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Dear Blog

I have some news for you. I am trying to reclaim bits of myself and write a book. And as a result I may not be able to give you as much attention as I usually do. I’m sure you will understand what I mean. I have shared with you my life, my influences, my thoughts, my inclinations, many a solitude, many lonely times. Now, I would like to mould myself, submit myself to a book. So what will I write about? I’m not sure dear. And I’m enjoying the unsureness of it all. I may not too deep into life, too grayed in my temples, but the age that I carry surpasses most of the physical signs. I will not write an out and out autobiography. That would be boring. I am trying to discover a language of pungent pain that lies deep inside, a language that I deny, the language that terrifies me, a language that will shock even me, a garbled primal cry escaping through my pen. I want to strip off the lace from the pretty petticoats or the girdle wires inside the Victorian dance dresses, that balloon them up. Because inside, we’re all the same. The same flesh and blood, with the same desires, the same pain, the same hungers the same fears. I guess even Freud and Jung found it enormously difficult to step down from their genteel chairs and admit that we are essentially a naked tribe. Do not mistake this rant to mean that I am going to write a book filled with insane abuses. No, that would be the easiest way out. I will discover the language and write what it demands. It may demand Victorian austerity or tribal uncouthness. I am no novelist, am merely trying to receive myself in this journey. I cannot be bold enough to compare myself to the greats, but the 60s do fire my imagination, only I am trying to unstrip layers of scandalous superficialities to get to the root of what made people look at themselves once more, over paint their delicate lips, shake their hands on the immaculate bone china. I am trying to find me. Please stay with me in this journey. I cannot even tell you the date and time it gets completed. I remember a particular movie where an abstract artist is being interviewed. The interviewer asks the artist, “How do you know when you have finished a painting?” The artist says, “How do you know when you’ve finished making love?”  I also take this opportunity to thank all my readers, clickers and facebook friends who’ve kept me on the ‘writing diet’ in my toughest moments. I hope I am able to write myself. Amen.

Today, I unstrip myself. I am Sreemanti Sengupta. Thank you. And bear with me.

Yours,

Sreemanti Sengupta

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  1. Mydhili Varma
    February 18, 2012 at 9:00 pm

    Aha! Now we know the name that’s going to appear on the book 🙂 Sending you good vibes over the wires. Take your time with the book – I KNOW it will be a hit!

    • February 19, 2012 at 5:40 pm

      Mydhilli, you’re a real dear. Thank you ever so much 🙂

      Yours,
      Sreemanti Sengupta

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