The love for writing struck me slowly. The transformation from cricket bats to the world of letters wasn’t abrupt.
My first encounter with writing — apart from the yearly exams and tiring homework — happened at a poetry contest when I was in school.
I scribbled something. Eight lines. I drew inspiration from the clear skies of the winter, the scorching sun of the summer, and the pale moon of the monsoon.
To my surprise, I made it to the podium. The year was 2004 and I was just twelve.
I wondered how the same ugly letters that scared me away during exams earned me claps [and a box of chocolates].
Soon, the love for cricketers gave way to writers. The scent of books excited me. I laughed hysterically at the shenanigans of Tom Sawyer, cried buckets at the end of each Shakespearean tragedies, and grew old with Marquez.
I grew calmer when I began reading books. The stories slowly grew in me. They soon had to find a way. That’s how I began writing.
I created worlds, enjoyed giving life to characters and fortified my stories with insane levels of imagination. Looking back, I don’t even know if they can be called stories.
But writing kept me[and still keeps me] sane — be it jotting down the summary of a day in my diary or penning a story in the dead of the night.
Now, writing helps me save for my midnight cravings. I weather my emotional storms when I write. My thoughts know no boundaries when the words take centre stage.
Deep down, I know I share a connection with words. They come to me like a sudden gush of water.
The ideas easily take shape from my scattered thoughts and grow into a writing piece that some people would love to read. And I think that’s not something everyone walking on earth would get to enjoy.
