It needed a 'not-a-tag' to make me confront a simple fact.
I cannot write. I report.
Though I can make dozens of paper pelicans( or swans)that glide on polished floors when the fan whirrs and makes graceless sounds.
To convert this post into a light, floaty burst of birdsong you need a craft that is grounded in deep thought.
And reporting is not about thought, but seeing.
So actually reporting is airy and floaty, tethered only to seeing, not grounded in anything really. But a birdsong it is not.
I tried Spacebar, I really tried.
I even rummaged through the things I have seen/done in the past few days that could lend itself to spinning circles in the air.
I present a sample of things I could report about:
Society meeting in which yours truly held forth in a clear voice instead of shrinking in the background. They took serious notice of all I had to say and promptly added my name to some committee.I finally felt like an adult. All was well until they said Mrs. Jose and I said Surabhi Sharma, in a somewhat high pitched tone.A suggestion of infantalisation slinked back into the scene. We could have compromised at 'A-604' but the damage had been done.
Editing sound bites out of interviews with academics.
Clearing throat of phlegm to spew venom at the man I married. In the process relocating phlegm in the head and spewing sounds that made no dent on the thick skinned taurean.
The only paper kites spiralling in my head were the lost punctuations from the academics' interviews.
Oh yes, there was a dream, I got an animation artist to paint yellow butterflies* on the screen while a John Abraham film was being projected. A bearded mallu was not amused, but I was giggling and loving the film all the more. How is that for paper pelicans?
* Yes, I do know that you dont need an animation artist to paint on the screen. But it was an animation artist whom I had urged, not any other artist.