Why i write?????

Tagged by cm-chap!!! here it goes...

“Here’s The Challenge: Make a list of five strengths that you possess as a writer/artist. It’s not really bragging, it’s an honest assessment (forced upon you by this darn meme). Please resist the urge to enumerate your weaknesses, or even mention them in contrast to each strong point you list. Tag four other writers or artists whom you’d like to see share their strengths.”

I thought about the question posed before me and wondered if I could ever come up with an answer. I could just not put the pen to paper and write down five strengths that I possess as a writer but I can state the reason behind the things that I write about. The reason by itself provides strength to my written work.

Sometimes in life, just a thought, a look, a face, a person, a word strikes my mind and a story weaves by itself all around it. As the thought process builds up I can visualize the characters, feel their emotions and know what they are thinking. It is after this stage that the story haunts my every waking moment until I put the thoughts down to paper. When I have finished writing the story, I feel as though I have done justice to my characters.

I don't know if you have ever done this, but if you go and tell a software engineer “Dude don work so hard. What do u get at the end of the day in this 4 walled cubicle?”, he will give you a “I-know-that. Mind-your-own-business” look. However when this question is woven into a story that actually touches a chord in his heart, he will think, he might alter his perception about life or he may not but at least the message will reach him.

It is the innate desire that I have, to tell the world a story and get their stance on what they think about my characters which has pulled me into the blogging world.

If any of you have ever read my blog and empathized with the characters portrayed in it, if I have been able to provide you with insight into what a person placed in that situation feels, if I have been able to help you appreciate life better, then I believe that I have succeeded in what I started out to do in the first place.

I do not consider myself a writer… I’m just a storyteller. I write stories based on the way I see the world…I invite your comments to let me know about your viewpoint too….

I tag

Nivi -Her thoughts and words truly create a symphony

Aniruddha-His imagination knows no bounds

B. Karthik - At times he rambles, at times he makes sense but mostly he is brilliant.

Dhivya- Her stories are short, crisp and yet conveys a world of meaning

The Diverged roads

is this abstract?

is this concrete?

is this a story?

is this just a musing?

I leave that for you to decide... i jus pen down what haunts me the most

The Diverged Roads


P.S: The quote "You know its..." is by Julia Roberts

Dreams or Reality? Lets play rock, paper, scissors ….

He had stepped into his house after nearly a decade but somehow nothing seemed to have changed the way of its existence. His mom was in the kitchen, making the morning breakfast while his dad was perusing the morning newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

Siddharth was a "normal" software engineer just as any other kid in the block would be. He had always pictured himself doing something extraordinary with his life but never had the time or the courage to take a step forward. He had been working for nothing but money all through his life but today he had made a decision. He had no plans in continuing with his present course of life but it would take all the efforts that would have to be mustered to move a mountain in order to convince his parents.

He made an announcement of his future intentions, "Dad, I have quit my job at New jersey. I am planning to publish a book. I have already discussed about my concept with a publishing company and they have agreed to read my script. I could not speak to you earlier with regard to this only because this was a decision I had to make for myself. No one else could do this for me. I do hope you understand"

"So what do you expect me to say now?" his father asked in a non-committal tone.

"Dad, why don’t you understand that for the first time in my life, I’m doing something that I really want to do? Something that adds value to my life, Something that has been my dream ever since I was a child…", he pleaded.

"All your dreams can’t come true. Life is not a bed of roses, son! If you think you have made me happy with your decision well you have not achieved it. When you were 5 years old, I could order you to walk on the right path... alas you are not that small anymore."

He left as quietly as he had come. He was angry and frustrated at the thought that his dad never understood him.

years later

He had come to take his mom home, to New jersey. As usual, his mom was in the kitchen preparing last minute food but there was no one in the drawing room reading newspaper.

The house radiated emptiness, a forlorn countenance, a feeling of desolation.... as if the four walls knew that someone was not a part of that house anymore. Most of the possessions in the house had been given away to people in need. Hence the bare walls made him feel almost claustrophobic. However he found a tiny scrap of paper sticking out of an old notebook which was placed on top of his mother's suitcase.

The paper read...

Seasons...

The tiny green leaf crept out of its cocoon

and looked up at the resplendent sun

A new hope, a new ray, so dawned a new day

The primrose had woken up from its deep slumber

Dew drops had settled on the ever-green grass

As it does on the first day of every spring

The white of snow had long been lost

The cold and the grey bade goodbye to each other

singing "Happy trails to you until we meet again"

"Oh that belonged to your dad”, his mother came running to pick it up, “he was a struggling author and used to work as a newspaper columnist until he got the government job."

Tears blinded his eyes, as he was holding that piece of paper in his hands. His father had always been protective about him but he had rebelled against that. His father had never wanted him to go through all that he had undergone as a struggler, as a man who pursued his instincts but couldn’t hold on to it, as a man whose dreams were constrained by reality. He had tried his best to shield his son from the heartbreak of shattered dreams.

It was he, who had misunderstood his father....

The moment when TIME plays "Statue"...

He was at the verge of discovering something. His initial period of formulating the thought process, his primeval years of research and his dogged perseverance were finally about to culminate at a point beyond which there was no looking back. He will have written an equation and modeled a system that could break the time-space continuum. Albert Einstein’s dream was about to blossom into reality.

There was a knock on the door, a familiar voice, a voice that he had not heard for years, a face that he had been yearning to see all through his childhood. There she was standing in his room with a quizzical glance and sad stare as if telling him that he dint classify under her category of "normal" people. She had always taunted him on being a nerd drowned by books. He had never been able to have a conversation with her that lasted for more than 2 minutes. But even after all these years he was still enthralled by her sight and charmed by her child like voice. It was a magic that had never failed to bewitch him.

"Everything happens in accordance to some rule or a logical constraint" was the concept he truly believed in. Being a scientist himself, he had always searched for reasons, for answers to every problem, for action underlined by a thought process that was provoked by pure logic. But she defied everything. To him she was a mystery that he couldn't fathom and he hated to let it be that way. If he were to tell her that he was about to formulate an equation that could create a time machine with which we can travel to the past, she would have merely tilted her head and said "Why would anyone want to do that?” All that mattered to her was the present, this moment and nothing else.

But today her sadness seemed to tell him something more. With a dolorous smile that marked her face as she spoke, she said "the doctor said what he suspected was indeed true. I guess I won’t be here long enough to see you win a Nobel Prize..."

He dropped his pen, as if never to pick it up again. He spent his every waking moment from then on in her company. He took her to places where they had spent most of their time as kids, he made her laugh so hard that she had tears in her eyes, he made sure she never had to regret the sickness that had come over her.

An year later

He had stopped all his research on finding a way to get around time. It dint matter to him anymore. He had finally understood what she meant by living a life rather than being forever on a quest for answers. What is time? What is a second, a minute, an hour? Why do we quantify life? Those questions never again rang in his brain...