Why Do I Write?
Why do I write? More than once I have asked the same question to my conscience and gotten no apparent answer. And till today, I have found no plausible reason to present to you. I realize I write because it’s the only thing I will to. Not to sound like a narcissist, eh. I realize I flunk every subject shamelessly, except literature. I realize it’s the only thing which comes to me effortlessly. It was capricious. Carefree. Aimless. I realize that I write my own story. And so, I write. I write because I see a story behind each curved smile and each glided tear. I write because the disabled couple living next to me rekindled my belief in love. I write because the death poll in calamities shatters me as much as it does you. I write the saga of every woman whose self-respect is crumpled and crushed beneath the shoes of the male chauvinistic society we live in. I write of those good dreams and innumerable memories tied with them. I write of days I believed in ‘together’. I write of times when I believed in fairy tales.
I write of the months when the world shattered around me. I write of cries muffled and petals preserved in some old, moist, yellow sheets. I write of broken hearts, slit wrists and other things which only tiptoe on the blank canvas of my mind. I write things I’ll never say. I write of good old friendships. I write of bicycle rides and climbing on trees in the courtyard on a hot sunny afternoon. I write of the pen fights in classes and pickles shared amidst lectures. I write of crushes, flings, fantasies and everything which coaxes me to get a time machine. I write of recess, shared meals and the roti-sabzi which was the stray dog’s delight. I write of vacations, home works and other boring things. I write of tearful goodbyes and some unwilling silences maintained on the day same. I write of paper boats which I believe will reach their destinations someday. I write of wanderlust for places I have never been to. To galaxies faraway, forbidden palaces, depths and heights, to valley laden with flowers gay and bright. I write stretched on a beach with sand soothing my senses; staring blankly at the sparrows circling around those fluffy cumulus. I write because am a loner. I write because I don’t believe in explaining my point out of vague fashion to the maddening rush, who won’t ever understand. I write because I can’t part with my soul what my quill rightly is. I may not be the best writer around. I’ve not read Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace. I am not a Potterhead. And I don’t regret either of them. I believe I can write till my existence ceases and may not be needful, verbose or ornamental. The only thing I can promise, is to write my heart out.
~ Sanchita Dwiwedi
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