It is harder to write in the evening. By the time the day winds down, I have already had experienced the day, and my thoughts are muddled by the hours gone. There are no fresh thought; the fruits of the day have been cut and left out in the open. The thoughts are dry now; not the juicy cake it was in the morning. And, the most interesting thing of the day have already happened, and my mind have already soaked all of that in. For me, usually the most interesting thing to happen during the day, is my work. My work with computers is usually interesting to me; working with computers is so very dry and boring for most people who do not work with computers. If I did not find the work interesting, I do not think I would be able to do it day in day out. But this also means my work clings to me like a tick, slowly sucking at my mind. So I try to find poetry in my other evening projects, but the shadow of my day-job does not go away.
I have learned to look at my work as a craft, a craft that must be honed, sharpened, understood. And no better way to hone a craft other than doing it, so I naturally do it as much as possible. But that also means I am almost always working, in some shape of form. The more I look for poetry in my evenings, the more I lose it to my work, if not directly, indirectly.
I like to think evenings are for stories, not for craft. Craft should happen by day, stories should happen by night. Every time I sit down to write a story, I think of Italo Calvino's, If on a winter's night, a traveller. In the beginning pages, there was description of a smell, of smoke, at a train station.
A train station does invoke memories of travel, Ratul thought. This train station is nothing like Italo Calvino's train station. The lights are lit, but there is truly no one around. That is how the Indian countryside is, he told himself. He wondered why the Indian Railway pay for electricity when there is no one to illuminate the ground for. His train was not coming tonight, at least that was what he understood. But it did not bother him too much, he will find a place to stay. It was a foggy night, and cold. He started to walk to the town. The jalebi stand had already closed down. But no matter, he had food with him. The train station is a relatively safe place to sleep, somewhat illuminated. It is quite open, and it was a cold night. His blanket would have to suffice.
When he woke up, there was a train standing, half way in the platform. The train light was bright, yellow-ish. Almost like a sun. From the bench he was sleeping on, it looked like a looming giant, with its single eye clearing the cover of the fog. It is not uncommon for trains to stop at a train stations if the tracks ahead aren't clear. What kind of locomotive was it, Ratul wondered. A diesel loco? A WAM4 maybe. He wondered where the train was going, must be a long distance sleeper train; to the North perhaps. Ratul's ears perked when he heard footsteps. He was not feeling particularly comfortable, knowing that anyone who is awake in that train could see him sleeping on the bench; but now people on the platform. He was not willing to just lay there awake. He sat up & pretended to be a traveller, waiting for his train.
"Would you like to board the train?", Ratul heard someone ask.
[To be continued... maybe...]