A writer's table by Shivangi Gajwani Jain, turmeric milk

 

I sit for long hours, I ponder longer. I weave words and worlds until my neck hurts and my legs tingle with little invisible things that crawl over and under it. The longer I sit, the more they grow, bite my flesh and numb my senses, refusing to ever stop. Unwillingly I stand, locking my thoughts in place lest they fall off my head before they are inked on paper. Dobby, my cat purrs. I roll my shoulders and slap my legs to shake off the old ache, tame my oddly behaving nerves.

I do this- every thirty minutes. One foot distance between my feet, back straight, hips turned out, perfect posture, my therapist would be proud. I bend at the waist, first left, then to the right, then forward, I continue counting. One, two, three… it happens then, mid-stretch, mid-count, my torso folded in half.

A string of words, not quite mine, an idea, almost divine, appears as though from another dimension. A spark, holding a fresh universe. We’ve all experienced this, haven’t we? When the really good bits, the ones we have waited for days, choose a random unremarkable moment to arrive. Today is that day, that moment. A story eager to be told, wiggles between the gyri and sulci of my brain and I know; it won’t wait for me to be done with my stretches or my aches to be gone. I hop-run to my desk, to the open notebook, and the laptop thrumming in anticipation. Oh, to be this alive!

My alarm buzzes, I turn it off. I can’t be bothered, can’t let life get in the way of this profound moment. This is beyond human intervention. I breathe, stilling myself, allowing a little trickle of this ‘grand thing’ to leak out of my body, through my fingers on to the page. My pen hovers, this is it, I can feel it in my teeth.

My phone vibrates, I flip it face down. The doorbell rings, I ignore the sharp ‘Tring’. It chimes again, accompanied by a loud thwomp against the wooden door. A delivery. Agitated, I grab the parcel and open it: more pens! When did I even order those? I fling myself towards the waiting desk, the blank page, the inviting glow of word doc.

I sit for long hours, I ponder longer. Words don’t come. Thoughts don’t fly. My fire is burnt out, my ‘new world’ sucked into a black hole of nothing. I sink to the floor, quite literally, my back rubbing against the greying tiles as I wonder at my life choices. Can I build a life around this? Can writing be considered a profession if I still need a day job to support myself? Will I ever be enough? Doubts climb out of my throat, lingering and filling my mouth with acid. I swallow and focus on breathing.

Dobby curls up on my chest, settles in. Her eyes half shut, she locks onto mine. She mews, tells me truths. ‘It could be worse. Life could be flat. Every day the same.’

I agree, remembering the thrill of the ‘little-giant’ things: a story bursting onto the page, a poem that wrings me dry and yet leaves me wanting, a recent acceptance letter, my first publication. I sit up, ‘Oh, to be this alive!’

Dobby, The sage cat nods in agreement. She is wise.

I stretch my arms, fold my legs underneath. I twist left, then to the right. I continue counting: my blessings.

…

About the author:

Shivangi Gajwani Jain is an award-winning prosthodontist, published academic, and a lifelong storyteller. Her essays and poems have been accepted in Gordon Square Review, The Adelaide Lit Magazine, The Hemlock Journal and The Wingword Magazine. She is represented by The Redink Literary Agency and lives in Mumbai with her family.

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