A question of nerves
Dear reader,
These letters were started as a way to chronicle my middle-ages, and were a way to keep writing at a time when I felt that nerve had started to tingle, feeling numb. As an aside, they say writing is a muscle, but I think it is a nerve. See how well the definition fits: a mesh-cable connecting the brain to the body carrying impulses, that help me feel, sense, and move, and even maintains certain functions like breathing, sweating, and digesting food. Corollary: I can’t control how badly I write poetry. It is a nerve, you see.
Letting go of that unnecessary detour, now, something has changed. Over the past three years, these letters have taken a life of their own, some of the ideas shared here have grafted to other orchards; the letter on Kumar Gandharva and Kabir is now part of an experiment called Lampblack, a way to share stories and songs.
For awhile now, I have been wondering where is this experiment going, is that even a valid question to ask, and so on. I have tried not to look at the number of subscribers and statistics, for that was never the point. And yet, I cannot lie; when I see the red promise of a new subscriber, something inside me spikes.
It is perhaps easy to go on like this, there’s always another book to talk about, some anecdotes to share, another new subscriber to meet, and yet, there’s a niggling question that refuses to go away — some other nerve has started to tingle. I am not quite sure what signal it is trying to convey, but I want to find out, and decipher what it means and implies.
So dear reader, for awhile, I shall bid you tata. We will meet again, soon, maybe in a new home and address.