My sense of curiosity is below par. As a school girl, I remember wishing to be somebody who asked questions in the classroom and many times even promising myself to change my apathetic attitude. Most teachers encouraged queries from students and even elders praise those children who asked questions because it was a prove that they wanted to learn more (still is). Years from then, I still wish I could develop into the type of person who asks questions in the classroom. I admire those people who are moderately inquisitive and don’t shy away from answers. It could be my unconquerable pride that insists on finding answers by myself even when my curiosity is tickled.
One year, I realized that everybody in my family could play the guitar except me (even Mom knew some keys). So, I thought I should also learn. One of my brothers took the responsibility upon himself to teach me, only problem was that my interest lasted lesser than 30 minutes. Later, I wanted to take violin classes and so my parents ordered for the instrument and had a teacher arranged. I was relieved when the ordered violin never came. They were also pretty good singers (except my guitar teacher), and excelled in sports too while I was just contended watching them. The nerd in the family no doubt.
I wasn’t dull in my studies, but I never studied to top the class or get star marks. I was just satisfied with whatever I got. Not having a clue, what I wanted in life, I went on to complete my masters but it doesn’t feel like an achievement. Now and then I ponder on what I could have become had I put my mind to it, but I’m still not motivated enough to rue over the possibilities. It makes me marvel at my blessings, my luck or whatever they are. We have all written essays on “My aim in life” in school. I remember starting with ‘doctor’ which changed to ‘teacher’ the next year and then it became ‘a good person’. I still don’t know what I would write if given the task today. “Aimless” is the word that accurately describes me. “When I grow up, I want to be aimless ……” that will be a fantastic essay.
Some weeks back my husband told me that my ideas and interests are too short-lived. He shared his concerns on whether I’ll be able to continue writing with the same vigor that I’ve been putting on this blog for the past months. I started reflecting on all the things I had given up before and I understood his concerns. I guess I’m a ‘living in the moment’ kind of person. When I decide on doing something, I need it to be done immediately, any delay would just spoil everything and if it doesn’t materialize, it is just sign that it wasn’t meant for me. But, good for me and people around me, these interests and ideas are very rare (this is how I console myself). Though that doesn’t change the fact that I am a quitter. He is right to worry and question me several times whenever I bring up an idea. It is not for nothing that I called him ‘precise’ in my poem.
But I am not worried about writing because no matter how rubbish and meager it may be, I can never stop writing. I picked up writing at a very early age, writing on a diary, letters to imaginary friends and learned to expel my frustrations on notebooks. My studies benefited from this love for the pen and paper. When I had nothing to write, I would pick up a random book and type on my mother’s type writer, word by word. It has always helped calm my jangled nerves and make me think rationally. Writing is the one thing that I have stuck to and the only thing that brings out the curiosity in me. It makes me realize my ignorance and encourages me to learn more about myself, about life and about the world we live in. For those minutes that I write, I feel closer to knowing what I want to do with my life.
No, I can’t stop writing.