I haven’t even tried nor do I feel I want to do anything else than write. I may not be the best writer, but that’s the only thing I can do, write. If I was born in the 18th century, I would have written letters for people; just like Florentino Ariza from ‘Love in the time of Cholera’. It has been quiet sometime that I have been writing, ten years precisely. The first time I discovered writing, I was eleven. I remember writing a melancholy about a mother and daughter as my first ever poetry. No particular reason for the same, as my mother loved me immensely. But as they say, there is no inspiration better than melancholy to a writer and it can come out as for anything and everything. I began to feel my surroundings deeply. The streets I walked, the benches I sat on, the friends I stayed with; everything became my subject. I would capture the stability in the leaves, the wetness of the rain, and the madness from the moonlight and fill it all on a piece of paper.
I grew up a little more and wrote about humans, about love and about life. In the past two years I filled my life with optimism and my bend towards spirituality was instantly amplified. I met people and I fell in love with them. They taught me to look at the universe in a way I never even thought it existed. I embraced compassion and with it peace took over. I traveled to Rishikesh, Dharamshala, McLeodganj, Kasol, Almora and plenty other places in North India. I climbed mountains and I ran down valleys. I walked besides the Ganga and lay down on the banks of Beas. I saw the Dhauladhars and I appreciated the Parvati valley. I learnt about Buddhism and I read the Bible. I was incisive for inspiration. I wanted to write a masterpiece.
When all of the above was in process, something else too was happening. I was reading Ruskin Bond. We all read him as kids in our rapid reading section of English textbooks. I loved him then and I love him now. I fell in love all over again with the simplicity and the ultimate innocence in his writings when I was 20. It was a funny rage; I was buying his children’s books too, the ones with sketches and texts. I could not stop myself. I realized, sometimes all we need are simple stories because, every moment that we experience, every conversation we have, every day we live are all little stories compiled in one humongous life. That very day I knew I won’t write a masterpiece, I can’t write a masterpiece. All I can write about is the life I live, things I do, people I meet and places I travel and these very things are so beautiful that I won’t need a masterpiece.
Since then, I have been writing about the maid girl downstairs, the little boy I met on the train, the yogini who taught me about the universe, the girl I found my soul mate in, that old lady who keeps me a seat everyday in the train, the boy who gets me tea, an old man who took me to the river, little twins I once played with in the mountains and about the man I love each day of my life!