The  Real  

Creative  

'Secret' 

Author : Puneet Bhatnagar 

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Dear reader,

Be ready for a transformation.

Here is the ‘Real Creative Secret’.

Plain and naked.

Apply it to unleash your true creative potential!

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It was a dark cold night.

I was on the road for hours but reaching nowhere.  

I was tired. Not just with travelling but with the whole routine of life.

I thought a creative life would be much more exciting. You could do something new every day, you can learn new things and get new experiences. 

Now you can say, my travelling through this dense jungle was a new kind of experience. Not everyone gets a chance to visit these uncharted areas. 

Through out the day I kept making notes… 

Took photographs of interlocking tree branches making eternal love.  

Beautiful birds wearing colours that one can’t find in a shade card.  

And sunlight sieving through the dense forest. 

And when a wheel got punctured I kept my humour and sent a message to face book friends through my black berry: 

“God must be a fantastic art director  who is trying to be a novelist!” 

But now at night, it was dark all over. Complete dark. No Street lights on the road. In fact there was no road.

Just an odd path between the trees. 

I was not sure if we were on the right path, but the driver insisted that it was the way to go.

I was cribbing inside. There was no one to ask for the direction. My watch was showing 2 am. Mobile phone had gone dead. 

I was on the mercy of this strange driver who didn’t listen.

We were moving from one dark alley to another one. 

And then I saw a ray of hope. Something flickered in that monotonous single shade darkness.

It was a lantern dangling from a tree.  

“Stop the car!” I instructed the driver.  

He hit the accelerator instead. 

I pulled his collar and yelled, “STOP IT! I say stop it!”” 

The car stopped with a screech. The driver was shivering with fear. Even in the freezing cold he was sweating all over. 

“Sir ji! Don’t stop here. This could be dangerous!” 

By now I was ready for anything. Took the car keys with me  

and got out of the car. 

Under the lantern there was nothing but a little hut   with a guy dozing inside. And a small sign board which read: 

Creative Tea Stall

I smiled. Only a creative guy would open a tea stall in such a remote corner of the world.

“Hello! Mr creative! Can I get a hot cup of tea please?”

The tea seller woke up with a jolt. He didn’t even look at me and began to pump the stove.  

I looked at him closely. Pinched myself. Twice! 

This guy looked so much like Picasso, the painter. 

I chuckled, “Mr creative! What’s your name?”

He smiled back, “Name is not important sir! Would you like to have some ginger in your tea?’ 

I nodded. And sat down on a stool. 

“I must take his photograph else people might think I cooked this story” I thought. 

The Picasso look-alike took out a photo album tucked under the counter.

I was surprised. Was he reading my mind? 

The album was full of familiar faces. Famous personalities, posing with this Picasso guy. 

I was sure he was an eccentric. 

He must be a painter or an art director who retired from an advertising agency and now on his whims, he was living in this forest and having a ball.

“I want to have a same kind of life someday”... But why he was running a tea stall, I thought. 

I wouldn’t do that. 

I looked at the picture of pt Ravi Shankar with his sitar, posing with this guy. I laughed out loudly. 

But he was serious, “You liked my album?” 

 “Wonderful! You must be a very good Photoshop artist!” 

He didn’t like it.  

“I am just an artist! Pure artist! Never touched that thing called Photoshop or any of its brothers.” 

Then he took out a number 10 paint brush from a vase and vigorously stirred the boiling tea with its backside. 

I shook my head. Was I dreaming? Are all these pictures in the album real? Did Al Pacino, Guru Dutt, Pt Hariprasad Chaurasia and Mozart have had tea with him? 

And then it dawned on me-- Mozart was dead by the time this guy appeared on the scene. 

That was my clue. He was faking.

But nonetheless, an interesting character. I must talk to him, find out his real story. 

He poured the tea in two glasses. 

Piping hot tea in the freezing winter night. I would write about this on my face book status tomorrow. 

He first offered the tea to the driver who declined and murmured some Sanskrit shlokas. 

I grabbed the hot glass, even holding that glass in the freezing cold gave me so much pleasure! 

The tea was perfect. Aroma was exotic and the color, a perfect gold. I gently took a sip and let the thick hot liquid slide slowly down my throat.

It was the most amazing beverage; I had in my entire life. 

I closed my eyes and took another sip of this rare experience. 

I felt fresh. This was not a regular tea. It was a concoction which was simply amazing. I mused, if I can get the formula and launch it, it will be a bigger hit than Coke and Pepsi combined. 

I opened my eyes to say thanks. Or should I say, I tried to open my eyes!

It felt like, lead bullets were hanging on to my eyelids.

More I tried to open, heavier they became. 

I knew the driver was right. It was dangerous to stop here.  

I wanted to call him for help, but my whole body went numb. Mind turned empty. I knew there was a driver but I just forgot his name. 

I don’t remember what happened then. 

It seemed like I was going through long tunnels. Dark alleys with flashing rainbow lights in between. It reminded me of the after-death experiences that people narrate on the TV shows. 

A surge of anxiousness rose in me. I didn’t want to die. I had so much to do in this world.  

I cried out inside, I haven’t achieved my potential yet. Deep inside I wanted to live.  

I promised myself: 

“If I could live, I would never waste those valuable moments. I won’t gossip, I won’t bitch, I won’t waste my time on Farmville. I would “create”…I would create every single moment in my life!

They say, you see your whole life in a moment when the end comes. 

But to me it seemed like I was going through an unending tunnel of conversations I had with people all my life. 

In that chaos of sounds and lights all around me there was a silent prayer rising in me…

God,  give me a chance. I want to create. Really create!

Perhaps god listened. 

Everything came to a standstill in a while. 

Body consciousness came back. I opened my eyes slowly. 

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There was no relief.

As I opened my eyes gradually I saw him once again. This time Picasso guy was in a uniform of authority. 

I knew I was in danger, grave danger. In the clutches of a mad man.  

He looked at me intently, 

“So you want to create?” 

This was second time that he was reading my mind. 

I didn’t answer him. 

He repeated the question sternly, 

“I asked, do you want to create?” 

I almost yelled at him,

“YES! But that’s none of your business!” 

He was not provoked. But his voice turned steely, 

“Do you have the licence to create?’  

To me this was an absurd question. 

I checked him out. He didn’t have a pistol. He was also old and weak. And I was not tied to the chair I was sitting on. 

I could overpower him. I took  a deep breath and  looked around to plan my exit. To my shock, behind the curtain of darkness there were many more people in the room.                                                

All dressed up in the same uniform.

I saw Van Gogh, Mozart, Salvador Dali, all in a row. On other corner were Charles Dickens and Maxim Gorky. 

It was a big hall packed with people. Not ordinary people but geniuses I read about in text books and encyclopedias.  

There was no chance of me getting out.  

Picasso look-alike stared at me and repeated the question 

“Why do you create without the licence?”

I retorted back, 

“Who are you to ask me?” 

   He took out an identity card from his pocket. 

It read: Chief Licensing officer. 

My head was buzzing. What licence were they talking about? I never heard of any licensing authority who can allow you to create or not to create. 

These people must be all nuts. May be a cult of failed artists and writers who are trying to compensate by masking themselves as real geniuses.

Picasso guy looked deeply into my eyes, 

“Masks are for the fake ones like you. We are real.” 

I felt a shock of thousand bolts in my body. How does he know everything running in my mind? 

A red haired woman took out my training brochure from her purse and shouted, 

“He not only creates himself, he also train others” 

Picasso guy came closer to me.  

“Mr Punito, You claim to be a creativity trainer, have you taken the permission to create ideas? 

Who the hell gave you the licence to create, tell me?” 

His voice was so sharp that I trembled with fear. 

But I tried to be courageous,

“Mr. Tea maker, I don’t need a licence to create...Creativity is spontaneous...”

The officer turned red with anger, 

“You are a cheat who creates mediocre ideas and calls himself a creative director, takes a fat salary, without having a basic license to create!” 

My body was hurting. My creative mind was screaming:  

“Who the f**k are you to talk about licenses? Creativity doesn’t need any one's permission! Go and ask any creativity guru, all of them claim that everyone is creative! I never read or heard about any permission to create ideas.” 

All of them laughed out loud.  

“Creative gurus! Ha ha ha!” 

“Who the hell he is talking about?” 

‘Innocent guy! “ 

But to my surprise the Picasso guy softened dramatically. 

“Dear son, most of those experts don’t even have a sniff of this licence. Poor fellows can only talk! 

But you have a chance…” 

Then he asked me a straight question.

It was not a question but a pointed gun on my soul,

“Hand on heart, are you happy with the ideas you create?” 

There was a dead silence.  

I wanted to tell him about all the well known campaigns that I created, the accolades showered on me. All the testimonials that I received for my great work and training sessions. 

But deep within I knew there was something missing. 

I saw Mozart smiling from ear to ear. Charles Dickens gave me a sneaky thumb up.  

Picasso came closer and touched me gently, 

“Think, think not with your mind but with your heart, take your time.”

I closed my eyes. I knew the answer. 

I wasn’t satisfied with my creative journey. When I see the works of creative masters I always feel humble.

I knew inside, it was not just the crafting and the experience; there was something more in their work which I couldn’t define.

Every time I think of great creative people, I get a sense of awe! 

Something in me says I can never create like them. They have a kind of gift which we simple mortals do not have in us. 

A strange feeling came over me. My eyes were closed and as if the Picasso guy walked deep into me.

I could feel him inside my body. 

He was smiling and his eyes had a strange glitter which I never saw in my life. 

He asked,  

“Do you know any struggling artist who suddenly changed?  Who got all the glory, greatness and fame as if almost suddenly? Who started creating ideas out of the ordinary, as if by some magic?  

Can you explain that with logic?” 

I pondered over it. 

I thought of this great music director who struggled for years and then suddenly got his tune correct, who is now a league apart.  

Many people think his religious conversion turned his fate around. 

And there is a creative director who till the age of 42 was creating mediocre ideas just like us. And then god knows what, he started creating great ideas. Today he is one amongst the best in the world. 

I felt a rising surge of hope in me.  

Can my ideas also shine with that special quality? Can I stand proudly with the likes who have inspired me all along?  

Can this Picasso guy and his gang help me do that? 

There was also a niggling doubt: how come a mere licence, a simple permission can create that miracle?

I knew many people who got driving licences but can’t drive well.  

What difference can a licence really make? 

The Picasso guy whispered in my heart,  

“These are all useless licences; they are given by outside authorities. The creative licence has to be issued by you” 

I murmured, “ME?  How can I give a licence to myself?” 

Picasso guy gave a nod, 

“Yes YOU! Only you can give yourself the authority to create. You are limited by your own fears. You need to give yourself this permission! 

The moment you tell yourself: 

I GIVE MYSELF PERMISSION TO BE MYSELF, TO EXPRESS MY INDIVIDUALITY, AND TO CREATE WITHOUT THE NEED FOR OUTER APPROVAL, The whole game changes! 

This license can change your life! 

Anyone creating without this licence is just cheating on himself and others.

All theories, workshops and the creative techniques would never take you to your full creative potential.

Without this licence that is just not possible.”    

I looked into his eyes and gently but firmly repeated the words. Not as words but as true intention in my heart. As my own soul clad promise to myself. 

“I GIVE MYSELF PERMISSION TO BE MYSELF,

TO EXPRESS MY INDIVIDUALITY

AND TO CREATE WITHOUT THE NEED FOR OUTSIDE PERMISSION!”

I knew then and there what greatness is all about. 

The Picasso guy embraced me. 

I opened my eyes.  

There was no one around. 

No car, no driver, no forest. 

Only me, dozing in my chair with my blackberry  on the floor! 

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