Hima's Pages

Writing has always felt natural to me. I know I have a lot to share with the world, though I am unclear who would want to hear me. Toni Morrison says in the preface to her first novel, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” Her words resolve my dilemma of who would want to read what I write. Adhering to Morrison’s advice, I plan to write about everything that I’ve always wished to read, the stories that I have always wanted to hear.

Being a writer has always been associated with genius and extraordinary talent. There has been a significant shift in this perception of writing since the advent of social media. Now, anybody can share their stories and lives, and everybody can read them. Writing and writers no longer remain in ivory towers. I believe everybody possesses a chest of innumerable tales—tales that might die with them or be left with a few close to them. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we got to hear some of these? I believe being a writer should not be a privilege restricted to a select few.

I confidently choose to call myself a writer now, though it wasn’t always so. For the longest time, I grappled with feelings of impostor syndrome, doubting my abilities whenever I referred to myself as a writer. Writing in English, not my mother tongue, perhaps added to this insecurity. My fascination with the English language traces back to my school days, particularly to a defining moment in third grade. I had just transferred to a new school where English was the language of instruction. It was one of those monsoon mornings when the sun shined intermittently amidst the rain clouds. As the school principal delivered her welcoming speech in English, unable to grasp her words, I felt a sense of terror crawl up my stomach. I had falsely assumed that everybody else understood her except me. This seemingly minor experience had made a huge impression on my little mind. It left me feeling confused, ashamed, and inadequate for not knowing English.

Looking back, I realize how trivial my feelings of inadequacy were. Today, I strongly oppose the overemphasis on English in many Indian schools, where children are discouraged from speaking their mother tongues. However, that early experience ignited a fascination and desire to learn English. Curled up on the verandah of my ancestral home, engrossed in English books, I could transport myself to distant lands and eras, imagining the sights, sounds, and flavors described within. The internet was still not common during those days, so much was left to the imagination. There were days when I sat imagining how weeping willows and sycamores looked, what fudges and grapefruits tasted like, and how beautiful the trees would look in autumn.

It was this passion for the language that propelled me through undergraduate, master’s, and doctoral studies in English—a remarkable journey for the little girl who once struggled to comprehend this second language. However, I still found it challenging to assume the identity of being a ‘writer’ in English, the only language I write in. Yet, as every life holds a story waiting to be told, writing remains my chosen medium of expression and English my medium. Thus, I now proudly embrace the identity of a ‘writer’, daring to share my story with the world.