Ink Dries -- A reading at Lamakaan

The last time Mr. Vijay Marur had lent his voice to bring my poems alive
was at the launch of my first book Moving On at the auditorium of State
Gallery of Fine Arts and looking at the numerous empty chairs, I had
mentally kicked myself for not being able to put together a packed
house -- something that a performer with immaculate credentials in
theatre like Mr. Marur deserved. Incidentally I also felt sad because
(while on the stage and looking out at the empty chairs) I got more
than one SMS from the audience (many of them first timers at any
poetry reading) saying -- "this guy is mind-blowing" and more to
that effect. I mean, what better way to introduce people to the
atmosphere and the sonics of a poetry reading than an event such as
this.

But -- immaterial of how high-thinking or literary your intentions be
you cannot force people to come, can you? And let's face it, if there
is one genre that is misunderstood and shunned repeatedly, it has to
be poetry.

Which is why (in all probability) there were empty chairs galore at
Lamakaan and I could have kicked myself so hard as to do permanent
damage to my ability for locomotion.

The rest of it was excellent; Mr. Marur as usual read my poems to
a rapt audience and we even had a creditable (the joke is on me
really) discussion with him wanting to know why some of the poems
in the book are earthy, whether I write all my poems in situ and so on.

Then we had Lamakaan's "Kaanch Ke Gilaas Mein" Irani Chhai, had a
small impromptu discussion (either sides of a power cut), I thanked
everyone who had come, had a bit of a discussion with N and it was
all over.

A big thank you to Mr. Vijay Marur, to Lamakaan and all those who
could make it to the event. As for those of you who couldn't, I do
understand what it means to labour through the prosaics of distance
and traffic on a weekday! It had to be a weekday because that was
the only slot available at Lamakaan this month.

And I will also say this in conclusion -- I don't see myself as
a "sad" poet or an "angsty" poet. I do have what is the writer's
angst and I do have some other angsts; but I am okay with them,
I can live with them. What I don't want to be is a "vain" poet
who explains the profundity of each and every word chosen by himself
at the very first opportunity. What I cannot be is a frivolous poet,
as I have always been afflicted by gravitas. But it's okay, I am
comfortable in my skin about being serious and about living
with a writer's angst. And I am as happy as anyone else out there;
life is good, can be better!

Thank you.