I am a married, working woman, in my late twenties and am going to touch the dreaded thirties soon. Whoever said they (the thirties) were dreaded, clearly didn’t know what to do with them (the thirties of course). Every day, I drag myself out of my warm bed; get ready for work while still being half asleep. I remain half asleep till about half way into finishing my shower; cook breakfast for the husband and myself, gobble it down while juggling with combs and sunscreens, and run to work. My usual day at work comprises of writing lines on lines of computer software, sitting through meetings and attending the occasional training for a change. My evenings are about evening tea, TV (and the inevitable fight for the remote control) and the reluctant dinner cooking because I am usually too tired for it. The rest is a blur; eating, tackling the dishes, bed sweet bed again.
Its the same, every single day, leaving the weekends and the public holidays, where I get time for lazing around the house. Having said that, it is not tough to grasp why I want to write about such trivial things in my all-important routine of writing something every day. The point of reckoning is that, however closely I look, I am not doing anything worthwhile in any given day; worth my while at least in my eyes. But writing, ah, that’s a different game now.
I always wanted to be a writer. Being a software professional didn’t mean anything in my formative years. No one was a ‘software-engineer’ in those days. We used to have our good old doctors, engineers, teachers, government officials/servicemen and I never cared for any of those. I wanted to become a writer. Being a child, I didn’t think about making money. The popularity and acceptance part would be taken care of through the awards I would win. Good, wholesome thoughts of a school kid. But then again, those were good, wholesome days of carefree existence.
As kids, we all have some wholesome dreams. But as we grow up, we begin to pile on the worldly facts that start choking those dreams. I grew up with the practical understanding of the importance of money for a comfortable existence. That was the time I added the award winner criteria to the writer part. Usually, if I put a mind to it, I was a good student. Good grades led to a lot of unwarranted advice from everyone who could catch hold of me. One could always write in their free time, most writers bite worldly dust, your parents cannot support you for a lifetime et cetera. And I too became the victim of the prudent and all-pervading doctor/engineer ambition. I didn’t know whether I wanted it or not, because no one ever divulged into the chaotic daily details of actually being a doctor or an engineer. It was the tag that mattered.
Twelve years after that choice, with an engineering degree in computer science under my belt and a successful, financially fulfilling career in the booming IT industry spanning eight years, I suddenly find myself hiding out in a meeting room of my office and writing my thoughts down, for the sake of writing something. My parents made an independent individual out of me and I love them for that. With their support I worked very hard for half the best years of my life to earn that tag of a grown up. Now I realize the importance of my wholesome dream to me, wholesome because it is probably one of the very few things that would make me a whole human being and not just the tag I tote. I now understand that, without it, I am not the special person god made me to be (hopefully). I may be successful in everything I do because that depends more or perseverance than on ambition. But if, from this moment onwards, I do decide to become the writer I always wanted to be, I may at last become the happy person I always wanted to be.
18 Jan 2013