Some concerned friends are sending me every morning tips on keeping myself happy. I don’t know why they think I am an unhappy person. Maybe my blog posts give that impression.
Isn’t every writer an unhappy person? Before I come to that, let me state honestly that I don’t consider myself a writer. A blogger, that’s all. One among the millions. But one who takes interest in the world’s affairs. Affairs that matter. Such as politics, religion and their myriad combinations which rule the roost today. Perilously.
The peril is not my personal tragedy. It is the tragedy of the world. When Kashmir burns, it is not my personal tragedy. When people die there, being killed by Islamic terrorists or Indian soldiers, it is not my personal tragedy.
When people kill one another all over the world in the name of gods and other illusions, it’s not my personal tragedy.
Yes, I am unhappy. But not in my personal life. I’m unhappy about what’s happening in the world. I’m unhappy about people’s determined refusal to think. I’m unhappy about the superstitions and stupidity that dominate human life. That’s why I write. That’s why there is unhappiness in my writing.
I repeat: it’s not my personal unhappiness. Personally, I am a very happy person. In spite of the missionaries who ravaged my life again and again. In spite of the godman and his women who gave me the plots for all my short stories in the last many years. In spite of terrorism of all sorts, I am happy in my personal life. I don’t need tips on happiness. The world needs it. Go and heal it, if you can.