Tag Archives: writing


“Why do our movies and us try finding our answers in black or white while our life remains grey from start to the end. Isn’t exaggeration a ploy we tend to use to put our point across for wide unrelenting attention.
I find people mooted for an ideology, giving irrelevance to change while exaggerating the untrue to make their side of truth, the only reality for others to believe. The left think they are right, the right think they are no wrong, while I stand with many in the middle, watching the sheer Idiocracy both try to paint. I like many fail to understand, what does ideology have to do when you know humanity triumphs all. Why do you want to paint red or saffron when we are still unable to help the Gandhi’s Talisman.
Seventy years is a big number while poverty still remains an unforgotten cousin. When there is no food to eat or water to drink, there is no teaching or color better than food and water itself. Empty stomachs, malnourished children, trafficked women, landless labourer, construction worker, these Gandhi’s Talismen still search for a voice from us, the privileged. They ask for a helping hand, a voice to narrate their stories, a heart to accomdate one and all, isn’t that a lot to be asked? I don’t think so.
If you are still stuck in the black or white, red or saffron era, don’t worry I will simplify. There is no Antagonist in our story which might dishearten you all, but if you are still adamant then try finding a solution to the problem of poverty. Try all your colours in this effort, I like many won’t mind, but get me that rainbow when you finish, a rainbow of inclusivity and life.”



“I have this habit of scrolling through my Facebook wall on a regular basis, I am pretty sure I could find many like me. I halt at all the travel pics that come by, showing the diverse range of places people are travelling all across the globe. It’s fascinating to be honest especially for a guy like me, who has been in constant company with the city Delhi for over four years now.

Apart from my daily hassles to achieve my much needed break from joblessness and achieving that distant dream, I travel. My next statement might be at odds with my previous one, bear with me and continue; apologies in advance. The maximum I have traveled in recent times would be the 45 minute metro ride which I nowadays do often. I know it’s silly to call that a travel but I find that journey interesting and worthwhile to be called so. Before moving further I have to introduce another thing that I love doing, I observe. When I travel with people all around, I find my stories to observe from.
Every person has their own beautifully crystallised universe. Like the young couple leaning on the wall have that passion in their eyes which blurs everything that stands around them. The old lady seated with her son has her eyes stuck at the gate while clutching on to her son’s arm as she rests. And how could I forget that mystery girl who kept smiling as she looked at me, she was beautiful to be honest but she disappeared in the crowd at the metro station. I mean there are so many stories all around that it makes me feel like I am actually travelling. Isn’t travelling about meeting new faces, making new stories? Though I do admit it’s also about remembering the old ones while looking at the sunset from a deserted beach. Crushes alert!

The point I wanted to convey is that you travel when you meet new people, when they share their experiences while you narrate them one from your own. Writing helps here, it helped me. I spoke to many writers from different parts of the country, different parts of the world, as well as different age groups while even going ahead & collaborating with a few. Certain things aren’t different though, be it Lisbon or Delhi. The emotion remains the same, I have realised, while experiences could totally differ. It wouldn’t be strange now if I told you that traveling in time was possible. It happened with me when I befriended writers who were way older than me. Their experiences were something which I could never relate to but I listened, because I felt somewhere that I might be in that position one day. I thought I might prepare in advance.

You might be thinking that I am trying to justify my limitations, you are not wrong if you think so. In my defence though, I would say that I did travel solo one time, but I didn’t get that kick which I thought would happen. May be it was because of the ache my hand suffered due to the selfies I tried to click, or because there were no faces that I met which could have made that trip memorable. It’s always been people for me, it always will be; after all we are social animals, aren’t we? So when I halt at the travel pics, I smile. I do wish I was there to experience that but I am nevertheless happy because I am moving too.”


Shades Of Winter

“Sita!” He yelled at top of his voice. The voice resonated with doubled intensity from the mountain top upon which he stood. He screamed out her name again but the answer remained the same as before. He walked back dejected, like always. It felt more like a routine that he couldn’t escape. Every morning he would walk towards the narrow point and seat himself on the only bench present at the place. Most days, we would find him staring into the clouds, as if he is looking for answers from above. But the last month seemed a little rough on him than before. He wasn’t his normal calm self. There were many instances like today where he ran towards the point, only to stop himself by a moment while letting out her name in sheer despair. Helplessness seems to define him, and the pain instead of reducing with time, only grew.

The fifty five year old Ram Shankar Bisht had lost his Sita Mahalakshmi in an avalanche at that very spot, five years ago. Their love affair was nothing short of a folk tale. Both belonged to different regions, and shared no common language in between. Sita had met Ram when she had come over as a tourist to Kullu. It was Ram who had taught her the basics of Skiing. He was helping his father at his skiing business as he filled in the role of an instructor due to absence of the other. It was his first day at work, and Sita was the first person he attended to. And like it always happens, he fumbled while fixing the gear on her leg. He tried again but it didn’t work. He held out a nervous smile towards Sita, who smiled back with assurance that he could try again. This time it worked and she was all set for her first lesson. It was at this instance that Ram noticed Sita for the very first time. She had those big round eyes with neatly lined mascara around them. Her curly long hair was tied behind with perfection while the smile, the most beautiful one Ram ever saw apart from his daughters, flashed nervously at him. He held her hand and looked straight into her eyes and whispered, “Sita, it’s going to be all okay.” And she believed in him, straight away. It was strange though but his eyes seemed trustable to Sita unlike any stranger she had met before. It all began at that very moment, and they never looked back after that. The relationship, the opposition and finally their marriage; they saw through all by standing their ground, hand in hand with the other, without a word, without a thought of ever to let go. But fate, as we know it, is unpredictable. Not all things are in our hands; some we control, some control us.

Ram Shankar died a little, every day since that accident, but his twin daughters were the ones who kept him alive to see the light of another day. It was Isha, the elder one, who introduced me to Ramji. I was looking for a job as a guide, and Isha was my brother’s college mate, so I had asked her for help. It has been an year since I worked for him, and not a day had passed without him narrating a story or the other of his deceased wife, his Sita. And that day was my last at Kullu; I had a flight, early in the morning but the purpose of my stay, the answers to my questions, they all still remained in a blur. I settled down near the fireplace of Ramji’s house with a peg of whisky in hand while beginning a conversation with Ram Shankar Bisht that eventually changed the course of my life.

#Series 2/many

The Writer

I often find myself staring at the blank word document absent-mindedly, lost within my train of thoughts and the little world I so price upon. The music breezes around these phrases, the incomplete things which I had never chanced upon to say and probably would never convey. In between those “I wish that happened” and “I regret doing that” thoughts, I find my piece that fits for me to write. The piece which stirs my universe, pushes the boundaries, and allows me to live a character of the stories that I try to sketch. That moment of time, when everything comes flying together, I see my piece wide and clear. Rushing with this sense of enigma, I journey along with my ambivalent thoughts to finally arrive at the top of the mountain from where I see my piece coming to life. And the time when the journey ends, I find another story sprouting out. The process remains unfinished; a story more remains to be told.

Picture Courtesy: Google Search



The windows had been fluttering for a while and the curtains kept flying like a ghost, meanwhile I kept tucking my head inside the pillow to avoid any form of light so possible. I didn’t know how to fight it, I didn’t know who to side with, but all I managed to do was listen, even when I didn’t want to.

The fight had raged for over an hour, neither my mom nor my father had calmed down, instead they fired each other with insults and abuses, all the things they had accumulated in their 10 years of marriage. I was only 8 then, and didn’t knew that this would be our last day together. I didn’t even understand what was happening, until the judge had me asking whom I preferred to live with. The answer was simple then but may be a lot difficult now, I decided to side with my mother, knowingly or unknowingly I did let my father down for whom I was the biggest treasure in this world.

I missed him a lot, may be even my mother did but she never shared. She knew she could not be taken for weak, she knew she had to prove him wrong. All the time she tried to love me till a point where I will forget his existence, but all the time I kept feeling that it would have been better if he was along. I didn’t see my dad for over 15 years, they said he got married again but when I asked my mom the same, I was met with only silence. They said he has a daughter and a son, and a beautiful wife whom he finally loved and lived with, but I could never believe, I may never will. When I asked the same to my mother, this time I met with her tears along with a deeper silence. I could see that she still loved him but knew she would never admit it.

I tried searching for him everywhere till the point I found him on Facebook with a profile picture of his children and him. I was heartbroken, the rumour had finally come true and I wasn’t in a position to accept it. I made a pact with myself to never let him know about my curiosity, about my love for him, but all I was left were thoughts that I would confront him with, the thoughts where I would finally be able to ask whether he ever missed me. But I could never dare to message him until one day when I finally did. Those few hours were my longest till he finally replied with a place for us to meet.

Trying to fight both the emotions, happiness and fear, I made my way to the restaurant where I finally saw him in his trademark mustache which I had always tried to emulate but had failed times so many. I waived back at him with a big smile only to get a cold smile in return, making me question my decision to meet him but I tried hiding those thoughts as I made my way to the table.

After a long silence, he finally spoke.

Him: Do you drink? Shall I order a pint for you?

Me: Sure.

After having waived the waiter about the order, he tried to look straight into my eyes and tried saying something but couldn’t utter it out. There was tinge of a tear and a heaviness in his eyes when he finally said that he missed me.

I couldn’t control my tears as I replied at the very instant about how much I missed him. He came forward to console me and embraced me with a tight hug which I reciprocated. I was very much like him, very emotional, very sensitive and we always spoke from our heart. I knew it then that how much I loved him, but I just couldn’t leave him and I continued crying on my father’s shoulder.

Him: Calm down my son. I am here, don’t worry.

Me: Why didn’t you meet me or at least call me before? Did you even remember me?

Before I could let him answer, I kept asking him

Me: I needed you all these years but you weren’t there. And now you have come only when I called you, this is wrong Dad. This is very wrong. Did you actually miss me?

Him: I really did son, but I couldn’t do a thing before your mother’s will. She was adamant and for the right reason that I shouldn’t be allowed to meet you.

Me: Why would she say that? She still loves you!

Him: Even I love her and I would always do. But at that time I wasn’t at the right place, I had so many problems to sort that it took me time.

Me: What problems? Were they more important than me?

Him: They weren’t, they will never be. I will tell you about them when time comes, but as for now let’s leave them unanswered.

Me: Is it anything to do with your affair which broke us apart? Is it to do with your marriage?

Him: Yes it’s that affair which broke us apart but that was not the sole problem which I had to deal with. And who told you I was married?

Me: Some of our neighbors, I even saw your pic with two kids.

Him: They are my school children, I teach there.

Me: So you are not married?

Him: No I am not. Now will you stop accusing me and finally allow me to have my drink.

Me: Sure sure! We have a lot to catch up, mom will be really excited if she hears about you.

Him: I doubt that. Let’s put this meet as a secret.

Me: Not possible, you guys love each other then why don’t you give it another chance.

Him: It’s not that simple my boy. Now calm down, let’s see what happens.

Me: Okay, I am really hungry let’s go for the starters.

Him: Let’s go.

The conversation went on for another hour when we finally bid each other adieu, and I returned home to see my mom in tears. Dad had already called her about the meet, and she was happy as I told him but still wasn’t in a position to accept this until I finally opened up. She understood that this was inevitable, but she herself never gave him another chance. We met many more times but my hope for them to come together has remained a reverie. I am surely happy with the things as they are going but would always hope for a family finally; a happy ending some day.

Picture Courtesy: shutterstock.com