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| ABHA IYENGAR is a writer who finds life stranger than fiction. Her work has appeared in Door Knobs and Body Paint, 3Tryst, Tattoo Highway, M.A.G., Raven Chronicles, Kota Press etc. She is a member of The Poetry Society of India. |
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| "my song" I am writing. So I ignore the dust gathering on all the print-outs piling up on the desk on the side. These print-outs are the reference points for my book which I have been planning to write. The dust is gathering on most things but my mind is as fresh as a shampooed hair. At the moment I am writing a piece for an online literary magazine which is not going to pay anything, but I still want to write for it. I like the subject, or I like the views of the magazine, it could be either. So the dust gathers, but I am busy. I try not to let the phone calls and the door bells interfere with my train of thought. Today the phone is out of order, and I don't know whether I should be happy (since I am undisturbed) or sad (since an important publisher may be trying to contact me). My husband walks in from work and asks me why I look so exhausted. "I am writing a story," I say. "Don't do this if its affecting your health. Where is it getting you anyways? You seem to be more in love with the computer than with me." A note of jealousy and neglect creeps in his voice. It rankles me, though my friends tell me I'm lucky he cares. I rush to make him some coffee, to make amends, suddenly apologetic about my preoccupation with the keyboard. Where is it getting me? Does my life have to be going somewhere all the time? I'd just like to be, please. Sometimes I begin to consider other options, which will make it seem as if I'm doing something worthwhile. A housewife and a writer are both big no-no's if you want to be appreciated. I dialogue with myself. "I should look for a job?" "Nah. Impossible at this age. And it would tire me even more." "But some moolah may be added to the kitty. And I'd have a proper job." "It'd all be spent on doctor's fees." I reassure myself. This is good. So what if everyone makes me feel as if I'm doing nothing much, pounding keys? What should I be doing, kneading batter for pancakes instead? That would be more fulfilling for me. A full time housewife, not a half baked writer. That's what I should believe. The dust lies undisturbed, and night falls. My husband has gone to bed. The sound of the tapping keys continues till dawn. The sun's rays slant into the room, and I put my head on my desk. This is my unheard song. ### |
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