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.