A society of perfect people.

I came across a very interesting thought at a recentworkshop. That people in most advanced countries (and even in India) terminate pregancies if they get to before hand that the child is carrying a genetic disease including epilepsy, Down syndrome and other incurable and conviniently incurable disorders.

This thought gave each of us a pause. Each of us writers - writers with other day jobs - a pause in our thought process. What would the world be like with only perfect human beings. Perfect in the sense of the literal physical being. Would it be a society that would encourage people to be less tolerant than we already are? What would that mean for us? Fat and dark people will continue to
be pulled up for their physical limitations until of course DNA can test whether the baby will be a fat, dark girl, for whom marriage would be an ordeal, therefore she better not face it all.

It was a lazy Sunday morning with mists twirling in the air (ok ok actually it was the smoke from the dry leaves being burnt but hey let me romanticise it) seemed like a nice beginning to the sunday, which would have ordinarily been spent sleeping.

This was THE Sunday. The Sunday where I was supposed to go for an advanced writers' workshop at Yeoor, deep in forests on hilltops and on a quaint farmhouse. We reached there to find out that though our facilitator would not be able to make it, we were still going to go ahead with our readings and enjoy the idyllic atmosphere.

Like most writers I have interacted with, no writer reads his work without an explanation, as though it would make any difference to understanding the writing or the subject betters. But being dependent on words to explain, we make sure we would use all possible words for any one situation to make sure all our intentions are conveyed. But in some cases it does sound more apologetic!

Another very pertinent stream of thought also was that why does everyone write about pain - pain of death, pain of a relationship, pain and boredom. Unanimously all of us (all those over the proverbial threshold of adulthood) agreed that some how happiness was more fleeting and far difficult to replicate to words after words and pages after pages of stories. Also perhaps because pain can be empthaised with world over while happiness even in transference is also fleeting.

Why are writers always angst ridden? Are 'all' on the edge of insanity - touched by the wing of madness (thanks Gitika)? Misfits where, do we question? In this society which heads towards perfect people thinking perfect ideologies that never work in practice and frivolous chatter that does not help them and values that need to be constantly redefined.. Isn't it a better bet that we, as writers find it difficult to blend in.