My father-in-law is a vast reader and an excellent writer. During his verbal diarrhoea (
that’s is how he calls his obsession to communicate), he sends us beautiful e-mails, vividly narrating his everyday events and memories of childhood and youth. It must have been
Anne Frank who inspired: for me, it was writing diaries right from childhood, penning down the everyday events just before going to bed.
School-time diaries were quite boring, quoting the names of lessons, details of mark sheets, fights with friends, brother and parents and even what was for dinner, lunch and break-fast. I must have been crazy writing such stuff, but it gave me a sense of satisfaction doing it then. When I got to college, I found the diaries’ pages not enough to describe all the events. During the Pre-Degree years, I remember the most immature me had 3 diaries: one, to record the everyday events, one which I called as the
emotional diary, to write on the most emotional days when the normal diary would run out of space; and thirdly the
secret diary to pen down my butterfly thoughts on infatuations, which I sealed with masking tape every time after writing! That was an extra precaution, even though I believed that no one at home had the interest or patience to go through that madness.
I really can’t stop smiling, going back home to see them covered in dust lining a wooden cupboard without lock and key! I must admit I am proud to have them. The basic idea was that I did not want to let go a single day in life without it leaving a memory, so if I wanted to go back to any day in my life, it was possible! And what if I died tomorrow? How would those people ever come to know of my unspoken feelings to them? Come on, you can’t always be nice to your people and you can’t keep telling them how much you love them! So I had given the rights of my diaries to an elder cousin, to go through them after the unfortunate event of my death and let people know of what I had to tell them. To my big surprise, he also took it in the same seriousness! The diaries also served as the everyday family encyclopedia. If mom asks “when did
Valyamma visit us last” or “when was it that we made
fish moilee for dinner”, I could quickly go through my treasure chest and proudly give her the date.
But when I grew up and found some ears worthy enough to push down the everyday thoughts in to, I slowly withdrew from the habit, since writing them all over seemed like repetition. Laziness is another reason. These days it is occasional writing, only when there are fights, dilemmas or emotional downpour; it helps to cool mind down and take a better decision. Sometimes I miss the old habit, finding that the absence of it has made life less under control.
On extremely boring days like this, nothing is more refreshing than to grab an old diary and become younger instantly. It is immense fun reading them as a grown-up now, to smile at the innocent little girl I once have been. Quoting my father-in-law again:
“thinking of old times makes us humbler; a humble heart has better receptivity and it emanates positive ideas”.
Virginia Woolf's extended essay, a must read, examining if women are capable of producing fiction, rather anything creative.
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