Of Noodles, Notebooks, and Existential Dread!

 

I’ve officially entered the struggling writer phase of my life! And I have to admit, it’s not half as bad as our parents had made it out to be! I mean, it’s hard to romanticize the poverty away, but the vibe is everything. And these days, vibes are what we live for! You know, the constant caffeine-fueled brainstorming sessions that lead precisely to zero usable pages? Or the sheer thrill of discovering a new, incredibly cheap brand of instant noodles that somehow tastes almost edible! Ok, maybe this one’s on me and my nonexistent cooking skills; my bad!

Honestly, though, there’s a certain liberating anonymity to this lifestyle. Nobody cares if you’re wearing mismatched socks or if your apartment resembles a literary crime scene. You’re invisible, untethered. It’s a freedom that lets you chase those half-baked ideas without the world breathing down your neck.

Anyway, I’ve been able to pay rent on time by doing odd editing jobs and filling up for people in colleges here and there. You’d be surprised how many thesis and research papers need a last-minute polish, or how many lectures someone suddenly can’t make. It’s a hustle, but hey, it keeps the lights on and the noodle pot simmering, so who am I to complain?

At times, I often find myself channelling a certain Raskolnikov. Not the axe-wielding maniac, mind you, but the youthful fire, the intellectual ferment, the sheer, stubborn refusal to be crushed by poverty. He was a whirlwind of ideas in a threadbare coat, and honestly(?) I get it. The feeling of your brain buzzing while your stomach growls, and the desperate search for a decent pen while contemplating the fate of humanity? Yeah, I’ve been there. It’s a kind of beautiful, maddening chaos.

When situations get even more dire at times, I often ruminate, as I lay in my bed, on how the young romantic writer William Hazlitt was evicted by the philosopher Jeremy Bentham for failing to pay his rent! And let’s be real, who among us hasn’t considered trading a cherished possession for a decent, or at least a functioning laptop? The existential dread of a blank page staring back at you, judging your every thought? That’s just part of the charm, right?

I’m no cynic here, in case you’re wondering (or not). Diogenes ain’t my guy, and stoicism, too, feels a tad too rigid for me. And I’m certainly not one to slap a romantic filter on hardship. But something in this delightfully dishevelled existence just clicks.  There’s an undeniable, almost absurd charm to this simple life - a strange, almost defiant kind of charm. It’s not the kind of charm you plan for, but the kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it - a “hnung lam atanga sa barh” basically!

Naturally, the Marxist contingent, to their credit, would be accusing me of romanticizing class oppression and hegemonic whatnot! But, frankly, I’m far more incensed by the bureaucratic leeches and political puppeteers than a mythical Mizo bourgeoisie! And honestly, considering my current caffeine-dependent existence, I should probably be a self-proclaimed “comrade” pining for the siren call of a robust welfare state. Logically, it makes all the sense in the world for me to be a Marxist. But, truth be told, while I tip my hat to the philosophy, it no longer sparks any hope in me, not anymore. It’s like a well-crafted theory that’s lost its zest for me. I respect the intellectual rigor, but my revolutionary spirit seems to have misplaced its marching boots somewhere between the instant noodle aisle and the existential dread section of my brain.

And all this while, my brain is a whirlwind of half-baked theories and daring ideas. I might not be overflowing with the kind of excessive passions that characterise Hazlitt’s essays, but damn, I’m swimming in a sea of ideas, mediocre as they are:  ideas about AI and cultural evolution, and the memetics of the Zo-reunification project - a glorious, if slightly wonky, mental jamboree. And then there’s the idea for a game-theoretical autopsy of Mizo politics, and the futile attempt to reconcile Mizo collectivism with the brutal logic of the free market economy - to mention just a few. It’s a mental circus of the absurd!

My biggest struggle with these grand ideas? Well, while they are conceived with divine clarity and perfect performance in my mind, they immediately lose these platonic ideals the moment I inked them down onto paper - devolving into a chaotic, under-rehearsed farce! But who knows, maybe one of these mental meltdowns will somehow, miraculously, stumble upon a publishable thought. Or maybe not! Fingers crossed!

In my more delusional moments, I like to imagine myself with pantheons the like of Keats, and Fitzgerald, all the way to our very own Jimmy L. Chhangte - forming some kind of struggling artist support group. We’d swap stories, share noodle recipes, and lament the lack of decent pens. Make no mistake, I am not comparing my nonexistent artistry to that of these masters, but just knowing that they’ve been through the same hardships with no one to fall back on to kinda makes the situation charming - in its twisted way! Plus, there’s always the hope that one day, this ‘phase’ will be the quirky backstory in my eventual, wildly successful author bio. Or, you know, at least a good anecdote for a slightly less struggling writer friend.

I’ve never been one to spill the beans about my inner life, even to persistently prying ears. But there’s something about this chaotic beautiful mess that feels necessary to put down. And honestly, who knows, maybe someone out there, drowning in their own sea of instant noodles and half-formed ideas, will read this and think, ‘Yeah, me too.’ And that, in its absurd way, would be kind of... i don’t know!