Dear Everybody

For those who’re reading this, let me introduce myself to you. I’m no accomplished writer, columnist or essayist as you know. I did not have any formal training in writing, as I’d never had the ambition to be an author. Once, when I was at high school my English teacher had told me that even if I pursue a career other than teaching, I must not abandon my writing. I enjoyed answering the story writing question at my school exams and always got good marks in it. I had a habit of writing diary at that time. I also had a few letters published in English newspapers. But along with the rest of the students of my class I grew a desire to be into one of the IITs or State Engineering colleges since teaching or writing was not a paying profession in those days. I worked hard to secure a seat in the Joint entrance examinations and then as I started college, the habit of writing slowly died inside me. After passing out my engineering, my only concern was to land a decent job as I was expected to marry and lead a happy, contended life. I gave my best to my job and awaited the fat pay cheque at the end of every month, a family to look after and be looked after. Then suddenly one day I asked myself, was this the life destined for me? Was it the reason why we all are born? To go to work, eat, drink and sleep like a winded toy? To watch our children grow, wait to see our hairs grey, our skin wrinkle, our brains worn-out and finally one day black out from life, forever? As I sat back, pondering over the past days, I realized that everyone from my bosses at office to my family at home expected me to fulfill my commitments towards them, but nobody cared to listen to what I wanted in life. I felt a part of me being ruthlessly choked to death in my efforts to make everyone happy. I understood one reality of life, that the world had its own ways and would recognize me only till the extent I synced with them. No matter how much a common man, who do not have any celebrity tag, may cry over what is wrong or right, but the world would never care to bother. Sometimes I wondered, there must be something wrong with me in particular, otherwise how could everyone remain so happy even in such trying times, unbothered by the happenings around them, whereas I could not. And then I understood why my school teacher had stressed upon the need to write. As I see it now, there are two worlds. One is the world in which I live, which has its own set of rules I have to obey in order to exist; while the other is the world over which I have control to make it work according to my wishes. The hopes and aspirations of the characters I see around me may not materialize in the real world, but by listening to their stories, by being with them during their times of happiness and grief, I can liberate that part of me. So what if nobody listened to me? I can write for myself and for those people waiting for their stories to be heard, which the world does not have the time to listen.

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