Diary of a Lost Wanderer

In my twenties, I used to imagine myself working in some glass-towered office in a foreign city. I could see it clearly—me with a laptop slung across my shoulder, catching the metro in London or sipping coffee in a Parisian café, scribbling postcards to friends back home. I wanted to belong to that world where accents mixed freely, where airports felt like extensions of one’s living room, where life seemed larger, shinier, and more exciting. But dreams are often impatient. And reality, as I discovered, rarely runs on our youthful timelines. Through my twenties, the wish to work abroad remained just that—a wish. Family expectations, financial realities, and the simple uncertainty of youth kept me rooted in India. There were times when opportunities appeared, but they slipped away, either because I wasn’t ready or because life had other plans. It stung. I watched classmates and colleagues move overseas, posting pictures from New York, Singapore, or Dubai. I felt left behind, as if my s...

I often return to the act of writing not as a profession, not even as an art form, but as an instinct. For me, writing has always been less about producing and more about surviving. Less about publishing and more about healing. When people ask me why I write, I struggle with simple answers. Do I write because I want to communicate? Because I love words? Because I want to be read? All of that is true, but not the whole truth. The truth, whispered and almost private, is this: I write because writing saves me. Again and again. 

Some days are quieter than others. . . . Sitting here today, I found myself reflecting on the journey so far. KC turns 7 this year. My full-time freelancing journey steps into its 12th year. If I count the part-time gigs before that, it makes 16. And if I trace it back to where it all began, I’ve been working for 24 years now. Writing has been a constant all through these years. The forms, the length, and the shapes have changed. 

  After Mumbai, I moved to Singapore for a brief period.  One of the most often-heard things about Singapore was how it was all plastic and lacked any authenticity of its own. This was often followed by the stark difference between the rich and the poor who co-existed in the island city.  I was also told that this difference would seep into conversations, leading to a lot of mixed behaviour the moment they know which part of Singapore you are from. 

Dear Diary, I fell in love with Mumbai when I first visited it in 1995. Bombay, as it was then known, fascinated me since then.  If you ask me what made me fall in love with this city, I perhaps cannot explain. It wasn't that I was seeing the sea for the first time. It wasn't even the biggest city I had been to till then. Still, there was something so magical about this place. The trip was a short one lasting less than a week but this city now had my heart. Years later, I arrived here all alone on my first solo trip in 2005 and fell in love all over again. I got my first job and was required to come to Mumbai frequently. The local trains, the chaos on the roads, the crowds, the humdrum, the salty smell in the air, the stale air- everything about this city was intoxicating for me. 

Image Source: Unpexels (Cottonbro) “Do you know why is it called making love?” He whispered, pulling the comforter closer.  I don’t remember for how long we had been in that room, on that bed. Lying aimlessly, just feeling each other in silence. I managed to just whimper to denote my curiosity.   “Because that is the moment we create love. We are the closest we could ever be to love, in its purest form. It is sheer magic as we are naked, in every form. Mentally, physically and emotionally before that one person, we love. We know they can hurt us, as much as they want to, in the way they want to. But love gives us that power to trust them, that they won’t.”   “And here I was thinking it is a need. Something you want at that moment and you get it!” 

Image Source: Unsplash (@RobertMetz) Sandstorm- Wounds of the childhood Reshaping my future