Something Supriya Kamath There is something about inspiration or the nurture of it— or the nature, perhaps (the geneticists like to write letters) that compels it to strike like an ageing cuckoo clock, at the most ungodly hour and like that bold keeper of time often ventures to awaken those eager to protest the hour’s blasphemy until they realise that it’s just a mad old bird. Until they realise that it’s just me. There is something about pen and paper, that makes them prolific when one looks to cull the herd. But in times of dire necessity when a recently de-cluttered desk (an object of maternal pride) begs for evidence of wear and when inspiration strikes a mad old bird the scribe’s tools master the fine art of absconding leaving behind traces of tissue and red crayon, a carnivorous eraser a mantis wouldn’t prey on. But we will do anything for love. There is something about a good idea that makes it so hard to shape into words, and sentences,
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