But words are things, and a small drop of ink
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions,
Think”– Lord Byron (1788-1824)
For as long as I can remember, there were two things that never ceased to excite my intellect or touch my soul – good music and good writing. Both had the extraordinary ability to transport me to a magical world that became a canvas where I painted the themes, composed the songs of my imagination. Each stroke created as a child coloured the path I finally walked as an adult.
I grew up in a family where my father, a military man, had the passionate soul of a poet and my mother, the creative heart of a musician. She trained in classical music under Pandit Uma Dutt Sharma, father and guru of santoor maestro Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma. She is a vocalist but also dabbled with the tabla when it was not a woman’s domain – it still isn’t. Often, she would compose music to and sing my father’s poetic renderings. In addition to their creative pursuits, both my parents are dynamic athletes as well. My mother and father are two of the most unassuming, honest and dignified people I’ve known. They bear their sorrows quietly and their triumphs with humility. They have given generously of their time and money to worthy causes with the same quiet grace.
It was my maternal grandmother who was perhaps the greatest influence in my life during my growing years. She left me the legacy of an undying passion for books, music and the fine arts. She strongly believed that a divine power exists and it directs our course, but it was equally important (especially for a female child in India) that I become fiercely independent and stand for what I believe in. I’m told that I also inherited her temper, but hey that’s a small thing compared to what an awesome difference she made to my life. She died suddenly when I was 16 and to this day I miss her.
My paternal grandmother was truly the iron lady. She lost her husband and her only daughter when she was in her thirties. Undaunted, she managed to raise 6 sons single- handedly on meager finances in post-independence India. She lived long enough to see all of them do exceedingly well and got her many hours of fame when her youngest son became the Governor of Punjab. The newspapers carried her picture on the front page.
Growing up in India is an experience in and of itself. I feel sorry for the Indian kids who grow up here and never get to experience the many summer vacations filled with family reunions and incessant hugs. The mischievous gang pranks and scolding grandmothers giving chase. Memories of eating mangoes on sultry summer afternoons or the damp fragrance of red mud after the rain. Sailing boats in muddy little streams dotted with lotus blossoms. Steam emanating from cups of hot tea and roasted peanuts on a wintry December morning.
I wanted to become a veterinarian all throughout my childhood. I would bring wounded stray animals home and nurse them back to health. It was my older brother Parvez, an awesome published author currently in the Indian administrative services, who saw the potential writer in me (or maybe he was just fed up receiving long epistles discussing the dismal state of sports in India !) He insisted that I graduate in liberal arts and think of a career in writing. He then pushed me into meeting the editor of a Times of India publication, but forbade me to tell them he was my brother! They thought the world of him and his writing, but he wanted me to make it on my own steam.
If I have anyone to thank for being perceptive enough to know my true calling, it’s my brother. He is my hero in more ways than I can count… one of the most honest people I know, incredibly gifted and kind. Believe it or not, Parvez is also a very humble and honest bureaucrat. (I know, I know- an oxymoron!)
Today, whenever people tell me they are moved by my stories, and they ask “Where did you learn to write like that?”, I’m reminded of Lillian Hellman’s comment- “If I had to give young writers advice, I would say don’t listen to writers talking about writing or themselves.”
I did not attend any workshops or graduate in the field of journalism. I believe, quite simply, that to touch the heart of others you must first be touched yourself. There is truth, beauty and inspiration to be found in every story, in every life. When one writes with honesty, passion, and a sincere belief in the words that come from his/her pen, it elevates all that is mediocre to another dimension.