Inspired During The Marathon

I ran the dream run last week. I didn’t train much and I hoped to just walk if I couldn’t make it. Yes, I was excited, but I took the run for granted. I was registered by a friend of Dad’s who was going to be there with about 50 kids from his NGO. I shamefully admit that I knew nothing of the NGO.

Of course, when we met up at VT to go and report at the gate, I was introduced to the children and the NGO. The NGO is a shelter for the daughters of prostitutes. The girls are given education, a shelter and a few friends- A reason to smile.

As we made our way through the super crowded gates, I was introduced to a girl, who used this education to not only achieve her dream but also to provide for her mother. Thanks to this girl, her mother could opt out of flesh trade.

She gives the credit to education. How we underestimate education? We, who are sent to nice schools by our doting parents who also provide a cushy future.

This girl didn’t have it easy. She struggled to get the very education we take for granted. She is 20, but she is a super achiever according to me. As we inched to the start line, I couldn’t help but run. I ran because I was proud of this girl. She represented hope, she represented aspiration and to me she represented a better tomorrow.

I salute the spirit of thousands of women who take their destiny in their hands and change it. They break free from flesh trade, harassment, male domination and millions of other problems that plague their kind. They don’t accept what the society, culture or the religion hands them. They make their own path…


Good Morning

A continuation of the earlier post


It was one of those mornings where he hated waking up. He was dreaming of something vague but he wasn’t sure. He forced himself up anyway. He walked to the balcony and glanced at the sky searching for a hint of sunlight. The dull sky totally matched his state-of-mind.

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath, looking within for inspiration. Suddenly he heard someone honk right under his window. She came to his mind. The tiny girl trying to maneuver her big car in the homeward bound traffic. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would have happened, had he knocked on her window. He couldn’t help but wonder how many ‘what if’s marked has life.

What if he had knocked on her window, what if she’d have smiled back and said ‘hey’, what if she thought he was a creep and looked away. The ‘what if’ was making him restless, so he put on his shoes and stepped out to take a walk. And just then the first rain of the season poured down on him. Bringing with it, he scent of wet mud and lush greens of the seasons.

Rocking and rolling

On a lazy Saturday morning, I settle down with the latest issue of the Rolling Stone magazine (the Indian edition). The first thing that has me going wow, is the Royal Enfield advertisement. It’s not an advert; it’s a style statement. I am hooked to the magazine and as I turn a few pages start feeling the restlessness, so much so that I tear myself away from the magazine because I can’t handle the restlessness. I have an itch to listen to Dylan, when I do, I want to write something- it’s like a restlessness set off by an addiction.

I have decided that my new aim is to one day work for this magazine. Not that I hate my job right now, but I think for me to be a writer for the Rolling Stone magazine would be the ULTIMATE job. I enjoy the restlessness, because it inspires me to do something. Nothing definitive, but it sends me on this trip to create. It sensitizes me in a very vague manner. So to cut a long story short, it gives my creative drive a damn good boost.

This is the effect of reading about music. I tried learning to make music, but I figured I am a better listener than a player. But, there’s no denying that I have a deep connect with music, any music.

If I ever end up working for the Rolling Stone magazine, I figure that it would the ultimate inspiration high ever. I could be wrong but to me, it wouldn’t be just a job. It would be a dream statement, it would be my raison d’etre.

You wanna know why? Read this email I sent to my Dad while I was in the UK:

All’s well in the The Stones’ land! Trying not to miss the city of blinding lights but I can’t live with or without it… I’ve got to find my stairway to heaven and I can’t get no satisfaction but I am also aware that you can’t always get what you want, and you do get stuck in a moment that you can’t get out of… but then you find the answer and it is blowing in the wind…

PS: I applied to the magazine when I heard it was launching in India… I didn’t get it. I don’t know why. But I still hope and I still aspire… After all the Stones said that you can’t always get what you want, but you try sometimes…

Writing and rewriting

I am a writer. Its just a sentence but it weighs a ton. Everytime someone asks me what I do for a living I say, ‘I am a writer’.
What is being a writer? Does it mean you simply write? What do you write? Novels, poetry or just plain emails?

The writer in me doesn’t let me be unless I write something. She needs to justify her presence. She makes sure that the writer is not forgotten in the endless chores through the day. Being a writer, is a full time profession. Even if you’re not looking for it, something inspires you each day and then you feel the itch. You can’t sit still till you pen the thoughts.

Today I have nothing to write; but the itch is still there. I feel like writing, writing and writing. But about what? Should I write about the butterflies I saw this morning. Nah. Too clichéd. Should I write about… Hell I want to write about nothing. Nothing at all.


In my cave
Deep beneath the ground
I wait for inspiration to strike
Amongst the muffled sounds…
Sounds of thumping feet,
Sounds of muffled speech,
Sounds of dying music
And of the music that has died
Life reaches me
Seeping through the ground,
I don’t want it here
And in my cocoon I crouch
I dive back into my thoughts
Thinking of the music
Thinking of you, me, him, her, us and them
My heart flows to my hand,
And I bring it all alive,
Into the world of my words.