They say I should write more often. Why do they say that? They say so because I love to write, because I have always been fascinated with the written word. I know I should read more, much much more. There are too many dusty unfinished books lying around in my tiny wooden book shelf and some are strewn all around the house. I wonder what happens to me that ever since I have grown up I go through my reading copiously phases and phases when I don’t open a book for weeks. I’ll look at them listlessly but I can’t get myself to pick them up and open a page. Last month I was reading voraciously, on the shit pot in the morning, on my way to work in the Metro, on my way back home, in bed before sleeping. Now I can barely get myself to skim the newspaper. I want to read them all half read, quarter read books.


I am not one of those writers who have had the privilege of having lived in different countries and to be able to be at ease as much as she is in Delhi as she is in New York as well. My wandering soul did not have the good fortune of travelling beyond the borders of this country but I do dream about new cities, unknown sidewalks, mustier bookstores, a different flush of the night sky, curious smells, stranger accents, different colours of hair, the similarity in the dissimilar smiles. Sometimes though I think, who knows, yes who the hell knows when fortune changes and the world opens up, a brand new day and a brand new world to explore, to see, to touch, to feel, to think some more, to write more, so much more. And maybe in my heart of hearts I await that day.