Living in a world, which is already with one foot in the next century, when I review myself, I realise, that, that my life and thought have been one of paraphrasing enormous stretches of time through which man trudged his way to reach me and this generation and now will pass through me into the future like the shaft of tomorrow’s sun.
So the many rivers of blood that flow in me, carry cargoes of this consciousness, which whenever spelt out in human speech in the dawns and dusks of my time accumulated into scraps of paper showing undecipherable notes in the daylight. For some decades now I have lived on the hope that someday I would unravel the mysteries held by these characters, the hasty zigzag scribblings and perhaps they would one day turn into a poem, a story or a theory, if I am allowed to recapture the moments through which my life passed as if through a sieve.
In life I have travelled long distances, have received unhealing wounds, cruelly mauled and bruised; today the voices of those wounds yearn to pass through me and my flesh. I realise there is hardly any time left to indulge in these ambitious experiments of deciphering the inarticulate script that these stacked bundles carry, since I have no shades to sit and ruminate on the past and dialogue with moments which left me long ago.
Youth looks at life through stained glass-windows of illusion, and maturity bequeaths the gift of appreciating the heartlessness and selfishness of life. In poetry, only an iota of one’s experience creeps in, that too, slyly. But in a note-book the tides of our thinking get anchored over the shores of paper, while life still drifts on in the red river.
One fine morning, lilies were blooming brilliant red around and the last traces of Gulmohor were still seen on the branches. The world looked peaceful, tinged by dawn, but I sighed saying “will God ever spare me the time from these cruelties of life to finish all the plans which are lying like unhatched eggs in the nests of my pages”?
A friend of mine observed thoughtfully “In my opinion they will make a very expressive poet’s Note Book...which will be a window to your mind, your mental portrait.”
He leafed through the pages and told me “I have run through these notes and felt that in these pages a sensitive mind will move through the stirring pageantry of the great struggles and reveries of Man on this planet. In my opinion it will undoubtedly be the most interesting Notebook to come from any intellectual.” Thus the book emerged.
- Seshendra Sharma