Burnout, wool skeins, and the art of deliberate rest
When Words Go on Strike Last week I skipped writing. No, I was not unwell or travelling or roped into one of Mani’s projects. I just sat in my chair, my mind full of muddled thoughts like ingredients in a witch’s cauldron, simmering, even as it drizzled outside with a sudden drop from a humid 34 degrees C to a wet 18°C degrees. The only issue or problem was, the words had gone on strike. It was as if they got sick of me and said, “Let’s bunk class today and go on chhutti (holiday). Why? Because normally, every Thursday I begin my two-day twelve-hour writing ritual- practically a job (unpaid yet immensely satisfying): research, reading, writing, deleting, rewriting, photo-hunting, editing, formatting, and then convincing Mani that this final draft really is final. (Is it ever?) Then it is released on Saturday, looking perhaps clean and effortless, like those people who claim they ‘just put something together’ when they turn up in a perfectly colour-coordinated outfit. B...