Not a fresh start

On the 2nd of May, 2021, I put out a poem titled, “The Wasteland”. The very same day, India reported one of its highest covid numbers. Around 3 lakh cases. India at this time was seeing the peak of its second wave. A wave that seemed to have wiped life off of this country. My poem came from a place of deep anguish, pain and frustration. At this point I had spent nights together awake, making calls to hospitals and oxygen providers for people whom I didn’t even know. I couldn’t find a way to help them. When I wrote the poem, all I could feel was a constant vibration in my cheeks, my eyes swell and anger taking its course while I typed. While the world wept every day in wake of thousands succumbing to the lack of health infrastructure in the country, I stayed back in the haven of my home that was miles away from the hollowing and grey skies of the city. Slowly as the wave grew delirious, I could see the damage it had caused close to my home. My relatives fell sick. The closest of my friends ended up in hospitals. Death breathed a heavy sigh in my backyard.

The Waste Land

The Wasteland broke those chambers behind which I hid my worst fears. It brought out the worst in me. All the poem did was point out the utter failure of the administration. The deaths that went unreported, and the lives that went in vain. I woke up every day in fear of seeing another message on my phone screen. We stopped getting calls informing us of someone’s death. They were now communicated through messages. That’s how recurrent and impolite death became.

TS Eliot wrote The Wasteland in the wake of the first world war. The poem spoke deeply about the sense of despair, brokenness and loss that London was in after the war. The modernist poem suggested the deep and prominent psychological, social and emotional collapse of the people. When I look back today, India too grappled with a ferocious war. When the scorching sun shone on this battlefield, the fight began. And when it set behind the clouds of unaccountability, it smirked a wicked smile and went on with its business. In the wake of the Second wave today, and as we witness another wave, surely of smaller magnitude, or so they say, I can’t help but imagine the worst.

Oftentimes, when you are met with challenging, trauma-inducing circumstances you find refuge in the things that you enjoy the most. I enjoyed writing all my life. But when I wrote The Waste Land, never did I fathom that it would be the last thing I would write for a long time. I still haven’t found something I am deeply invested in to write about. The world seems to have moved on, perhaps I have too, but a part of me remains there. In my backyard. Grieving. And so has my urge to write; remained there.

Today, when it’s been months since I first read The Waste Land out loud to my mother, I try to look for every such avenue available where I can restart my need to write. The only thing I’ve ever known and loved to do. And that is why I plan to push myself out of this impasse to start something that is a bit closer to home this time. This blog is going to be that place for me where I sit back and speak my truth. They say nothing is easier to write than the truth. So I’m going to hang on to that. React to the world around me, talk to you all. Express me. The one thing I see as an impediment here is the fact that I am not very good at promoting myself. And I am going to count on you all for that!

If you liked my work and would further like to support me pursue writing full time, you can buy me a coffee! https://www.buymeacoffee.com/shafiB

I am a student from India, pursuing writing in journalism and literature. I dream to be able hold a prominent spot in the writing fraternity and this blog is how I plan to achieve that. Your support and comments mean the world to me. You can find me on Instagram @shafi_beldar1524

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Shafi R Beldar

Shafi R Beldar

Hey! I am a student pursing writing in journalism and literature. If you enjoyed my work, and would like to interact with me further? My IG is shafi_beldar1524