Why do we write ? : To Dig into Oneself is to Write! - Dasu Vaidya

Why do I write?The question seems simple, and its answer could be just as simple: I write because I have a pen and paper. I write because I possess the skill of writing, much like the ability to read and converse. But when I approach this question as a creative writer and poet, there is no option but to dig deep within myself. I grew up in a small village. The ways of farming and the soil naturally became a part of me. I didn't like school. Until the fourth grade, I wasn't at all keen on going. I had to be forced to go. The Zilla Parishad school in the village was charming, but the classroom felt like a cage. The large, spacious windows in the classroom had no grills, creating a big, open frame. Through that window, I could see the open sky. In that confined room, this open window was my escape. Many times, it also served as an escape route from trouble. Once I jumped out the window, the railway line, the fields, and the river would be waiting for me. I could eat my fill of seasonal wild fruits: guavas, berries, raw mangoes, java plums, and more. Playing by the river would tire me out. The fun of rubbing the river's sticky mud on my body and letting it dry in the sun was something else entirely. I learned how to catch fish with the fishermen's kids, but I was always scared of catching crabs. When I got hungry after splashing in the river, I'd eat pods of pigeon peas, green gram, or peanuts from the nearby fields. I would be marked present at school in the morning, and my bag would be in the classroom. After four or five hours of happily roaming, I'd go back to school so I could go home with the other kids without any suspicion. My secret "free-spirited school plan" was exposed when I failed math in the fourth grade. The truth was, the school outside the classroom appealed to me far more than the one inside. I must say, I absolutely loved my Marathi textbook. I would get and read the Marathi books of students up to the seventh grade. Poems were my lifeblood. I knew countless poems by heart without even trying, such as "Ya Balano Ya Re Ya," "Sange Rangavili-Basange Bandhili," "Khabardar Jar Tach Maruni Jal Pudhe Chadhya," and "Gavatfula Re Gavatfula." This was my first exposure to the written word.

A Rich Tapestry of Sound and Sight

Even more important was the auditory influence I experienced before discovering written poems. My ears were probably trained by listening to folk singers like the Gondhali and Masanjogi, as well as the roaming minstrels Vasudev, and through Bhajans (devotional songs), Kirtans (sermons with music), and Aartis (ritual songs). There was no alarm clock to wake me up in the morning; I'd wake up to the sound of the Gondhali's Sambal (a percussion instrument). Kirtans on various themes would go on for eight days straight at the Vitthal temple, and there was always a crowd to listen to the Bhagwat, Ramayana, and Mahabharata. I'll admit, I even secretly watched Tamashas (a form of folk theatre) at the village fair. When the words "Ganas vandan karu ni amhi bara gam firu, An chala chala gavalana zali suru" (Let us worship Gana and wander twelve villages, and let the Gavalan begin) were sung, the Dholki (a drum) would hum and the Ghungru (bells) would come alive. It was a spellbinding moment. The Ramleela performers would come from Rajasthan every year and perform for ten days, from the birth of Rama to his coronation. Since there was no TV, these live performances had a huge impact on me. I even loved going to listen to the Kirtans. The performers would captivate the audience for two hours, telling stories, playing the harmonium, singing sweet songs, cracking jokes, and teaching knowledge and ethics in a simple, easy-to-understand language. I was fascinated by the Kirtankars' one-man-show ability to hold the attention of men, women, the elderly, the young, the educated, and the uneducated all at once. I also listened to a sermon by Dr. U. M. Pathan, an expert on saint literature, at the Kalai Devi temple when I was a child. My father had taken me. More than understanding the sermon, the whole village was in awe that a Muslim person was talking about saint literature. Later, Dr. Pathan became my M.A. teacher in university. I lived a childhood full of this kind of rich auditory experience.  

The Living Book of the Village

In a conventional sense, my village was small, but it allowed me to run around and explore as much as I wanted. I swam in wells as if possessed, and jumped into them from the babool trees that grew nearby. I retrieved ten-paisa coins thrown to the bottom of 20-25 foot-deep water. Even then, my desire remained unfulfilled. Some unknown depth was always calling to me. My friend Ganya, who drowned, still comes to me in my dreams. I also sang bhajans and played the cymbals at the bhajan circle. When I was in the seventh grade, I even wrote a bhajan for my mother's Thursday bhajan group. My voice would soar while singing aartis (devotional songs). I loved watching rehearsals and performances of rural dramas. I played a lot of cricket and wrestled in the pit. I also loved to draw. My father was a teacher, and I had full claim to the pieces of chalk in his Nehru jacket pockets. I would draw on the mud-plastered walls and verandah. We also played hide-and-seek, tag, Kabaddi, and marbles. Many times, these games led to fights, and my family would get annoyed with my swearing and scuffles. On the other hand, my constructive activities included bringing red clay from the Khandoba temple grounds to make clay oxen and idols of Lord Ganesha, which was my favorite annual activity. In a conversation once, Vijay Tendulkar gave me a new perspective on swearing and fighting. According to him, they are also forms of expression. We express ourselves through both odes and curses. In short, expressing myself was my need, and later I found words and started expressing myself through them. I had a tremendous curiosity about many events that happened in the village. It was a small village, and news spread quickly. When someone died, I'd go to their house and watch the crying, the waiting for relatives, the tying of the bier, and listen to the stories being told about the deceased. Every year, bear handlers would come to the village, go door-to-door, give blessings, and let children ride on the bear's back. I loved roaming around the village with them. It was fun to watch the fights in the town square and listen to the Geet Ramayan at the Vitthal temple. In the eighth or ninth grade, there was a riot in my village. I knew about scuffles, but not riots. In that atmosphere of stone-pelting, arson, and stabbings, with police patrolling, the village was deserted. Frightened people stayed inside their houses. In that situation, I went to the market to see the riot. The police brought me back home. I insisted and watched my butcher friend Gaus slaughter a bull. (Later, with my doctor friends, I watched many operations and deliveries.) It wasn't intentional, but once, when I went to the classroom to get a ball on market day, I saw a couple making love. As kids, we would cruelly throw stones at mating dogs, but it felt strange to see a man and woman together at that age. I didn't understand the exploitation of women, but I was captivated by the women cooking in the smoke of their stoves. I never understood the concept of "untouchability" and hated the rules of "don't touch, don't come near." I would eat at any friend's house without hesitation. I would go to anyone's field to watch the sowing or to guard the grain. I loved eating at the Bhandara feast. I was given the nickname "Katali"—a stray bull who roams the village. I never liked religious rituals. I was more fascinated by the rhythm and tune of aartis than the devotion itself. My friends and I would never miss a chance to serve water at wedding feasts at the Devi temple. These are just a few of the many things I could mention, but these personal experiences were important because they form the basis of our personality.

The Inner Spring

All that I saw, heard, and experienced was stored up inside me. My curiosity only grew. Many things in my surroundings began to bother me. I loved my father's scholarly friend, the uncle who brought guavas, but when I found out that he beat his wife, the taste of the guavas changed for me. I started to feel sympathy for the village people rooted in my mind. While searching for my surroundings, I started to discover myself. As a child, I didn't have much of a connection to books, but I was reading the living book of my surroundings. Later, I befriended books and started reading them with all my heart. I found a treasure trove of books at the Sahitya Niketan library in Ambejogai. I read them voraciously. Reading brought the inner springs to life. I felt I had something to say. The blank page was my trusted friend, who would always listen. Just as the water tank on the roof overflows when full, what was stored in my mind wouldn't let me be at peace. So, I started writing. The thing that brings me joy and contentment is writing. Just as the Earth revolves around the sun while also rotating on its own axis, when we dig into our surroundings, we also dig into ourselves. As psychology says, our personality is formed in childhood. According to that, we become poets and writers, and our writing style is also shaped. Kusumagraj calls the sea an "unlimited friend," while for Mardhekar, the sea is a "sweeper who brings the inner filth to the shore." Padgaonkar feels one should "love this life a hundred times," while Aarti Prabhu asks a profound question, "Why pitch a tent here on Earth?" Just as we have a curriculum for a degree, a curriculum is also necessary for life. I find the curriculum of writing to be relatively easy and joyful. It's essential to have a curriculum (or a passion) for life, otherwise, life is a boring thing. Writing reduces my restlessness. I can search for people, explore events, and now, I can't do anything else properly besides writing. I write because my curiosity about people and my surroundings is still alive... A poem found in the excavation of centuries I can still hold in my cupped hands like pure, clear water, The snail of poetry in the shroud of time leaves a silvery trail, The inner light of the poet who writes in the dark continues to roam like a firefly in the black, stormy sky, The poet digs deeper and deeper and then finds a pinch of wetness. - Dasu Vaidya This article is the translated version of the original article आम्ही का लिहितो? : स्वतःला खोदत राहणं, म्हणजे लिहिणं! written by Shree. Dasu Vaidya published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025

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