Vikas Pandey

You know when I look back, I can’t help but be amazed by how well I have salvaged my life, how well I have made something from what was going entirely downhill. And then it bothers me that I haven’t done enough.

The other day, I was standing in front of a very beautiful antique mirror in Panjim Inn, waiting for the very kind Jack Sukhija, and I saw how sure of myself I looked. Not in a cocky way, but just confident. And I realized how decpetive that was, because inside I was carrying a whole mess of anxieties and uncertainties.

Anyway, so it sometimes surprises me that I chose to become a writer. I mean, I was always good at it, no doubt. But K once said that I even look like a writer, whatever that means. There has never been a writer in my family. By family I mean my extended family. There have been government workers, engineers, research fellows, and some such, but never a writer. That I would ever be one never crossed our minds. My avocation was voraciously reading suspense and mystery novels. And that coupled with my good marks at English language, my grandfather was convinced I was going to be a high-ranking police officer someday, the kind that writes brilliantly worded reports and the kind that sniffs out the problem in a case. So when I grew up, I went to study English, against the wishes of my entire clan, practically. They’d rather I studied Science. My uncle commented once, “So what if you didn’t pass in Chemistry this time? You’ll learn. If you can’t clear the Engineering entrances with weak Chemistry, you can still be a PhD holder.” So imagine their consternation when I said I was going to study English! For a while it was intellectually stimulating for me, but then even that became a sedentary bore. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. So I decided I’d shift to doing an MBA.

That uncle I mentioned was relieved. But it didn’t last because I quit after I decided I wasn’t ok with sleeping with seniors.  It aggravated my sense of decency. So I went back home, got married and moved to Goa, already having fallen a few feet in some people’s eyes. Then D introduced me to S, whose firm lacked writers, and I started off as a rookie content writer. It was a lowdown, seedy business, and I moved with S when he branched out. I still didn’t have any bylines, just less than a living wage perhaps. But I was utterly fascinated with my work, and rose steadily.

Oneday, a friend D, a published author spoke to me about my dream travel book. I jumped at it and dashed off a resume. The publisher wanted a writer who could turn out the book fast. The money would be generous. It sounded attractive, but what attracted me more was the fact that this was mainstream. This was what I had spent nights dreaing about, and days sweating over articles on horses and internet marketing. Now I could stop being the helpless outsider and step inside closer, much closer, to the main machinery of travel in the country.

Meanwhile, a few others sat up and took note. I was invited to write elsewhere. Could I write a piece on the less beaten track? I could and did. My aunt rolled her eyes and said to my mother “So? She wrote an article for a magazine. What’s so great about it?” My mother told her about the book deal. She commented, “Oh, a travel guide?” I smiled when I heard this over the phone.

Honestly, the only people who have given me some credit for where I am are my friends. My relatives think of me as a girl who showed promise, but fizzled out before cousins who were routinely going abroad for their higher studies. I’ll never gain any respect from them, and I am not looking for any. Because I know I got my ball rolling the day I began this blog. This blog, which has been wilfully misinterpreted a number of times to cause trouble, this blog which has given me some friends for keeps, and some people I wish I could just shift+delete. I know that I have made it somewhere, even if I “only write, like everyone else writes”. And the only thing that makes me want to go on, and not hang in my boots is the way my friends have supported me. Those people, who could just as easily ignore me.

I don’t tell most of my relatives what I do. I sit through their reasons why I should take up a “regular job”, or appear for the government school service commission entrance. I sit through their reasons why I should at least try to be a receptionist somewhere, one who has a regular pay package. And then, alone in the bathroom, I light my cigarette and blow away the frustration. Some people are meant to be like me. Known by a few, and pitied by a lot more. I am ok with it. Do you think I am wrong?