Ever wondered why anyone would want to be a writer?

Why wouldn't you rather become a doctor, a farmer or a fashionista and profusely give away a potential part of yourself in the escalation of the ever-evolving society! Why not just go for money and fame? Why not just start dancing on the dais rather than pulling the curtains behind? Why would anyone want to be a writer, indeed!

Know why? Simply because you don't have a choice. Because your thoughts are in a dire need to be spilled out. Because your voice is craving to reach out. Because there is always a story rattling around in your head. Because you want to seize unpredictability in every jot of ink. Because it's a euphoria that increases your heartbeat and gives you goosebumps. Because you own your own universe and you are the creator of magnificent tales, those that plummet right into the hearts of gazillions. Because although you wish you had been built differently, you quite like to go on this arduous marathon every day.

And for me, eventually, it's all about making my little piece of paper drench with tears, reflect faces flutter with happiness, sense the frowns of a thrilling mystery, feel hearts scream in pretty colors and know that no matter how little, I can persuade and influence people to do their bit.

Alas, why would you lose on encapsulating your dreams in every word you pen?

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Rains And Ruins.

W ords should not be kept for later because they thrive on mood and my mood is nothing less than a pendulum, so I thought I should pen it down. It's not Monday today but I still got the blues. When I say blues, I literally mean the bluish tone in my otherwise curtain-coloured reddish room, along with the pretty melancholic climate. I hate the dark clouds that get clogged in the sky refusing to pour in, but I love when it finally rains. It's like the clouds have vented out their long-held pain. It feels liberating and very refreshing. I don't quite feel like working in this climate, rather I would be sitting on my terrace, watching the rain, sipping tea (which I am doing even now to avoid falling asleep on my laptop). But the sad truth is I can't go up on my terrace, not at least for the next 2 months, the renovation works are going on and I badly miss the only beautiful, picturesque location in my house. The staircase bricks are cracked to build newer ones and there...

“If you survive, you must remember that I love you”

Despite being in immense pain, the young mother still thought about her only child. The depth of intimacy for her child was immense, unfathomed and ever so subtly conveyed that a mother's love is far greater that anything in the universe. During the Japan Earthquake, the world sensed the strongest pull of humanity in a young mother who made shield of her body to protect her child amidst the disastrous collapsing. She left a note saying, “If you survive, you must remember that I Love you”. Her body was sputtering, rasping and pitch cold, but her ultimate sacrifice was the protective affection for her little one. It gets me thinking, of all the awful lot of drama, anxiety, anguish and contradictions for the several years. This small thought of appreciation is for you mother… my brilliant, remarkably independent, capable, fierce, gorgeous woman, whose greatest pride is in being my father's wife, and in being my mother. She is such a true character, in every sense of the ...

CAPTIVE

I hate the cold. I hate the numbness. I hate the dampness that covers the window pane. But today you could say I was all blinded by the freezing intensity. My naked body crave to be touched… a gentle tap to stir me up. I am not used to this nudity, but it matters less when the soul seems shrouded and stiff as stone. How can I feel so unbelievably numb yet be crying so profusely deep in? I try to lift my body only in vain for I feel some one’s still there on top of me. My fingers part way, I feel them shivering. They run through the glass pane gently moving the mist. A glance out scanning the cold world, and I catch a pleasing sight of a woman, brushing her child’s hair. Her fingers gently going through the curls and her lips quietly moving. It should be that special song. The song that pours out the peace of a mother’s heart. Mother used to sing me one, rock me in her lap. I wasn't a baby then… still it was sweet, the only lovable bits of my broken childhood. My eyes are strain...

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