Scorpio is supposed to sting, and the frog is supposed to trust; no matter how hard we try to separate ourselves from our dire human condition and our individual fights to “get over it”, we must come face to face with the truth that, despite all the work we do on ourselves, we will inevitably revert to who we are.
This is a capitalist world, and I am a writer.
A pre-Socratic Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, once argued for the unity of opposites, or what F. Scott Fitzgerald would eventually coin as the test of first-rate intelligence: the ability to hold two opposing ideas or contradictory beliefs in mind at the same time; George Orwell called this doublethink. We, as writers, call it bargaining with the truth.
The truth is, every year since 2020, I have seen writers smarter and better than me leave the city of Mumbai for a life that's smaller because the rent is too much; I have called them cowards, and I have still believed that they were brave. The truth is, I have kept a corporate job I hate with my current job of being rejected as a writer for as long as I can remember, making me neither a fully integrated corporate slave nor a writer with moderate success; I have both flexed it and been ashamed of it.
The harder truth is, I had the luxury in my early twenties to sit and write books, to have a tug and war with the ideas of philopshy and poltics in more than three languages because I didnt have to pay rent, its no surprise that after years and years of having my feet in two different boats, i can neither hold a job or write a draft as quickly as i used to.
My co-founder and collaborator of 7 years started as an actor and, unfortunately for her, realised she can write as well. Between the takes, she wrote, she read, and now she has already written and directed her first short film, with a feature underway that she is producing; this consistency on paper does not leave her untouched by the horrors of capitalism either. Much like other brilliant writers, she too had to leave mumbai, she had to go through months of unemployment where the agenda was to write but her ego had taken so much bruising that by the time she sat down with her diary; the only thing that came out was a tear followed by the long sigh that is trying to percivce all the horrors future holds for writers like her.
The year in which I realised my interns have completely stopped using critical thinking for their college assignments is the year I decided to take the leap and start this magazine with Ayushi. Our agenda was simple: create a space for women (including us) to be able to write every day and be published in a forum where like-minded people would respond to it and be inspired to write too.
Ayushi hasn't written her film yet; she is trying. I haven't learnt how to naturally produce serotonin in my brain after quitting drugs, and it's getting harder because I am still at a corporate job that I hate. Ayushi, being smarter than most of us, decides to leave Mumbai first to focus on her writing, and a couple of months later I quit my cushy job, and I follow suit.
Please bear in mind I have not been without a corporate job since 2020; my writing credits are despite that. The burnout that had been bubbling on the surface for about a year or so has the chance to overflow and bleed into every section of my life.
Ayushi, who is having a hard time writing, directing, and executing her first short, doesn't have the same luxury to stay in bed for months; she is throughout plagued by the insane possibility of “the film not working,” which, if you knew anything about her, you’d know she is going mad while overcorrecting and overperforming. Throughout this phase, this magazine is halted and is only started when my mental health is better because I am finally working on my third book after more than a decade between this one and the last.
The magazine does fine for a couple of months again till I inevitably let all the bad things that have happened to me catch up to me, and to stabilise the situation, I get a job again. This time, between the cracks in our friendship, Ayushi finally decides to give up completely.
What is the point of telling this sob story? Well, it's mostly to justify the journey of this magazine first to myself and then to you. Please know as I have seen about 5 million versions of myself pass me by by the time I turn 31 next month, between all the vices and a thousand men who aided those vices, eveytime I have done better and made the same mistake, one thing that remains untouched by the hauntings of my life is this magazine, its the only thing thats kept me afloat and yet I have let it sink (twice).
The backdrop of all these personal journeys and their reckoning has been: a big wave of writers losing their jobs to AI, Gaza still under fire, technologically we are still at a place where mass surveillance is being consumed like the next fashion trend, our government has made the most unserious generation ask the most serious questions, umar khalid is still in jail, the cornerstone of democracy; our media is still paralysed while women are stepping away from marriage and dating and are getting blamed for it. I have seen the inflation rate go up firsthand; I have seen how five to six writing industries are crumbling under pressure. The studios need something feminist but not too feminist unless it's giving a nationalistic message; the music labels need something fresh but refuse to go beyond an abab rhyme scheme because the audience is dumb and they need repetition for a song to stick. I have seen bestsellers give acknowledgments to ChatGPT, and finally I have seen the print news and journalism die in real time.
I want to be able to type that I still believe in all those dreams I had for myself when I started writing. I want to completely reject reality, put my eggs in only one basket, and manifest that it will happen. Having done that multiple times in my journey, I will have to quote Samantha Jones: if I were 22, this would be cute, but I am 30, and this is just stupid.
Being a somewhat decent writer, lyricist, screenwriter, culture essayist, poet, and co-founder and editor of this magazine sounds nice but doesn't pay as well.
Ayushi, on the other hand, will keep finding jobs in her industry and making her films, leaving her very little time to tend to this magazine, unless I help. I will be doing jobs that I don't understand or like because all the other ways I can make money also depend on studios, music labels, and artists; all those things require me to be in Mumbai. A city I don't see myself living in again.
A space started to give women like me and you a vent, a window, or a door, depending on two ambitious women who are never satisfied and are always reaching for more, fighting a system that penalises anything done for sheer leisure or love.
We are not making money; we could be making money, for which we would need time that we don't have, and in this catch-22 we both find ourselves exhausted with the pressure of our own expectations for this magazine and our ambitions for our said careers.
But our limited human nature makes us keep trusting the process, and capitalism’s scorpion will keep stinging us. So bear with us as we try to figure this out, if we can at all, and I thank you for your patience and your constant support and the little airbag that the women and collaborators provide to us with their drafts, shares, likes, and their general faith and love.
I am in no shape or form to argue that despite my privilege, this is a sob story. Just getting the privilege to have these problems should be enough for someone like me, but it isn't. I hope for this magazine to do what a gazillion women and publications have been able to do for me, which was to keep me here in this world, curious, engaged, thinking, and feeling.
And that's a fight worth fighting for, even though at this stage it looks like we might lose.
As we speak, Anthropic is physically destroying classics; numerous singers have their voices stolen from them by AI. Between the grand layoff season and the worst economic crisis our generation has ever seen, I find myself lucky to be able to get a job in this economy. I also feel deeply unfortunate that I cannot fully commit to my writing pursuits. I am what Fitzgerald would dub as someone with first-rate intelligence, but I am really extremely exhausted by living in two worlds at once.
Apologies and regards, Its my first year as an adulting alone who is a recovering addict and has an extremely tenacious relationship with sex and being kind to herself. I am trying my best.
Writer who is working in luxury furniture (for now)
About the Practitioner: Smriti Bhoker is an Urdu poet, lyricist, screenwriter, and culture essayist based in Mumbai, India, where she heads a techno record label. With a master's degree in sociology, she brings a deep understanding of culture and society into her creative work. Smriti has published two Urdu books that fall under the genre of political poetry. Smriti’s work often explores themes of identity, language, and social narratives.
Support the author: We're an independent magazine that is finding its footing, and here's how you can help: Shatter the illusion of capitalism with one contribution at a time and consider supporting this writer who made you laugh/cry directly: smriti.bhoker@okaxis
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