The writers in today’s world are finding it increasingly difficult to find a niche for themselves. What strategies would you recommend for them to survive this sense of uncertainty and vulnerability?

What I’d suggest every writer is that they don’t identify their own personality with the writer in them. See, while you’re writing, you’re very vulnerable.

Do you think not getting what you want is sometimes good luck in disguise?

You can’t get what you want all the time. So one must get used to certain disappointments and refusals. You can’t be successful all the time. Nor should you be, I think. It’s good to struggle a bit and learn to handle setbacks.

For you writing immediately after waking up is primary, all later writing is secondary as you say: “I remember lying awake in the dark, eyes closed for fear of losing those waking thoughts, that clear wet dictation that goes on and on.” Do you do it lying on bed every single day?

That’s what it is. That’s why you miss it so much when it is not happening. Of course, it can’t happen all the time. You can’t be ecstatic all the time. Otherwise that ecstasy is devalued in a way. The whole point of that ecstasy is that it comes so rarely. But you love it, you worship it, you live for it in a way …

Do you think whatever happens to us is for ultimate good?
It is absolutely true. Although when we say this at our normal level of communication it appears to be a truism, a kind of hackneyed slogan. But as one goes on realizing more and more the whole meaning of life, and the purpose of our living and experiencing things, one understands that it is a fact, an ultimate fact at a higher plane.

He’s at war with himself.

What the deuce have I been doing here in this wilderness past few days trying to summit the eight-thousander? I can’t hang tough and brave the elements anymore, he thought.

In a low mood he was sipping tea at a roadside stall in their thriving small town, when he noticed a bridal party coming in his direction, accompanied by the brass band musicians, the sound of their drums rising to a fever pitch. There were people, both male and female, dancing by a slow moving car housing the couple just wedded.

In the hall, I heard someone trying to stifle a sob. It’s a young lady a few seats across. The film ended. People dispersed. We went out together.
My lodge and her apartment turned out to be two neighbouring houses. I accompanied her.

On the ordained day
In Doon Valley
I converse with the artist
In whose mind
Exactly the right word
Appears like the “leaf to a tree”.

He, our Good Samaritan, had forty eight hours left to live. Therapy reduced him to a mere skeleton.

You’re sitting like stone wearing a mournful expression. Anything the matter? Wondered my Muse.

A poet-pianist I interviewed not-so-long-ago passed on.