Monthly Archives: June 2013

Read, Write, Live

You see, I’m a loner. I really don’t appreciate it when I’m forced to make a conversation with anybody. I am, without a doubt, an introvert. That does not make me slow,egoistic,rude, or shy. I can insult the hell out of a person when I want to. And I have, quite a few times, but only when they deserved it. I am not slow either. I’m not egoistic, I just don’t like people. I don’t like to talk a lot, so I write. I read. I do everything I can so I don’t have to talk. 

Another reason I don’t like to talk, is because I stammer. I stammer whenever I get too excited, or too low. That is not ideal in a 17 year old. Not here, anyways. I cannot go through a whole conversation without stammering quite a few times. I prefer not to talk at all.


So, I started blogging. I like reading, writing, trying to understand what other people go through. I don’t have anything to hide here. I feel more accepted as a blogger than I ever have in my life. I don’t have anyone to answer to. I don’t have to think three times before saying what I want. I can write whatever the hell I please, because I know no other way to express it. 

So, I write. I don’t type as often as I write. I write a lot. I write meaningless stories, novels which exceed more than 9 volumes. My hands hurt, my brain starts to explode with ideas and I have to pen them down. I cannot rest until I’ve finished a certain part of a story or a novel. I’m restless when it comes to writing. Maybe that makes me a geek. I’m more than happy to belong to that category.

I read a lot, too. Blogs, articles, magazines, books, you name it. I read anything that catches even a hint of my interest. During my summer vacations, I read 7 books. I read God-knows-how-many blogs. I read every Reader’s Digest I could get my hands on.

Because when I’m in a dilemma, the people who accuse me of being an egoistic person aren’t there. My knowledge from reading and writing is. If being an introvert means that I’ll have more time to read and write, and so be it. Name me the queen of introverts and I won’t care. Because with people, I have to pretend. I have to act like I’m enjoying their company. I have to be someone I’m not.


With books, I don’t have a protocol. I can be myself and dive deep into that book. I have the liberty to judge the book and say it out loud if I don’t like it. I can praise it however much I want even if most of the population doesn’t like that book. Books make me feel accepted, like I’m a part of that story and not just an outsider reading it. People don’t. People make me feel like an outcast, just because I don’t talk a lot. 

I read secretly, and I write secretly as well. My family would turn hell over heaven if they came to know that I’m reading a fiction in the most important year of my life! Oh, no, sir! No daughter of my family should be caught doing so.

I don’t mind this being a secret. Because that gives me inspiration. Well, it also get the people off my back who want to read everything I ever wrote once they come to know that I write. I hold up a Accountancy book as a cover and read my novels in disguise, if that’s what I have to do. 


I could live in a library. I can stay there, submerged in a book, until I really have to go. There’s this aroma of a new or an old book, that makes me feel like I’m in the seventh heaven. 

Reading and writing keep me sane. They keep me going on. They let me all the way in. They lay themselves out for me. Call me insane, but I’d choose reading and writing over my favourite person any day!


Cruel trick of mind.

Have you ever experienced one of those cruel tricks that your mind plays on you? Mostly when you’re asleep? Like, when you get something you very dearly wanted, but it was only in your dreams? Or when you have that person with you, a person you know is so much out of your reach that it can only be a dream, but you still decide to enjoy that dream? When you wake up, that person, that thing…they’re gone. Poof! All you have with you is the agonizing pain because the dream couldn’t be true.

I lost my grandfather when I was 8. It was a day before my brother’s 3rd birthday. I remember him being taken to the hospital in our car. I remember spending the night at my neighbour’s place. I remember my grandmother’s wailing in the middle of the night, crying that he’d passed away. I remained at my neighbour’s house till the sun came up. I saw him lying in the drawing room, covered in white cloth and with cotton in his nose and ears. I didn’t cry. It’s not like I didn’t know what was happening. I knew that he’d died and he won’t ever come back. Tears didn’t come into my eyes. Though, deep inside I knew that I’d lost the biggest support I ever had.

That was the day I grew up. My way of thinking went way above my years. I’m not self-praising. There’s nothing good about growing up beyond your age. I never had a childhood after that day. My family started having problems. Especially, my father. He didn’t cope well with his father’s death. (None of us did for that matter.) He started drinking. He took enormous loans from banks. He almost sold our car and house once. He started being AWOL for days at once. Though, all that is sorted out now. My father and I share almost o relationship at all.

My grandfather was the best person I knew. He had the aura to die for. He taught me how to read and write English. He used to call me Princess, and he was the only person who ever did that. Watching him, I learnt a few things some of which are-

-Never bend in front of anyone.

-Never ever think that you’re lesser than anyone else.

-Do not accept gratitude from anyone. (Maybe that is why I don’t like anyone saying ‘thank you’ to me)

-Don’t ask for anything from anyone, unless they’re your instant family.

-Don’t be afraid of failing, it’s an art, too.

-There’s no point in being an extrovert. Talking to everyone is just a waste of time.

He taught me a lot more than that. His teachings are all that remain. Though, more often than not, I think that I’ve failed him. He had big hopes for me, and all I turned out to be was average. But then, I think about him. I think about his confidence in me. My self doubt evaporates instantly. If he thought that I could do something great with my life, he must’ve seen something in me and that was an honor in itself. He was my rock, my pillar, my protector. I can’t even think about him without shedding tears, so you can imagine how I’m feeling right now.

A few nights ago, I had a dream about him. I dreamt that he was back. He took me for an ice-cream like every evening. He played badminton with me. Then, it was time for us to go home. He told me that he was back, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

I woke up.

He was gone.

Stupid of me to believed that he was back from the dead, right? No one comes back once they’re dead. So, I guess the joke’s on me.