An update to the ABOUT section of this blog.
Medicine is my lawful wife and literature, my mistress.
– Anton Chekhov
Rubatosis – the unfamiliar awareness of your own heartbeat, the unsettling lub-dub thumping away within you, telling you everything and something and also, nothing.
Everyone – at some point of their mortality – lies awake at night, committing to memory the faint patterns on the ceiling, humming long, forgotten tunes of songs that work like the scent of a perfume best forgotten; best friends with only their thoughts.
Everyone – at some point of the Planck Time – nurses a constricting heart that is suddenly too big, and yet, too small, to be held gently within themselves.
And when something nice happens, something that makes you smile that warm smile, you have no one to embrace in the crowd of strangers and the not-so-strangers who claim to know you without really knowing to what rhythm you are beating.
We all – we all – think, “This is it. Now what? What’s more to this?”
You’ll always be lonely until you find your kind of lonely. And then, you can share the fascination of being lonely together. What can be better than rowing a boat towards the Unknown, the Unseen, with someone as lost as you? Nothing, right? Right? Right.
And hence, this blog – in joy, in everything.
In the words of Meg Rosoff, “Your writing voice is the deepest possible reflection of who you are. The job of your voice is not to seduce or flatter or make well-shaped sentences. In your voice, your readers should be able to hear the contents of your mind, your heart, your soul.”
I remember having to bear with the scorch of having a ‘bad handwriting’. Looking back, it gives me a good laugh. The journey from having illegible school journals to an obsession with black coupe de plumes set obstinately between the two margins of a sheet of paper has been worth it.
It was, perhaps, the exercise of filling in a ‘Dear Diary’ that makes me relish the act of inscribing – be it colourful flow charts summarising Rheumatoid Arthritis and the biological synthesis of melanin, or the words of Khalil Gibran adorning the refrigerator, or even my own ramblings.
Carving your thoughts on the innocence of the papyrus as you leave behind a scent of your identity while spilling the lyrics of your mind and the logic of your heart using the digitalis muscles of your hand – writing. This simple act is both a luxury and a basic necessity; a luxury because this act that I infuse great pride and joy is nothing but a dream for many. And a necessity because it is the oxygen that makes me breathe life and love, and defines my identity.
Penmanship. Chirography. Literae scriptae.
Sadly, the tradition of handwritten letters has been overtaken by the speed of e-mails, and the joy of receiving greeting cards has been overshadowed by Facebook posts.
And amidst this dying romanticism, the mysticism enveloping the simple act of writing has granted it an astral status that will quench the thirst of many a thirsty like myself.
But in keeping up with the advancements of this century, I turned to this – this blog that you, dear reader, have chosen to visit.
Back in grade tenth – along with my very dear friend, Khushboo – a younger me had dreamt of founding a literary magazine that would catalyse a literary revolution here. Little did I know that a few years down the lane, a part of that dream would come true in the form of The Ziauddin University Atlas. A student-run publication with a blog and a very well-maintained Facebook page, the ZU Atlas was the beginning of a lovely, exciting journey of friendship, arts, poetry, prose, my very dear Docs’ Diaries, music, and even anime – life. It was enchanting to see how, through the Atlas, we spread smiles. Every artist breathes into their work a small part of themselves, and first as the editor and now as the Editor-in-Chief of the ZU Atlas, to see that being appreciated, and nourished, is what we are all about. Taking it a step forward, wanting to spread these smiles, was Dead Poets – my humble little page that began with featuring my posts and is now home to the individual blogging efforts of quite a few aspiring writers, poets, artists, and photographers. Hopefully, one day, Dead Poets will be the publication that I had dreamt of.
To quote Amy Tan, “Writing is an extreme privilege but it’s also a gift. It’s a gift to yourself and it’s a gift of giving a story to someone.”
As a future health physician, I will have the fortunate opportunity to come across living miracles, to feel their stories, to share their stories, and to give a story to someone. Maybe, that will make this life a little more meaningful for that life, and maybe then, I will have all the answers.
So I’ll be myself, and write everything, and smile with everyone.
My dear, loyal readers, I hope that you have had an enjoyable read so far and that you will keep coming back for more.