“ Who will be interested in being the editor of the school magazine?”, myriad hands shoot up and I try my best to make my hand look reasonable stiff and long as a pole, in an attempt to be a strong contender for the post.
“Manasa you’re interested? Ah well, ok then you can share the responsibility with sushruthi”, said Jo mam, making me feel elated.
Yes, I am Manasa K Kumar, ex-editor of the my school magazine, voicing out something in my head to all those who wish English could be taught all eight periods in a school day. If that sounds crazy in a nice way, read on. If not, then I regret to say, our journey together ends here.
You might have heard of math whizzes, Einstein’s, social science addicts, and of course the minority who love reading Shakespeare. I see that the number of people who love English is slowing down to a minority. I hardly looked at it beyond the fact that it was a subject where it was impossible to score more than the standard mark. Maybe it’s because of parents’ dreams of making their children engineers doctors and chartered accountants of tomorrow. Somehow, with unassuming guidance from many people, I now love the subject so much that I want to make a living out of it. Maybe I won’t be remunerated as much as my fellow classmates who will turn out to be the who’s who of the society, but my love for the language will keep me happy for long.
When I get into the mood of writing, everything else ceases to exist. Even the music in my ipod grows silent, the blaring television looks like a mime and all tensions ebb away. I space out, stare into emptiness and let my feelings transform into ink. I actually find it reasonably nice to write long essays. I feel I’m a loner in this journey with pen and paper, barring a few people, who sometimes reflect my own thoughts.
Editing a magazine is fun! Huffing and puffing over the lack of enough articles to be published, to going around begging for contributions, to having detailed planning for the cover and style and the like was so much fun!
Maybe, I’ll keep brooding over what else I can do, while writing, but until I find something else to do, I will keep writing, I’ll keep writing till the river of my thoughts go dry, till I feel like im a thirsty traveler in a parched desert. Or maybe I will never stop, because even then, I’ll write about the mirages I witness.
