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Essay - Thoughts of An Amateur Writer

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Writing is not easy. Writing is not difficult either. It is perhaps the single most surreal experience one can undertake. To write, is to wrestle with language, with thoughts, with the invisible weight of expectation. It is to confront oneself in the most vulnerable way possible, because every word on the page is a mirror reflecting not only what we know but also what we fear, we do not know. I write as well, though not as often as I would like. I stall, I hesitate, I delay. I do not put pen to paper when I should. And most of the time, I am simply scared of how it will turn out. This essay explores my point of view of the paradox of writing—the tension between difficulty and ease, fear and liberation—and reflects on why some of us stall while others embrace the craft with courage and are successful. At first glance, writing seems deceptively simple. After all, it is just words strung together, sentences formed and paragraphs built. Anyone who has learned a language can, in theor...
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Where Solitude Learns to Sing

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About ten or twelve years ago, I had read a short story book - Lion and the Little Bird. The story stayed with me all these years. Now after several years, I think, I have understood it. Here is my interpretation and tribute. Where Solitude Learns to Sing As dawn broke, mist rolled gently over the grasslands of Dhikala in the Jim Corbett National Park. The air was cool, tinged with the earthy scent of Sal trees and the distant murmur of the Ramganga River. A tiger named Rudra, twelve years old, and past his prime, prowled silently along the edge of the forest. His stripes blended with the shadows, his paws pressing softly into the damp soil. Rudra was not just any tiger; he was known among the rangers as the “Old King of Corbett,” a solitary male who had ruled this territory for nearly a decade. His body bore scars from battles with rivals, but his amber eyes carried a quiet wisdom. That morning, Rudra’s thoughts were heavy. He remembered his youth — the reckless hunts, the...
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What We Left Behind

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The sun hung over Vaikuntha Cremation grounds, making it very hot as people walked on the concrete paths and lawns. It was Sunday noon, and the air was heavy with incense and silence. Old friends of many decades, Vikas, Manoj, and Pranav stood side by side, watching the final rites of their friend Jatin. The priest chanted verses from the Garud Puran, his voice rising and falling like the monsoon wind that had left the city drenched the night before. The three men, all in their early fifties, had faces that bore the weariness of age and the quiet ache of memory.  As the flames settled and the crowd began to thin, Manoj looked at his watch and said, “Guys, half of Sunday’s gone. And none of us has anywhere to be. Have you guys had lunch?” Pranav shook his head and looked at Vikas. Vikas agreed. “No. And Kavita’s not expecting me. Saala, she doesn’t even ask anymore.” Pranav shrugged. “Joshita’s probably out photographing idiotic banyan trees or abandoned houses. I’m in...
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The Porter Who Carries Silence

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The monsoon had softened into a drizzle, the kind that left the air heavy with salt and jasmine. Outside the magnificent five-star hotel, The Imperial Lotus, the Arabian Sea murmured against the stone promenade, and the Gateway Of India stood like a half-forgotten promise. Inside the hotel , the marble gleamed. Chandeliers hung like frozen rain. The scent of sandalwood polish and imported lilies floated through the lobby. Shankar More stood by the brass luggage cart, spine straight, eyes lowered—not out of shame, but habit. His uniform was crisp: navy blue with gold piping, a name tag that read “S. More,” and shoes polished to a mirror. He was now in his mid-forties and had worked here for seventeen years. Long enough to know which guests tipped in dollars, which in rupees, and which in silence. A white couple in their thirties entered — from their accent , likely from America, he thought . The woman wore a linen jumpsuit, white as coconut flesh, and oversized sunglasses that m...
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