Past two days were bliss. I forgot I used to have Saturdays and Sundays off in my earlier jobs in outsourcing. Now two days is heaven sent when I can sit in my eyrie and look at the blue Parsik Hills and see the flights descending toward Santa Cruz and Sahar. Walking in the foothills of this huge outgrowth of granite in the morning, I wanted to write a poem. I might attempt it, something like, “Oh, mighty mountain,” or something like that. The idea is that this mountain has seen this earth develop from millenniums in the past. It has seen rivers form, seas take shape, the hunter gatherers, the farmers, the kings and dynasties, the Mughals, the Chhatrapaties, the British, the modern netas. Yet, it is so unmoved. Yes, yes, yes, now the idea is clear. I will write it now.
I spent most of these two days making changes in the novel. I can never rest assured that the novel is now complete and the editing should begin. I feel I have left back, rather held back, failed to present a lot of what I had expected it to contain. Having read this post on this blog, I feel I have flouted every one of the advices mentioned there. So I need to pare it down, much, much towards the beginning. Keeping my fingers crossed. I also wonder whether it is worth it, when I can take a vacation, go somewhere instead of sitting before a computer all day. Though I have finished writing it, I don’t think it is complete. As I say on the masthead, “No work of art is complete, it is abandoned,” and now it’s time to abandon my work. Goodbye sweet child of my mind.