Diary of a Lost Wanderer

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.