Am I a literary person? I don't believe I actually gave that question the few picoseconds of my attention it got. And to think I'm writing an entire blog entry on it? I must be beserk.
Is being literary gauged by the number of books one reads? The number of poets one admires? The number of debates one does? The number of stories one writes? Isn't all of the above sheer bunkum? The illiterate truck-driver who spews out obscenities a-mile-a-minute is literary too. He uses his words not to glorify, not to explain, but to emphasize, to express. And expression is the fundamental need for which words were invented in the first place. Words have always held me spell-bound, their inexhaustible richness, intricate dynamics, nuances, their fascinating way of arranging into strings of moulded thoughts, enveloped lives.
When I see a jalebi tail of a stray dog, I am happy to be alive, to be able to share his joy, if only as an audience. I want to spread it. Words rescue me.
A friend confides - we whisper - conspirators of utter silliness, giggling our way through harmless tales. Words juggle along our waves of suppressed laughter. Shared and enjoyed.
I write my thoughts with sharpened lead pencils in words which creep into my mind. I sing songs with words I love. In the absense of the words, the hum is even better, just as our shadows are more intriguing than a mirrorred reflection.
What is it about words that capture our souls? You read a beautiful poem and revel in its richness. A good book promises many pages of unadulterated infinitely superior pleasure.
And you ask me if I am literary? Who isn't? Does such a thing as an "un-literary" person even exist?