Writer Unblocked

I like to write.

I just discovered that actually.

Not because I like to think of myself as a writer.

Not because it earns me bread.

(Well, it does in a way I suppose.

But this is pure pleasure.)

I like to write

because I really like to read what I have written!!!!!!

There I have said it!

Does it sound terribly self-indulgent?

I hope not.

That was not my intent.

It’s just that this way I get to know what I am thinking.

How I feel.

Quite surprising really!

Shocking, too, at times.

One’s own thoughts can be.

I also like to know what others who have read think about it.

Not about how it is written and all that.

But about memories evoked.

I made a dear one cry the other day.

I get heaps of appreciation from some.

And on some evenings I get a much awaited call.

Today a friend remembered his childhood. And his outings with his Dad.

He took me to Howrah on a Sunday morning ride in a fiat

whose door opens the other way around he said.

I put my head out with his in the wind as we crossed the bridge.

And I sat at a small eatery and had luchi and dal with his Baba and him.

And on the way back we both watched his Baba drop his books off at the library

and pick up the stock for the week ahead.

He was happy to recall these moments.

I was happy he was happy.