Last night I typed a long blog. I normally put my thoughts down in my notes,as and when they come to me.And they come to me dime a dozen,24/7! Then I work on the piece,so its not incomprehensible. I choose the precise words to express what I’m feeling or want to say,edit it,try and put the right punctuations and the capital letters,correct the spellings(thanx to auto correct,though I seem to correct auto correct more than it corrects me.)and then,finally, I publish it. 

So that’s exactly what I was doing yesterday,but just before publishing it,I clicked delete by mistake and all of it vanished. 

Was I frustrated. It’s the understatement of the decade.

 This is exactly why I sorely miss paper and pen.

Whenever I’m about to start work on a film,I ask for a hard copy of the script. I just have to have it. On it I make my notes, thoughts, feelings,characterisations,even intonations. Also doodles.(which any shrink would have a field day interpreting.)

To anyone else it’s illegible,but to me it’s much much more than a naked eye can see. It’s in between the lines,it’s silences, pauses, breath,it’s the characters past and present engraved in the slant of scribbled words. It’s a journey starting from me,leading to who I finally become. It’s a transition from me to HER!                               She can’t be me,if she was then it would be my failiure as an actor. I,have to become her.

And probably that’s why when people meet me, they’re almost shocked. They expect me to be the character and I’m nothing like that. I’ve heard it so many times,”But you are so different.” And I take that as a compliment. 

I’m convinced,if I wasn’t an actor I’d be a schizophrenic. Besides many other insanities.Or maybe I am,and that’s why I can be so many people and lead so many lives. Exciting,very very exciting,but,exhausting.

Anyway coming back to my paper and pen. I love diaries. I pick them up from everywhere I go. I have a collection of diaries. Some with thoughts, some with poems, some with dates underlined or marked with a star.Dates only I know the importance of,some with notes,and doodles. And some empty.

The sheer pleasure I feel when I find one of my old diaries is immeasurable. It’s like finding that secret door to Narnia. A different world! A different me. A ‘me’I was then.

I can trace what I was thinking when I scribbled a word. I am cognizant to the hesitancy I felt when my pencil trailed off mid sentence. I can hear my silence in the long gap between two sentences. I can feel my urgency in scrawled rushed scribble and the drawl in running alphabets. And sense my indecisiveness from the upteen times attempted and cancelled words and finally the frustration and anger in the furious scratches that almost tore the paper. And then a sigh of despair where the pencil point broke. 

It’s like suddenly being flooded with memories. Like albums,but more discreet,more illusive. A memory I can hold,touch and smell.A secret only I can decipher. A tangible vociferous memory.

I’m not against technology but No expression can be read through the words typed in uniform font on a phone or I-pad or laptop. It’s like that unsaid ephemeral romance,you can’t fathom what he felt but hid or  what she meant but didn’t voice. And you are left wondering if it really happened or did you imagine it? It may be great for your imagination but not so for your reality. 

Also,Everything that’s typed on a gadget is registered and recorded somewhere. Every click goes down as a digital footprint. And yet,the one you probably wrote it for can’t hear your voice or feel your silence or sense the intimacy. 

Yes,it’s for public consumption. But, it fails to consume.

And like I did yesterday, it can be wiped out. The thought,the feeling and the one I was at that moment,all gone,in one click!