A writer's desk is an important place. It is that spot where the writer's reality and imagination, which usually run as two parallel lines in her daily life are permitted to intersect. It is that humble space, which the writer can use to reclaim a day badly spent in other nonwriting activities. A haven where the wood, porcelain and paper on the desk sit in patient wait for the unspoken, unwritten story to emerge in their silent unobtrusive, uncritical company . A writer's desk is that launch pad which the writer can visit as often as she wishes to wear those secretive wings hidden in the ink of her pen and whiteness of the sheets and take those private flights of fantasy . I love my desk. That said, can you believe it if I said, I bought the first desk in my life only three weeks ago?
It is a small wooden cubicle with drawers on the left, a foldable pad in the centre and open racks above -- looks sort of a right angle with three arms running parallel to the ground. Of the three drawers the topmost even has a lock and key, much to my delight, as till now I had no secretive place to keep the exquisite writing quill my brother sent me as a symbolic gesture to end my writer-block traumas. Above the foldable pad meant for writing, stand the open racks.
On one I have gathered my parliament of owls, which were till now kept in forced hibernation amidst kurtas and pajamas. On the other are pictures and icons of Kali, that amazing Amazon of a woman, who never ceases to inspire me. On my desk she can stand free, as just friend and Muse without feeling circumscribed by rituals, prasads and the heavy cloak of goddess. The third rack houses my cartomancy cards, a lone peacock feather, a book of spells, cassettes of Carnatic music lessons and a damaged porcelain cup with "Jaya" inscribed on it, a cup my husband got made for me at a ridiculous price from some tuck shop in Pondicherry, which chipped in transit.
Above the desk hangs a mask, of a Dakini in deep meditation. She is coffee-coloured, with a mild hint of dham stra (fangs) on her lip edges. Yet her face is undoubtedly divine, suggesting the triumph of the demonic aspect of her through contemplation. The Dakini's crown is broken, but the rest of her is intact -- big surprise, considering that she was found that way by my sister in a dustbin in Kolkata (who had the heart to put Her there?) and sent to me in three stages via Mumbai, Bangalore and Chennai through various hands.
Hanging above the Dakini is a picture of Radha, painted by my sister, especially for me.
In this Radha is alone, yet she is not mooning for Krsna. Instead she is blowing the flute, which is raising a sandstorm around her feet.
The roused sand is twirling so symmetrically that it looks like Radha has wrapped the very earth with its flowers, leaves and dust as skirt around her. That Radha has found her personal happiness in her art, without Krsna, is the message to me from my sister. With all these inspiring icons on and around my table, the daily walk I make to my writing desk is nothing short of a pilgrimage.
Yet, why it did not occur to me to buy the desk earlier, especially when it is giving me so much happiness now? I have always written while uncomfortably wedged on chair, stool, floor and even the staircase. There can only be one explanation for this. An optometrist astonished by the strain I put on my eyes before deciding to meet him said, "We Indians, if not anything else, truly know how to live with discomfort." Jaya Madhavan is a poet and a children's writer.
She blogs at jayamadhavan.blogspot.com jayamails@yahoo.com