When I met Ghalib

WHY I WRITE?

SHEIKH QAYOOM MADNI

I had never thought I would fall in the business of writing. Wandering gave me little time to read even the prescribed books, not to even think of fiction, comic and story books. Time passed and I progressed to class after class. There was no clear direction. No goal, no destination was set. I never had thought of writing.

Days passed and I landed in the field of communication. I was supposed to write. The fear psychosis was high-write what to write and how to write .On the other hand it was obligatory to put ideas into words. One day I wrote a poem unexpectedly. When I jotted the words, they began to appear as the silky threads   that I really liked. I was convinced that I could write. The potential of writing was in me, only I needed was to give it some shape. I began to write. I wrote few pieces with the intention that they are published in the newspapers. The newspaper will get its space filled and I fame. The pieces were controversial and harsh criticism against the established order. They were never published. I was very much dismayed. Only thing I can do was to call the in-charge editor of the papers why not the piece was published, their argument was quite alarming “we received no such piece of your name via email”. I know they were lying. Still I was thankful they were at least picking the mobile call. The dream of getting fame was burned. I had put a self-imposed barricade that till the first piece is not published I will not write another. It was a dream that never come in college days. Though I wrote a lot, but it was all purposeless and directionless.

Then a day came when people offered me an opportunity to write. It was like a dream came true. The intention was to get fame. My writing in college days has impressed my batch mates, but to others I was an unknown entity. I was given space to write as much as I can. I to some extent shouldered that responsibility. Now my name began to appear in the newspapers. My desires succeeded. I was no longer an unknown entity. My byline appeared more than forty times in different papers of the valley. People began visualizing me. I got both name and fame. What next. Is the aim of writing only to get fame? How long will I go with the ghost of fame? Will my writing serve any other purpose? These unanswered questions tossed my mind like hammering the metal.

            Now there was a purpose behind writing. It was simply to let people know what I know. An emotional attachment was there with my writing. I want to it to devote somebody. I began to write some exclusive pieces, different from the age-old tradition of political-oriented things. I wrote a piece that got its space in the valleys largely circulated and widely read newspaper.  I received great acclamation. From America, New Delhi and even from my mother land Kashmir my email inbox was filled with appreciation for writing such a piece. Even some unknown persons began to call me as great intellectual. My teachers, colleagues were happy. Even my college teacher and now editor of one newspaper said I read your piece twice and it was amazing.

Now my aim was to not get fame. Rather I played gentle. Thank each for applause, I began to think of doing more and more work like this. My writing will add something new to the knowledge of people. I will bring some interesting stories that people will carry with them for a long time. I may not be remembered, but my writing should be. That is what the aim of writing is at present times. I don’t know how the aims get changed; tomorrow what will be the purpose of writing. Hope for the best.