As far as I can remember I have always wanted to be a storyteller. My mother tells me that I had started to speak when I was just 6 months old and well I have never looked back. I guess I inherited this love for words from my father, a great storyteller himself. He was the one who introduced me to the magnificence of books, kindling in me an awe, a veneration for subjects as varied as science, law, spirituality, even philosophy!
With him around, the first two decades of my life were quite easy. And well when they tell you that smooth seas never shape great sailors, believe them. You may master the art of seafaring, but only the rough waters put your skills to test. You learn, you experiment, you bleed and yes you fail while braving the storms! And so the past five years, since his death have been the biggest lessons of my life. From being considered a gifted child to being subjected to racism, sizeism, a near death experience, to witnessing profound encounters such that of childbirth, journeys to exotic lands, fervent friendships – life started to unveil in its full glory around me.
And while trying to comprehend the constant chaos around me, I would often simultaneously contemplate on my life’s purpose. I started to notice that things made sense to me only when I wrote them down. Often in the confines of my thick jacketed diaries, I experienced liberation. Their pages made me shed my dreaded self-doubt. Words would evoke my lost and dormant warrior essence back into me. While re-reading the passages, I would sometimes be in awe, wondering how I had the wisdom for such intense conversations with myself.
Writing was hence clearly my “purpose” of being in this world. I realized that I had known this long back, but was somehow clueless on what the course of action should be. As most teenagers around me, I was convinced, coaxed and counselled that artists seldom wielded success and respect, and that life was all about it. And I yielded! But despite excelling in the fields that the society had chosen for me, a void was always there. There was this constant urge to get people off my back, rush home, take my notepad out and scribble down a story, a passage, a snippet, a sonnet! Then peace would descend and I’d be truly home.
This was the feeling I wanted to derive out of my work, my relationships, my whole existence. This was the feeling I wanted to live. I had finally realized this in a cold ICU room, with the doctors having informed me that there wasn’t much left to hope about my survival. I had sworn with all my might that day, if given a chance I would never die the same – again!
And so when I got discharged, I switched my boring desk job to a better profile that involved substantial content generation and other creative stuff. I traveled to discover the hidden aspects of my own existence. I read books that questioned my ingrained perceptions. And I decided to put my words out into the world – this blog being the outcome.
I am probably too young to tell you this – but well I have a long list of experiences to back this truth – your days are literally numbered. You think you have time, but you do not. And so if you know what your purpose in life is, act upon it. Later may be too late; second chances – a rarity. A year from now you would have wished that you’d started today! Let today be that day!