Rishabh Bhatnagar’s first blog post

For the longest of time, I did not write anything. I wasn’t sure what the point of it was. After all, I had written three books. There had come nothing good out of it all. Perhaps some good, but for the most part it was all the same. I wrote my first story when I was 12, but my first book when I was 20. It was called Stone Age: 2017 AD, and it existed on the internet for two days. My second book is still online, lost somewhere within the unlimitedness of the internet and the Amazon marketplace. My third book will be out in the next few weeks. It is the first book I ever worked hard on. I tell people that a lot. Now as I wait for the newness of the new book called “The Best of Us” to take over and make my life a bit more magical, I can sense stagnancy sneaking over.

As a matter of fact, there is more stagnancy than anything else. Whatever there is, it all wants a description that focusses more on the lack, than what it actually is. I last read a book more than a year ago. It was called Shuggie Bain and written by somebody called Douglas Stewart. I never finished that book.

I did write a few things the past few months, I lied to you about that. Those things were sometimes great, but I did not persevere, and let them be. They are now lost forever too.

And that is what this is about. See, I remember something I remembered until just a few years ago. I did never start writing because I wanted to make it in the world. I did it because I liked it, but more importantly because I felt good while doing it. And that worries me.

It worries me because never before do I remember feeling this longing for happiness. It wasn’t as if I was particularly happy before. I was, but sometimes I was not too. Nowadays, it is as if I cannot bear not being unhappy for even a bit. It is as if I always need a screen to watch, a person to talk to, a story to think about or just something to do.

It is as if I have grown fearful of being alone. As if thinking is a risk that I do not wish to take, for it can interfere with my ability to be happy. And my definition of happiness? What is it today? I do not even know, although I might still sound like I do if I try to make you understand.

And so with the writing. It made me happy before. It still does that a lot of times. But it went wrong somewhere down the line, for I started depending upon it, for happiness. And that makes me angry.

For the fact is the right conclusions, I already know them. I ignore them. Writing is not only an escape. It cannot be more of an escape, than some other things. I do it because I am good at it, and being good at something makes me happy. But I also do it because there is nothing else I can do. There is this voice in my head. It seldom shuts up, and it does not make sense a lot of times.

But when sometimes the conditions are right, the voice sounds like literature. It astounds me, makes me glad about myself, takes me to places and makes me see beautiful things that may or may not even exist. It is a part of me. It defines me, makes me scoff at things, makes me make jokes about things, makes me dream and cry and it makes me feel as if there is more to life and people than there actually even might be.

It makes me hopeful for the world. It makes me feel emotion, and truth of the matter is, most people, and this world, might not ever deserve it. Most people, this world, this planet, this country, this religion this everything is hopeless, and this is the time for me to accept it. I want you to accept it too.

Accept what? That the new way is fake and artificial. That the corporations are already here, dictating your every move. That your thoughts are not original at all. They are anglicized ramblings from social media. You don’t read for the joy of it at all. You do it to prove you are better, and you really are not.

It is a pity, that our life and our time are not ours anymore. That our love will not really be love despite it being called that, even for as long as we live. That there will never be total acceptance, and if there is a possibility of that, we will never be our honest selves in front of them again, will we now?

So you see, I have my lottery ticket. It is called “The Best of Us.” If I win the lottery I may be able to live fully again. The point is, I cannot settle if I don’t. I must ramble, pamper hope, and not let the standards of love drop. The real world is not real anymore. We need to be.

The Best of Us is India’s first true coming of age fiction set up in the 21st century. Do check it out, it is worth your time.

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