When you blog frequently, and if the blog is of a personal nature and not social or political commentary, then all is not well with you. Something must be needling you or worrying you, some pent-up emotion begging to be let out. So much so that you feel terribly lonely, in spite of having company, and feel like reaching out to those who read you and -- perhaps -- understand you. It is a different matter that you never really share what you are tempted to, because real stories can never be told, and end up writing about something else.
I say this from experience because during the happy and calm phases of my life, I have found myself ignoring the blog. In fact, during the happiest and the most peaceful period of my life, which was March 2006, I did not write a single post except this, which I still value as my most favourite post so far. Rishikesh had made me peaceful. I suddenly had nothing to say, nothing to share. Life was like sitting by the Ganges and watching the river glide away.
But for several months that preceded the trip to Rishikesh, I was a prolific blogger. I was single and very lonely, and I would write lengthy posts in order to reach out and, in the process, maybe connect with that elusive someone. The soulmate never came, but by then the writer in me had found his voice. Till then the voice was tentative, subconsciously looking for an idol to style itself after. But after about half a dozen posts, it had found its own style.
Today when I look back at those days, they all seem to belong to the distant past. But in reality, they are like weekdays leading up to a Saturday that is today. I started the blog in October 2005, got married in April 2006 and had a couple of meetings with the publisher that year, signed the contract for Chai, Chai in March 2007 and travelled for it rest of the year, wrote the book in 2008, got it published in 2009, expecting the second one to be out in 2010. One thing has led to another in quick succession.
I still remember the day I signed the contract for Chai, Chai. I hadn't thought of a name yet, but in the contract I was supposed to make an entry. "Write anything that comes to your mind. This is just a formality. You can change it later," the publisher told me. He is a busy man, and sitting right in front of him, I considered it inappropriate to ask for a smoke break so that I could think of a title. So I wrote out a name, just to quickly finish the ritual of signing the contract. According to the contract, the book should have been called Don't Pass Me By.
Today Chai, Chai, at least for me, is history, even though it is barely three months since it came to the bookshops. I am no longer the person who wrote it. The person who wrote it -- a carefree man who was smug about his conquests but did not know what personal loss meant -- died the day my mother died. Today I am a slave of my moods -- at times bitter, at times sage-like, but rarely happy. On top of it, many battles waiting to be fought, starting with the wrestling matches with words.
That should explain why I am so regular on my blog these days.