39 was the number Ernst Hemmingway revised his A Farewell to Arms, and 20 will be the years between Arundhati Roy’s two novels. Words not written with the haste of a canteen manager in the wee hours of usual business day, but planted saplings, exploration of a lover’s body, the sun taking an entire day to swell and shrink. But they ask “Aren’t you published?” Such contempt for poor, blameless unpublished words? Disowned. Derided. Unwanted unproductive lot of this city’s crazy love for confirmations; giggles of the underbelly; mockers of ambitions. Perhaps, because unpublished words are not any less than premarital sex, lethally, coyly, defying (in the dark hours of lust ridden, pleasure soaked pages of secret diaries) the forces of the CONTRACT. Dark horses of the
race of a longer kind. Unpublished words are the daggers jilted lovers use to kill their murderers, a quick and clean business. Unpublished words are the fittest answer to this world’s obsession with certifying legitimacy, nobility, right to be, and an uncanny power to Kill.
All words are equal,
But some words are more equal than others.