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If I had been heedful of my mother’s advice, I could have pursued a blooming career in Literature after completing my higher secondary exam from science stream in the year 2012. In the third semester at college, I opted for Indigenous Literature for my minor paper that blended perfectly with my introduction to the craft of writing. The Northeastern folktales and ethnic mythologies were a gateway to attain fresh knowledge for an inquisitive learner like me. It opened an exhilarating universal door for me. Enthralling lessons from my additional paper served to be a blissful escape from the periodicity of the tourism papers on a daily basis.
When Monica ma’am began her classes, she gave us an assignment where in her feedback, she complimented, “Fela! You should have been a Literature student. Your writing style shows it.” I was in awe for her recognising the meagre skill I never knew I had. Remarkably, she was that professional bright spark in the world of Literature; imparting wonderful knowledge about spotting hidden symbols in a story, the expedient mystery of reading and utilizing the power of critical analysis.
From that moment on, I began to envision myself as a Literature student. Through all the semesters, I rendered the best efforts to arrive at the closing chapters in the classes. When the subject was eliminated in my final semester, I kept yearning more and more whole heartedly to sit in the minor classes. Without pondering, I foresee my future ending up with a degree in English major.
I should have been a Literature student all along. I have been fluttering freely in the wrong subject. My writings would have spoken the loudest pitch if I am a Literature student. On repetitious amends, my naive thoughts instigated me to the plaque of regrets. It was during those bleak moments that I began having elusive clarifications to frame ‘writing’ as my passion, lacking questions of why I write. What would be my niche if writing was to be called an endearing passion? Even when I practiced, the words seemed desolately lifeless; I always felt that my first horrible steps were leading to nowhere, never meeting the light of day.
My beloved mutt Booboo has been my substantial anchor all along. In fact, he became my steadfast niche in my day-to-day existence. He is an immaculate figure of relentless euphoria; an antidote to all the missing puzzles hovering inside my head. Instilling the courage and unspoken motivation to weave out my mosaic fantasies in a childlike aura, he is an exhibition of my own originality. The moment I finished scribbling my very first story of him, I felt solitarily invincible in my own bubble. The noble wagging of his tail is my vital strength. Even when I lost interest in the art of writing, he rescued me by generating his own ventures that elevates my creativity. Inspiringly, he crafted me to be a writer.
Over and over, I kept pushing forward as different characters and topics visited my thoughts at certain points of time. Uncertain moments were when my own fantasies kept me drowning in the vast ocean of dreaming. I had to race ahead of those magical thoughts by grabbing a pen, opening a journal or switching on my laptop before they diminished without a promise to return. Confronting a plethora of mystical unknowns, each step I took, navigated my skills to a profound epiphany. With an intangible force of revered dedication, I gained the capacity to move further beyond my comfort zone.
Through a painstaking introspection, the roots of rumination cast an illuminating hope in shaping my decisions with a clear conscience. English Literature as a subject is so vast that I would have to work blood, sweat and tears to catch up with a new world of poems, prose and plays from different eras. Though I am an avid adherent of the mystical subject, I came to love only certain parts of it. I have always admired simple breathtaking poems but I neither consider myself to be a poet nor eager to invest an attempt in composing one. Folklores, mythologies and stories originating at certain destinations are the limelight of my interest. All in all, I have completely discarded my attempts to pursue a master’s degree in English Literature.
Academically diving in tourism studies, I have realised that the subject is uniquely inclusive i.e. its learning outcome is pertinently related to different aspects in other subjects (Humanities, Science and Business studies). The art of writing is a crucial encompassment that blends ideally with the trending travel world. Jotting notes on travel experience, the host community and beauty of a destination gives immense value to the experience and elevates the range of travel writing. Literature rightly serves as the subject that enhances articulation in imparting knowledge about folktales, traditions and customs of ethnicity. When two worlds collide, esoteric creativity blossoms.
In my experience as a tour guide, I have learned to deliver indigenous Mizo stories to win the hearts of tourists with whom I have crossed paths. I can fully assure that they have always been amused by the wonders of our cultural myths, traditions and folktales. Out of curiosity, they have a tendency of asking a barrage of questions until the answers serve justice. By all means, my delivery has to be guilelessly charismatic in being the storehouse of information. The thought process is certainly irksome but I have learned to evoke the lessons I had learned from my minor paper and the thoughts I had penned down from my past readings. Thus, my writings come in handy in sparking up sophisticated professionalism.
To be a pro and building dexterity in the art of writing, I unknowingly felt that a degree in English was utterly required. When I learned to widen my conscience, I sought the path that a plethora of writers have followed in making their name in the world without a degree in Literature. In spite of their hard work and pure dedication, it is their resilience, consistency and persistence that enabled them to build higher walls that will never be shattered by critical storms and judgmental accusations. For the pure love of writing, they have carried on the gift with golden passion in writing the truth and weaving out stories to change lives. Most of the writers I have admired including J.K. Rowling, Arundhati Roy and W. Bruce Cameron do not carry any profound degrees to be excellent writers but still, their works have boomed, universally changing the lives of their readers.
For all intents and purposes, I can be the exact writer that I dreamt of becoming. Writing about my dog was my first step when I magically learned to weave the mighty pen. So, I can write about dogs as they are creatures I loved mostly. On the way, destinations where I guide my feet have created elusive stories with my imaginations running wild and free. My walks on life and certain scenarios where I have found loopholes and appraisals have enriched my virtue with enthusiastic creativity and humility. My main aim is to grab hold of authenticity so that I can speak the messages of truth and compassion in its own naïve originality.
Writing has cultivated a boundless freedom in my soul to embrace a solitary moment in my life; to be acclimated to live a joy of being a satisfied loner. I have learned that I write for the pure love of writing. Though it takes everything inside me to give what life demands, my decisions flutter to crave for more knowledge. I will always decide when the thoughts knock at my door and make an attempt for the words to come to life.