It must have started with a story. Probably about a foolish lion or a wily jackal, or a particularly resourceful crow, written in a book with scant text and brightly coloured pictures. Of course I was old enough to know that animals couldn’t talk and that it wasn’t quite possible to turn pumpkins into carriages. But none of that mattered as long as the book was open and I was in it.
I must have discovered, after turning the last page, that I wanted more. That one book multiplied, and over time, I became a book-eating monster. I would read in between and during classes, and while I ate, and under the blanket at night, lighting up the stories with my baby torch while everybody else slept. As a result, I lived in parallel worlds. In one, I was the average kid with the occasional freckle who was known for always doing her homework on time and never giving her parents any trouble at all. In the other, I spent my afternoons in a treehouse, feeding baby sparrows and ruling over Very Secret societies, and finding mysterious passageways that led out of school. As I grew older, my mastery over language increased, and I realised that the second world wasn’t created out of magic, but really just out of a few well-strung words. And at some point, I decided that I wanted to be a creator too. Frankly, I write because I don’t talk . . . much, that is. I have always been a quiet person. It’s like a birthmark or something. It identifies me- my silentness. And I keep telling people that I am not silent. It’s just that I’ve just found an alternative to speaking out loud.
Writing is what sustains me. While other kids fretted over spelling and grammar, I found that I actually liked all that stuff. I liked how words out of my mind arranged themselves coherently on a page. And there was a peculiar feeling of satisfaction that I got once that page became a mirror. My writing gives me access to a private Zembla where I turn all my air-castles into real objects and where I think, dream, doodle, and plan extensively. But I often find that my writing is disorganized and directionless, and they mostly appear to be in the form of furtive notebook entries that are meant to be understood only by the writer and maybe a few other people with a similar thought process. I don’t want my writing to remain just as an outlet. I want to be part of the communication process that has the power to change the world for the better. I want to be part of the medium that has the ability to build worlds. Which is why I feel the Masters in Writing for Performance and Publication at the University of Leeds is the perfect course for me. Now a degree in Creative Writing is something that a lot of universities in the UK offer, and no doubt, many of the courses are taught by top-notch authors and poets. But the programme at Leeds is spectacularly different. It doesn’t limit you to just prose or poetry writing. There is emphasis on a whole bunch of things from writing for radio to films to even plays. One can only imagine the kind of opportunities such a course opens up.
It also helps that the university is located in one of the most vibrant, multicultural cities in the UK. Leeds is a charming city teeming with people of delightfully different ethnicities. And as far as I’m concerned, writing flourishes in a place like that, where you’re constantly coloured by the people you meet and the experiences you encounter as a result. It may not have the verve of a London, but it doesn’t have the clutter either. It’s a quintessential old English town with plenty of history, but it is also very much a city in its own right in so many ways. Leeds seems like a home away from home, where a biriyani place is right next to a fish and chips stall, where the old and the familiar blend with the new and exciting with ease. Writing is all about finding the balance between comfort and thrill, and I think Leeds is just the place for that.
Fudge 