Muse … a creative influence

I’ve always believed that writers begin their literary journey when they have something to share, something to narrate, something to confess. They then dress up these events and incidents in ‘Fiction’ clothes to camouflage its legitimacy. I also believe most of the stories take birth from the wombs of realism or surrealism.

Writers look at these triggers, whether good or bad as their muse. But then, there comes a time when their muse dies and with it the gratification of creating compelling literature also weakens – to the point that writers stop writing completely. No, I am not talking about ‘Writer’s Block’. This is something more serious, lasts longer and more often than not results in the death of a writer, not literally, but in a sense. It brings about the end of his/her writing expedition.

When the muse dies, the need for audience takes over. However, finding the same is extremely challenging. It is easier to find a fresh inspiration than a bunch of avid readers.

I too faced this stumble block. But then something strange happened while travelling in a Mumbai metro which offered that creative thrust.

I boarded the train one fine morning, eased on a seat and scrutinised my fellow travellers. I have this habit of looking out for people who carry a book. In the past few years I’d encountered only a dozen people sporting reading material. And the number of people who actually read while commuting was even lesser.

So, it came as a pleasant surprise when I saw this middle aged woman seated on to my left, on the other side, engrossed in a book. The book was quite voluminous. What made me take a peek at her every few minutes was her unassailable focus. She was so absorbed that she didn’t mind the frequent shoves, the noise and the halts which resulted in a frenzy of human motion. Finally, when the train reached its last destination, commuters disembarked and headed towards their respective goals. I was the last one to get off.

I don’t what made me look back. Maybe, it was my gut feeling, an intuition that something was awry. My hunch proved right. Even as the train started filling up with travellers heading in the opposite direction I saw this woman still glued to the book. I wanted to warn her, but at the same time I was unsure of her motive. Before I could make up my mind the train jerked back to life. A little later the doors closed with a whoosh and it began its return journey. It was then that the woman realised her mistake. She jumped up, gathered her belongings and rushed towards the door. She looked out with a sense of horror. I read her lips. They formed the word ‘Stop’.

But the train was in no mood to listen to her request. It sped out of the platform and out of sight. The incident perked up my spirits. She actually had me under creative influence, and offered divine stimuli, like an afflatus.

You don’t need an audience to write. What you need is that unflinching love for words, I said to myself.

Just like that woman on the train!