The idea of home, at one point of time in my life, was ever consistent. I never thought it could ever change except when it did. People tell you with a high brow to practice thinking, but I have a different view here. I believe thinking is inherently connected to experience. One cannot think away while being static. Experience challenges you, tears your world apart and builds a new one from its ashes.
I have always resorted to writing about my experiences, but I think writing is often incapable of capturing fleeting thoughts. Writing is slow and does not really capture the nuances and thumping speed at which ideas bounce against your mind- some say brain. But what can you do about it? I have engaged in the ironic practice of using dictation to write. It does the trick of satisfying your ego into believing that you have written. But, the fallacy is that you have to write again because of the numerous faux pas committed by the unbiased machine. I have also tried to record my nonsense in a dramatic format. It works but does not have the same burning effect as writing.
The slow unfolding of letters to words to sentences and the unfurling of meaning before your eyes in all its naked glory is beautiful to me. There is a sense of awe to it. You want to speed up your reading before reaching a climax because you cannot contain your energy, but the littera-tic overlords force you to contain yourself. Reading forces you to be slow in an ever-so-fast world. It is a paradox. I enjoy it as a writer but hate it as a reader. A passionate musing about a barren heath from Hardy does me no good, thank you very much. Then, author, how do you have the audacity to bullshit yourself? That is the problem with writing, you see! When you write, you have to believe that you are indeed God. But, do not get me wrong here; I love the auditory and engage in many vocal tomfooleries. Having an uncharacteristically raspy voice, I have been subjected to an adjective here and there- ahem- which makes me chirpy. The charm of the oral is as old as time itself, and there is nothing as indulgent to while away in an overdramatic rendition of anything and everything- it’s fun! While writing fails to capture the thumping essence of thoughts, this is where the vocal cords win. You can feel the emotion much better when someone is pacing or going ever so sloooooooowwwww. Your funny little head, however, loves playing tricks. It either forgets or pays too much attention leaving you confused. Then what do you do, O stupid author? What do you do? Do you scream, tear the page or destroy your keyboard? Erm, good question, but I simply do not know. And we must accept that we do not know and embrace the chaos between these frenemies and their other chaotic brothers and sisters- digital narratives.
But, how does all this jibber-jabber have anything to do with home? I mean, you started reading this expecting it to have something to do with home, right? RIGHT? Believe me, the author had the same intention, but well, he is not very good. However, applying the potential elaborative bullshit of academia, allow me to indulge. Well, if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here in the first place now, would you? As I was saying, at one point, I remember being hell-bent on not leaving my homeland. How could I leave this place? During those days, I used to give an analogy about how I had no intention to be Indiana Jones. I did not want to ‘get out’ of home. Life happened to me, and I remember leaving home.
My parents were extremely delighted when I did not secure something somewhere as it blew the last nail in the coffin of staying at home. They did not want me to stay here, even when it meant having their only son move out. It took me roughly 20 minutes to adjust to the new place, but I do remember crying a lot en route. Ever since I have become what I call a ‘professional bastard’- I belong nowhere and everywhere at the same time. While it may sound like a twisted picaroon- it is not. It is a sad state of existence where you do not know: what is what? and who is who?
It affects you and everyone who was once yours.
I chose the words very deliberately. Life becomes a series of episodes which is nothing but gag reels. Life sometimes does lack a plot. Where is it going? Who is staying next season? We do not know! Yes, our scandalous liaisons may not tag along- but that is justifiable. But, what about the people who said things they said later they didn’t mean? Why are they hiding? But, most importantly, what about those who came and left without reason? I just they are happy and that they never come back because that would be a farce.
After having read this storm, if you are confused, dazed, angry or anything else really- good! It’s exactly what I intended. All this hoopla about home and everything in between boils down to a dilemma. It is like the author failing to choose between the written and the spoken word and choosing chaos. Choosing chaos by doing both whenever he feels like it. Since I left home for the first time, I have come to realise something, and what I am going to say now has literally become a catchphrase of mine:
Once you leave home, you do not have a home anymore. But, Home is not a place where you stay, it’s where you come back to. I hope you always have a place to come back to.