Hello, yellow moooo from Iowa!

Half of this letter was written before I came to Iowa. The other half is after. Both the halves are ossified- go figure which is which!

Iowa. The word was one gaping deep wound for me. Before I got the chance to start thinking of myself as a writer- I suffered (and still do) from the after-effects of such an emboldened state of mind and trance- when you do not work for anyone or one thing but yourself and multiple interests that follow through, you will feel the most alive, the most generative. I felt like I was living my design, finally. My human design. More on that maybe in the future (I am currently learning about HD- found something that changed my life and requires a different letter to just talk about it)

Ingrained like its geographical locus- midwest, tight in the center, landing soft blows like ‘Punjab of India’ and mined for cogs and covered with snow-

ingrained because of what has happened before me here. People who thought they could write applied to MFAs like the ones I did in and wait. Wait for the call. I waited for many calls. Somehow always thinking that Iowa would not want me- why would it? There are plenty of writers who write and they write better. What distinguishes me from them is my resilience to live without going to the salon, cutting down on eating out, wearing sustainable fashion, and not caring for anyone but me and my experiences- Nobody is going to do this that I have to I have to write, tell stories, feel things and come back from the dead, every time I feel a lot or a little.

It called me. Iowa yearned for me as much. What a thing to feel when you know a bunch of writers who have dedicated their lives to form writing communities, arrange talent and teach- would see me as their own. The warmth from that cold country was felt here in 45 degrees of a heatwave in Gujarat when the mail I have been dreaming of, knocked in.

Think of it- a Bihari child who could not write ‘elephant’ or pronounce ‘giant’ properly was writing essays on giant elephants. English. The dreadful subject for which once my teacher had remarked to my father, “ You need to do something and do fast- look at the sheet-” my father had gazed in oblivion- a sheet full of red circles and underlinings- a pure mockery of a teacher by another. a pure evil of an English mocking a family for knowing nothing but poverty and struggles- for what?

“for what?” asked my father outside the school, the PTM was over. for now.

“For what have we been sending you to the best schools?”

“for what have you been made to sit and being taught instead of me out there earning?”

His words made sense. But I never liked rot learning or memorizing shit- I had been waiting for a Sidney, a Grisham, and a Wodehouse to come to ball me over. To release me out in tandems by infusing a hunger to be better at English. To know English as well as any.

I do not think I studied maths or physics diligently for this very same matter- I was good at them and I stayed good but I had not been diligent for them (my mother says otherwise that scoring a perfect 100 in subjects was definitely the pinnacle of diligence, achieved and performed.)

English was an enemy that I love now. I AM in love.

Before me, I knew of many writers who have come here, weary and wormed- by the urge to disassociate, urge to find inspiration, and delve into the bright of the sides- not the sides that line the big cities with enormous responsibilities. They have struggled, been ostracized, voiced issues that were devoid of apathy, they wormed their way through depression and dissonance. They have proved themselves worthy of the way of life that is far removed from the lies of this generation. To follow in these heavy footsteps with running feet is going to be if nothing- interesting. Definitely, a journey that I am excited about. From reading journals that played with international agreements, the case laws that haunted the nights with legal issues badgering into the practicality of the studies to writing about a capsizing boat in the middle of the desert, ambergris, stone masons that reinvented patriotism, the validity of a format, a schedule, deadlines, a place for dreams and to thinking about what inspires me at the moment- this journey has been exceptional. With my follies, it has been interesting. With my pace, it has looked like I was looking into and not really living my design, up till now. Now, the reigns feel as if I should be afraid of what I might not get time to do even with all the time in the world for my Art and me. Headlong.

Let this be known that I tried staying back in India, I did

Let this be known that I would have almost become a Civil Judge

Let this be known that I was this close to losing my shit

Let this be known that I was battered, tired, and mowed down

Let this be known that I invested 28 years of my life into where I am today and there’s no other way to look at it then this

Let this be known that I have taken risks that make me more than the comfort that comes with living a life of privilege

Let this be known that I choose rejections every day over and again- I love rejections- they pitch me a feeling that for most are hard to get by

Before leaving, the previous night I cried a lot. Alone. I went from room to room in the dark and the tears could not stop spilling. I felt for my people, my country, my family, my dogs, and my fellow poor people- the value of the dollar was increasing every day and I felt a knot in my chest. My chest beat as it had never before on the last night, 24 hours before I had to board my flight of 1.7 lacs, a one-way trip to the land of dreams, the land of opportunities, the land of immigrants and migrants.

The visa process took so much out of me that I decided to pin my hopes on the people I had been talking to from afar, slowly it seemed like all the people I was connected to and knew in India did not want me anymore- the disassociation was a discombobulation of sorts. I felt like I was in Iowa even before I knew it.

The things that I did in the first 24 hours were-

Walk bare feet on the earth, and seek its acceptance

Go to the Mustard Seed farm and harvest my own produce

Meet my favorite people who I yet have to know ‘know’

Learn navigating the streets, where to get groceries from and what nots like owning the Dishwashers that won’t make me ask my owner a hundred times for instructions to operate it

Gather books and gather my bearings

While one gathers bearings, it is best to rest- let the mind precolate

What I did wrong- I ate my faltmate’s food thinking it was common to both

I got lost and had a hard time finding the house on my first walk out

Did not get a SIM card yettt and it is the fourth day!

Ordered a veg Dominos(In India all you get is Veg but here….. it is the opposite) and it had pepperoni in it

The thing I need to do escapes me. Sit still and write. Get up and move. Prepare the meal and eat it. Consider sentences. Write sentences. Shatter sentences. Live inside an orifice wet with silver. Eliminate caffeine. See acupuncturist. Make a list of gratitude. Sit in the black morning. Drink water. Sit in the black evening. Repeat. Commune with higher self { Do not ruminate on the lover who is not here beside you }- Fahima Ife

Interesting lists and links for mongering:

1. America Is Wide Open for Foreign Influence

2. Read my review of Crochet by Raman (Tahir lives with Maa and Abba in a refugee colony. A childhood misfortune pushes him down an age long chasm, surrounding him with ominous shadows and illusory objects. As Alex untangles his knotted head, Tahir uncovers a dark past, stored in long forgotten jars.

   Crochet is a story of greys, of fractions, of halves, of twins, of dinky dots, of concentric circles, of daisies in gardens, and irises in eyes)

3. Writers recommending writers

Some things happen only once.

A molar pulled is gone forever,

a thrown spark. The invention

of the internal combustion engine,

the rivening blade of the axe,

the first axe. First flight,

ice, light, math, birth.

And death,

we think, happens only once,

though many of us hold to the belief

some residue transcends,

some fine filament that lingers on,

the body gone into a stream of purity,

the brain a blown fuse that leaves

a bright flash, rib of arc light,

nickel’s worth of energy cast out

as seed onto the friable air, weed stem

of electricity that grows no matter

how often it’s hacked back,

the 21 grams we long to trust:

the soul surrendering its host

Wrote this Newsletter listening to Akhiyaan Milaoon Kabhi (FarooqGotAudio Remix- all his remixes are *kisses the air"*)!

This is a free newsletter but not cheap. If you love it, consider supporting it by liking and sharing this newsletter. This letter is reader-supported, hence the lack of ads and sponsors. I don’t get much feedback on my newsletters (I have approximately 2000 and counting readers) If you do read, please feel free to drop me a note or hit the “heart” on the newsletter-

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