Nine to Five

Are you/ were you at some point an avid reader?  Then you must have  quipped "the book was better" more than once. As a dancer, I learnt early on how one expresses with every tiny gesture. With a pen in my hand, thick sheets of paper underneath, being able to put words to my expressions makes me feel alive. Maybe my eyes do tell a story, but its often the ink that intricately elaborates it. Words, thus, are an insight into an author's life. Written pieces, even the smallest sentence, of pure fictional origin, somehow draws its first breath from its writer.  The pen is fuelled with ink dipped in experiences that left the writer's soul parched or inspired.  If you are nodding your head, or agreeing to this someway, then the rest of the blog would be much relatable. If you have any questions, you may turn back or continue to read with skepticism surrounding every word henceforth.  If writing, the act of creating narratives from an expression or idea, ...

Inspiration knows no boundaries.  It can come from anywhere and hit you. A tiny pat on the back might not make you cross over the bridge, but a smack across your arm will make you lunge for that one thing you desire.  Sometimes, you have a really well articulated idea, demanding narration and publicity. But mostly, you only hear whispers. Like small wisps of imagination, these whispers take nurturing and constant attention to grow into the stories they become. However, before they become stories, they go through 'growing up' just as we do. The infant with a hint of greatness ahead but lacking in communication. Anything you write at this stage, feels inadequate and raw.  Keep trying and your story grows into a smart child. Petulant maybe, or even stubborn and yet imaginative with an insatiable curiosity. This is the most imaginative part of the idea but with no anchors and unconstrained wanderings. At this point your story seems to move in multiple...

If you have been reading my blog for a while now, then I believe you are aware of my obsession with books. And with the territory of my love for reading comes my immediate lust for bookstores. Especially old ones. Each bookstore is like a treasure island, hiding deep secrets in the highest shelves and enticing me with beautiful leather bound spines. The older the place, higher the shelves and deeper the secrets.  I have been on the hunt for antique bookstores for a while now. On prowl, I often visit quaint streets and calm lanes, away from the crowd. Breaking all my assumptions,  the recent one I discovered, is in the heart of London and ever so exquisite. Any street in Leicester Square is full of people in the evenings. Drinks, food and good times. Come one, come all, Leicester square has something for everyone. The chatter and vehicles buzzing past me drown every sense one could feel, and still I walked steadfastly on my trail. My wonderful smartphone was thirsty and un...

“She drinks pints of coffee and writes little observations and ideas for stories with her best fountain pen on the linen-white pages of expensive notebooks. Sometimes, when it's going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery.”  - One Day, David Nicholls

Sunday Morning, 7:30 a.m. I wake up to a single beam of light on my face. The ray has somehow escaped through the curtain of clouds and the wall of books at my window. I watch the specks of dust, suspended, with my eyes half closed. Somehow in that state, with all the glitter and shine, I almost believe it to be fairy dust.  It is a typical winter morning. You can lick the frost off the window sill. The thought of having to step out of the warm blanket is almost unbearable. The clock reads 7:30. This is early for a Sunday. Too early.  I reach over to my right side, trying to locate my mobile phone. Maybe I could stay in for a couple of minutes more and do a crossword puzzle. Or maybe I could just stay in, the whole day. My bed is my universe. My laptop within close reach. The window sill, a comfortable shelf with all readable books stocked. And side tables spilling with all important things within my arm's reach. What more could i possibly need on a Sunday. A growl. Ah ye...

I watch a lot of TV series. Popular ones, funny one, dramas, mysteries and fantasies. The list is endless. They demand no thinking or my full attention. I often can do other tasks while watching them. They are not mundane, but just challenge-less. Yet, somehow, in most of these shows, the intelligence, beliefs, smartness as qualities are often ridiculed. Understanding mathematics is ridiculed. Reading books is ridiculed. The desire and the talent to go beyond the ordinary comes with its own set of struggles. The intelligentsia, is often depicted as a group which is set apart from the rest. Often termed and called a geek. Defined by the dictionary as "unfashionably and socially inept person", yet "a knowledgeable and an obsessive enthusiast." Geek! A four letter word condemning the smartest of our generation to believe that it is better to be "popular" as opposed having brains. When I was in school, I was not the exactly a geek. Not someone who...

If you had the option, what superpower would you ask for? For a day, for yourself? And no! Doing the world a favour or getting rid of evil, doesn't count. Think of something selfish, something just for yourself. Thinking??? Until then, i'll tell you my story... Just like everybody else, I work. To pay my bills, to buy unnecessary items i desire, to build a room full of things. And thus every day I go about doing my daily chores, my mundane routine of home to office and office to home. I live the life as me, the sensible one. The physical I in this physical world of money, science, politics, religion and all that makes up a society.  Now don't get me wrong. I'm not going to harp on about how one should love what they do or do what they love. That we shall leave for so many others to decide for you and me. And personally, I love buying all the unnecessary clutter in my life. The clothes, candles, flowers, watches, umbrellas and the never ending...