The other day someone was kind enough, or rather gracious enough to refer to me as an avid blogger in introduction. While I smiled that silly smile which I reserve for moments of discomfort, I could not bring myself to refute the allegation.

However I do admit that I do blog on occasion just as I contemplate on my navel on lazy Sundays, and today has been one such day. But avid blogger I am not and frankly I don’t think I will ever be. I do not have the focus; I do not have the temperament; I do not have the discipline and neither do I have the nature required to be an inveterate blogger...

Pounding away at the keys of my laptop. Dedicating many life moments to the writing of my very own Bloggernama. Sorry, if you are looking for one of those guys who religiously follow a schedule, or even a pattern, then I am afraid you’ve dialled the wrong number.

For I am the sorriest excuse for being a blogger of any consistency.

If I am feeling a bit queasy in the stomach I cannot write. If I am hungry I cannot blog. If I am stuffed my writing goes for a toss. If I am flush with funds my spirit does not allow me to blog. If I am short of funds (and this is more often than not) my blogging abilities are impaired. What I am trying to say is that while my Intel Core Multiple Processors help me generate thousands of blogs per nano-second the bug in the system disallows me the privilege of converting all of them into readable formats.

Do I feel jealous of my more vociferous friends who have a regular column in the newspapers (or in several cases, more than one column) which they have to submit by the clock? Do I feel envious of the Shobhas and the Des’ who have so many different takes on so many different subjects everyday, and have a container load of expectations lying in wait around every corner of the snakes and ladder game that is meaningful if not creative writing? NO.

In fact I admire them. From a distance. I do not grudge them their talent nor their success at the art of being prolific. But I for one cannot write at the same time everyday, a fixed thousand words. I am more comfortable with my impulsive writing. My instinctive writing. My very often directionless writing.

And there is what I think is the crux of the situation.

Having made a living of writing to deadlines and having specialised in communicating to defined target audiences I find the luxury of writing at random quite a heady experience. It’s almost as if I take a break from swimming in the turbulent sea to paddle in the innocence of a heated swimming pool.

The reluctance of blogging is a virtue I think that permits me the pleasure of not having to visit any topic with mechanical regularity. And allows me to revisit the subject at the time of my choice. In this way I feel I have converted my many interests into my best friends. Friends who I don’t have to meet everyday, but friends who always take off from where they left it the last time we met, seamlessly and with an innate warmth and affection.

So I indulge in conversations with or with conversations about everything from agitations to anxieties; from teenage gyaan to adult goals. From food that I love to frolic that I enjoy. And I do it when I want to. Responding to an urge that cuts through the clutter of my mind and blossoms into an excerpt of my soul.

Am I an avid blogger. No!

I am if anything at all, a bloggist of randomness singing the wisdom of Rumi to an audience which thinks every song ends with an Amen