A few days ago, a friend asked me, “Pataitji, tell me
honestly—why did you start writing online?” His question made me pause. Why did
I really begin writing on the internet? Unknowingly, the words of Samarth
Ramdas came to mind: “To die, but leave behind a legacy.”
Every mortal being secretly wishes to be immortal. We
can’t live forever in body, but we can live on through our legacy. Perhaps that
desire was hidden somewhere in me too. I’m no King Harishchandra, but I shared
the truth I had discovered with my friend.
People’s fame lasts for generations only when they’ve
done something great. From Lord Ram to Gandhi, many figures are remembered for
their deeds. But someone like me—a middle-class man, average in studies, who
barely made it from clerk to officer—never imagined doing anything grand.
I didn’t have the drive for social service like Baba
Amte. As Saint Tukaram said, “Let your son be such a rogue that his flag
flies in all three worlds.” But with my single-boned frame, even rogue-hood
was out of reach. Besides, fear is fed to the middle-class Marathi man from
birth.
I didn’t achieve much in education either. The time to
become a doctor or engineer had long passed. Even pretending to do social work
wasn’t possible—my government job kept me too busy. From stenographer to PPS, I
spent 39 years saying “Yes Sir,” including 18 years in the Prime Minister’s
Office. Leaving home at 7 a.m. and returning at 9 or 11. p.m. there was no time
for local committees or public service. Household responsibilities fell on my
wife. Today, in my own neighbourhood, I’m known by my wife’s or son’s name.
Only one path remained—becoming a writer. To be a writer,
you don’t need grand achievements or deep study. You just need to put your
thoughts on paper. I had tried once in my twenties—sent some poems to
magazines. None were published, none returned. Only the postal department
earned a hundred rupees. Eventually, I accepted the truth: “I won’t become
famous,” and gave up the idea of writing.
But they say—when one door closes, another opens.
Twenty-five years passed. In 2010, I got internet at home. Maybe the internet
was born to fulfil the unfulfilled desires of people like me. By then, I had
developed a strong pride in being Marathi.
The first site I saw online was “Marathisrushti.”
It boldly said, “Awaken the writer within you!” A blind man asks for one
eye—here, I got two for free! I couldn’t believe it. Nervously, with Google’s
help, I typed my first article. To my surprise, it appeared on the site the
very next day.
That was it—my hidden desire came alive. I started a blog
in my own name. I typed whatever came to mind. No worries about grammar or
language. Within months, I discovered other Marathi sites like “Misalpav”
and “Aisi Akshare.” I began posting my articles everywhere.
If there were mistakes, readers would quickly respond.
Some praised the writing, others scolded me. But through essays, poems,
blogs—and even the experience of my work being stolen. I learned one thing:
To earn recognition, you don’t need to slay a demon or win a war… you just need
to install the internet.
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