I dreamt last night of being in a car with my grandfather as he started to tell me about Subramania Bharati – I cut him off, I recited Suttum Vizhichudadar to him. We were in the back seat and someone, a man, was sitting between us. I remember the childlike pride that filled my body – coupled with what Kelvin, the most soulful atheist I know, calls “a godly feeling”, that feeling I told him I become intoxicated with whenever I speak about or share my work, my writing – how more and more and more it has turned into my lifeline, the reason I don’t wake up screaming. My lifeline even when I do.
In my dream also was a conference of some sort in a small classroom-like setting, with someone passing out pamphlets filled with a soothsayer’s general predictions. I was given a copy, and knew instinctively not to read it at that time. Ignoring this, I flipped it open, and it fell open to a page on which something about how I would hit a low point in my writing/career between 2060 and 2072 – it literally said “Sharanya Manivannan…” – was typed, and I remember being filled with such nervousness and anxiety. Consoling myself that I would be dead by then, doing the math and realising that I may not be. And that terrible gnawing inside – the not wanting to be alive that long if I wasn’t writing, if my writing meant nothing. (Awake, the funny part to me is that I was supposed to go perform in Fruitcake again immediately after reading that.)
I could die I could die I could die I would, without this.