Many writers aren’t good at anything much apart from writing. They pride themselves at it. It’s in their blood, they tell themselves. It’s their soul, they tell everyone. It is what they were born to do. Then the writer’s block hits and life becomes meaningless. They sit with their fingers on the keyboard or palms on the notepad and wonder what is the point of their existing anymore.

Few however, kill themselves over it. They have come to realise that the block is inescapable and have ways to counter it. As in many other fields in life, what is required is that you don’t stop. But that’s too general a solution, isn’t it?

When I was in Cuttack till three years ago, my grandfather got bananas for us all the time. By the dozen no less. After he had stocked half of the grocery cupboard with the fruit, he would call upon his able grandsons to partake of his gift. He expected ravenous appetites in us. We disappointed.

It was something of a horrific routine. Every morning, I would wake up to Ba (we call him Ba) calling out to us as he laboriously stacked the bunches in the cupboard. He is over eighty, yet his voice is both loud and high-pitched. It never fails to shock me out of sleep.

“Everywhere O Bharata, faith is in accordance with one’s nature. A person’s faith is according to his nature.” [Bhagwad Gita, Chapter 17, Verse 3]

Everyone tells me there is One God. That we are all actually are worshipping that One God by different names. That it is the different names that are the cause of all the strife in our world.

I am reading Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul right now. It is a book that doesn’t just touch you; it feels you up and gets you horny with writerly passion. I was so turned on that I started reliving the most passionate ‘write moments’ of my life. I’ll tell you.

My memories of my early days (in Assam for some part) on this planet are amazingly, almost unbelievably clear. I remember most details of my life from when I was barely talking. Brownish-yellow frog that sat on a brick right outside the bedroom window at night, scary bearded goat that always made me cry out in fright and run away, bored looking street dog that I lay on the cold verandah floor with — everything.