Tell Me a Story: Inspiring, Touching, Funny and Heartfelt Stories from Life . . . by Ravinder Singh

Author:Ravinder Singh [Singh, Ravinder]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789352140411
Publisher: EBOOK4IN.BLOGSPOT.COM
Published: 2015-07-22T18:30:00+00:00

... I Love you Rachu ...

Pages from a Writer’s Life

SHAMITA HARSH

In the cosy town of Dehradun the colours are vivid, the sky is blue in the purest form of the hue and the air is pollution-free to a large extent. The community is knit closely in the tapestry of the society and a majority of the population shares a love for reading or writing. Amidst hordes of small-town dwellers, in the heart of the valley surrounded by the Shivaliks, I lived with my parents and sister, long before it all began.

I had always been a dreamer. I think it had something to do with the place, and the people too. It moulded me into a vessel that could take the form of any thought, that could contain any dream.

Early on in my life, I learnt that it is difficult to become a writer. Once you have gone through the ordeal of penning your thoughts, you do not realize that there is much that lies beyond that stage. It is only half the journey. It is necessary to understand what happens in a writer’s life, I always told myself. I did not know that my curiosity would lead me one day to become the subject of my inquisitiveness.

I transformed into a writer. It was a gradual process. Right from my school days I had had an inclination towards poetry and prose. I devoured novels by the day even if my diet as a scrawny kid remained minimalistic. I stayed active but my thoughts would often wander into a space very different from the present time. This space had become like a second home and I would drift back and forth. From now to then, from here to there, I would jump time and again.

My family loved to travel and my parents made sure no vacation was spent home in idle musings of the infamous holiday homework. So I discovered many hidden places in India and while I was at it, I developed a habit of keeping a journal. The journal would store the feelings of a teenager, the rebellious kind of secrets that I wouldn’t want to share with anyone. I would write and lock away my feelings, away from the reach of my family or friends. It was a part of me that I didn’t want to share, didn’t want scrutinized by anyone.

Over time, I developed a habit of spinning stories. And while I would be at it I would be transported to the world which I was writing about—where the sounds were the only music I wanted to hear, where the visions were only the dreams that I wanted to see. In these stories I began to paint my words on a canvas that had every shade splashed across its length and breadth.

At the age of twelve, I finished the first draft of what would later become my first book. I had forced all my friends to write with me, but they weren’t half as crazy. One afternoon, as my principal finished his lunch break, I went and showed him the book.

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