Secret Garden and The Little Princess, Mrs Mittal had made a comment.

"It is indeed difficult to remember that name!" I grinned widely upon hearing those words.

"And your favorite film?"

"Many, but I think it's La La Land, the cinematography and all. Each frame is so colourful." I hadn't watched it, my sister had. She had shown me some scenes and they were good. Even today I won't be able to properly answer this question as I love countless films, some I watch on repeat. Yet I could have mentioned Guru or literally any other movie. 

"Very well," Mrs Mittal said, "You have a good taste." 

My heart leapt. Surely, lying through my teeth has left some bitter taste in my memory, but it was clear that they were impressed. My desperation had forced me to commit yet another sin. Upon learning that I was selected, my parents and I were delighted. This beginning might have been a small victory but I did not know what it might spiral into.