Writing like a maniac

A young girl of about 14 or 15, studying in grade 9, presented her essay 5 times to her teacher. The same essay. She kept editing, kept writing. Kept writing, kept editing. She showed her writing to her teacher again and again. A mere homework for the rest of the class was a mental vacation for her.

That girl, as you might have guessed, is me. And the essay was from where I started. Started to write like a maniac.

Writing and me since then have shared a deep connection. The art of writing to me is a way of life, an indispensable necessity, a deliberate choice. And as I am framing these lines, I can not help but be reminiscent of all those years since I first jumped on this wagon.

So, today, in this little piece, through the tale of words, I am going to take you all on a journey. A journey of how I started writing, where I am today as a writer, of what all has happened in between. And if you have, at some point in life been madly passionate about something, you and I are going to meet along these lines.

Part I — The Essay

It all began with the 9th-grade essay. When I was writing the essay, I felt so alive. I was constructing stories in my head, building images on my mind, creating scenarios with my intellect. And when all those, all those were transferred into paper via words, I experienced the magic. The feeling was as good as the warmth you get when the first ray of sun touches your cold back. Or when your mother gives you a warm hug at the end of a long tiring day(okay, maybe not this much). But all the while, as I was writing the essay, I was sure that writing gave me such immense happiness and satisfaction which most people spend their lives craving.

And as I grew older, the burning fire of writing that resided within me got bigger and more fierce. Not just in the essay, even in exams, I left no stone unturned to test my writing prowess. In case studies of exams, or in any creative writing question, I wrote as my life depended on it. I used to do case studies first in every subject’s exam because I wanted to devote my full time for crafting an ideal answer. Also, after the exams were over, papers were checked and handed over to me, I used to read my answers and judge my writing caliber. Every. Single. Time.

Like this, with each month, season, year, I grew fonder of writing. All was well. But then came the “+2 vacations”.

Part II — The Blog

I was attending a training program after my grade 12 completion. A sister of mine who I had met during the program introduced me to blogs. She taught me how to create a blog, showed me her own blog and also helped me learn about using a blog.

A few days after knowing about blogs, I started my own.

My first blogging account was on Blogspot. The account gave me a platform to share my writings. A liberty, that gifted me an odd sense of motivation. Since the first blog post, I think I wrote about 30 or 40 posts on Blogspot in that year alone.

I had a laptop in my hands, ideas in my head, and a platform where I could write and share. To add up to the experience, I had loads of free time due to the completion of my grade 12 exams. So, then what! I wrote like there is no tomorrow, I wrote like it is the only thing worthy to do in the world. Every day, me, my laptop and my mind used to sit together and craft words. It was magic. But the more magical feeling came when I shared my first blog post on Facebook. And though I loved writing for its own sake, not to please anyone, when the first positive comment appeared on my Facebook post where I had shared my writing, I was on cloud nine.

I read it in a book “The Power of Moments”, that when you do work that fuels your passion, your heart feels good, but when you are appreciated for the same, that act elates the entire experience. The same happened to me. With positive feedback dropping in my blogs, I got more motivated. Many people also gave constructive feedback. I graciously accepted them too. And so due to the power of validation, my already strong love for writing became crazy. Again, I did not write for others, nor for being appreciated. But the feeling that you are appreciated for doing something you love made me feel ecstatic.

Those days, I used to write one book review per day. Read a book for 4 hours straight, then write a review. Repeat again the next day. In this way, due to my love for writing, I also loved to read. Reading even gave me ideas on how to improve my writing skills, taught me more vocabulary, helped me to take ideas from the author’s writing styles, and so I began reading and writing simultaneously.

Part III — The Undergrad Enlightenment

When the plus 2 vacations were over, I started my under-graduation. Naturally, I had a lot less time to write then. But there was no complaining. Because be it as exam answers or a simple assignment, I left no opportunity unused to experiment, improve and work on my writing skills.

It was on those days of under graduation, I also experienced a strong sense of enlightenment. If I may use that word. After weeks of thinking, reflecting, introspecting, I realized that I am madly crazily heavily passionate about writing, public speaking, reading, and managerial activities. When I learned this about myself, I started devoting certain lengths of time every day to each of my passions. These are not going to be mere hobbies, I had decided. I am going to improve upon them every single day. And so, like that, I decided every 30 minutes at least I will dedicate to writing. And guess what happened after that? Within 6 months I became a brilliant writer.

Part IV — A Lesson Learned

Well, LOL, I did not. In fact, the contrary happened. I wrote more poorly than ever before. Prior to this decision, I wrote whenever I felt like it. An idea walked inside my mind, then it walked out on a paper. My relationship with my love writing was going great. But when I decided to make writing a part of my routine, things didn’t work out.

Later, when I reflected on the whole thing, not working out did make sense. When I wrote whenever I wanted, I wrote because I felt like writing (which by the way was several times a week). But when I forced myself to sit down to write every day, I was forcing myself to create writing ideas. From “I want to write”, I went to “I have to write”. This self-created obligation did not work for me. So, I set my old ways into order and wrote whenever I wanted.

Part V — Writing is a Choice

Then around in the year 2016, I created one more account on WordPress for another blog. Now I was writing in two blogs. It was going all great until I attended a workshop on writing called “Writing is a Choice” by Empowerment Academy. This 6-hour workshop was a turning point in my life as a writer. Because after the workshop I came home, read all my blogs, the next day deleted all my posts, and permanently removed my account on Blogspot. The workshop was a big slap to my face because it showed me the mirror of where I stood as a writer.

I never showed it, but the appreciative few comments on my posts were apparently getting into my head. I thought I was good, and my hunger for improvement decreased with each passing day. Only after the workshop, I saw the clear distance between where I was as a writer, and where I wanted to be.

For the next few months, I wrote nothing. I reflected I read, I reflected, I read. And after about 3 months, I started writing again. This time with a hunger for improvement. And with that hunger, with each writing, I craved to improve with each write-up, with each blog post. This trend that started in March 2017, is still ongoing and continuing in my writing journey.

Part VI — Writing like a Maniac

These days, I write everything. If I see a few children dancing on the street, a metaphor or an anecdote writes itself on my mind. I quickly note that down on a paper or think about it hard. Then I go home, open my laptop and write something on it. I also write about things that bother me. I write when I am angry. I write when I am sad. I write when I am happy. I write when I can not sleep. I write when I sleep too much. When I finish a good book, I write. When I am reading the book, even in the process of reading, I write what I am learning. After good conversations with people, I write about them. After reflective conversations with myself, I write about them. I write short stories, tiny paragraphs, poems, thoughts, journals, book reviews, book summaries, articles, speeches, and just about anything. And the more I write, the more hungry I feel. I feel hungry to write more. Hungry to learn more. Hungry to improve more.

And recently a very strong incident happened that gave me a powerful sense of satisfaction. I was writing. And while writing, I forgot about time, my own body or the world I was living in. I was so engrossed in writing that my one leg had turned blue due to the lack of blood circulation. But till I wrote, I had no idea about it. Only after I completed my write up, and got some sense of the real world, I looked at that leg. I tried to move that leg. A sharp pain went through those legs till my heart. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed looking at that leg of mine. I laughed in the disbelief that I forgot I had a body to hold while I wrote. I think I started writing when it was broad daylight. By the time I finished, the nights were dark and my room was darker. I laughed again thinking I lost track of time while I wrote. I laughed with the pain in my leg, and joy in my mind. I laughed for a good 10 minutes until my stomach started hurting alongside my leg. And then I thought to myself, “Oh god, I write like a maniac.”

Part VII— Then and Now

I started writing when I was about 14 or 15. Let’s say 15. Today, it has been 7 years since I started writing. Between the first essay I passionately wrote in Grade 9, to this piece of writing, a lot has changed. Have I become better? Maybe, may not. That’s for the readers to tell. But between these seven years, one thing has remained constant. That is my passionate crazy mad love for writing. The bliss I have felt while crafting words out of thoughts remains constant. The ecstatic feeling when lines and lines of phrases fill a previously empty page remains constant.

As of now, I have written a little over a hundred articles, wrote for national daily newspapers, for websites, for school magazines. I have also worked as a content writer for a year. Every day I write one thing or the other. Not because I have to, because I can not help it. Food to the body, air to the lungs, water to the thirst, and writing for the soul, that’s my jam.

And today while writing about my journey, I do take pride in how far I have come as a writer. (though there is a long way to go). But above all, while I write about my path as a writer, I thank that 15-year-old girl who had said multiple times, “Sir, I have written the essay again. Could you please check?”


Every year on Valentine’s Day

Every year on Valentine’s Day, I wake up with a strong ache in my heart!

I wake up with a madly strong feeling of wanting to tie my hair in a bun, taking a great grand glass of lime water, piling all my books near my bed and reading. Reading till my eyes hurt. Reading till my mind goes numb. Reading till I gulp down all the books in the world.

But Valentine’s day is not a national holiday! *holds books and cries in a corner* I have to go to work that day. And even though I love my work, the pain of forsaking my books on our special day leaves me with a very strong ache in my heart! #painbecame

Two kinds of people

I was sweeping the floor that day, humming a tune only I could hear. Someone from the back came up to me while I was sweeping, and he asked, “Can I help you? Would you like me to clean the rest?” I nodded a no and did more sweeping.

While I was about to finish, a different person came up to me. He had said, “Look, you have left that corner, there is some confetti still there.” Quietly I obliged and did more sweeping.

In that moment, I realized, there are two kinds of people in the world !

Harry Potter, an unsung hero

Raised in an extremely abusive household, a child spends 11 years in the shadows of humiliation and torture. He is tormented by the only family he has and is forbidden to speak of his parents. And from a very young age, the burden of saving the entire world, his world, the wizarding world befalls upon his tiny shoulders.

People consider him a hero. They think he is their rescuer. He is “The Boy who Lived” for them – the only wizard known to have survived the killing curse. But little Harry wants nothing more than to see his parents, be not be an orphan, to be loved, to have “someone.”

This boy longed so much to see his family, of whom he has had absolutely no memory, that when he finds himself standing against the “Mirror of Erised” – (a mirror that shows us the deepest and the strongest desires of our hearts) he sees his family for the first time in his life.

Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching that of his reflection. “Mom?” he whispered. “Dad?” They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror, and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses like his, even a little old man who looked as though he had Harry’s knobbly knees — Harry was looking at his family, for the first time in his life. The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping to fall right through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

And ofcourse there is this. The most heartbreaking moment ever when Harry wanted to hear his parents voice for once even if that meant he was hearing them getting murdered. He just wanted to hear his parents, hear their voices.

He felt drained and strangely empty, even though he was so full of chocolate. Terrible though it was to hear his parents’ last moments replayed inside his head, these were the only times Harry had heard their voices since he was a very small child. But he’d never be able to produce a proper Patronus if he half wanted to hear his parents again. . . .

Also, this part. He had no memory of ever being hugged like that, as though by a mother.

*cries miserably*

Mrs. Weasley set the potion down on the bedside cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry. He had no memory of ever being hugged like this, as though by a mother.

So, this is Harry. A boy who grew up in a house of abuse and with the desperation of wanting to have parents and a loving family. Even when he goes to school, “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry” he is met with dangers that trained adult wizards could have never dreamt of.

But at least at school, he is popular, the most popular. His name is known by every witch and wizard alive because he is the one who made Lord Voldemort, the most evil wizard of all times disappear. He is cool too, as he is the youngest player in a century, a “Seeker” in the popular game of Quidditch, and he is bloody brilliant at that game.

Nothing comes without a price though. In the first year of his school, Harry comes face to face with Lord Voldemort once again, closely escaping death. In his second year, he is suspected by the entire school for having turned students into stone, only because he can talk to snakes. Third year, for half a year, Harry lives with the fear that a notorious murderer escaped the wizard prison only to murder him. And at the end of the year, he, by a tiny bit misses the fate of proving his godfather innocent, freeing him from the wizard prison and having to leave his uncle’s home forever to live with his beloved godfather.

For maybe half an hour, a glorious half hour, he had believed he would be living with Sirius from now on . . . his parents’ best friend. . . . It would have been the next best thing to having his own father back. And while no news of Sirius was definitely good news, because it meant he had successfully gone into hiding, Harry couldn’t help feeling miserable when he thought of the home he might have had, and the fact that it was now impossible.

The fourth year of his school awaited him for yet another tragedy.  He is unwillingly signed up for the inter-school tournament where he has to take part in a series of dangerous tasks and compete with students far smarter, older and stronger than him. Ofcourse at the end of this year, he again comes face to face with Lord Voldemort, narrowly escapes death and watches his fellow friend get killed.

In Harry’s fifth year of school, he is ridiculed by the Ministry of Magic( and most of the wizarding world) for being a liar when in turn he had been telling the truth about Lord Voldemort.  A new disgusting teacher makes him write lines from his own blood, leaving a permanent scar on him. He finds out that his life must end in him being murdered or being the murderer.And the most painful one – Harry loses his godfather for ever.

The sixth and seventh year of school are no picnic for Harry, both the years full of trials and tribulations. When in sixth year, he watches his idol, one of his greatest support, his headmaster, being murdered by the teacher he loathes. And in the final year at Hogwarts, Harry quits school to walk on the path that would eventually lead him to be able to murder the most evil wizard.

This is Harry’s story. A boy with the most devastating past, a present with a series of traumatic events, and the future that must end in murder or death. He escapes death closely every year, watches the people he loves getting murdered right infront of his eyes and gets painfully ridiculed for trying to bring out the truth to the world. He is Harry Potter, popular for something he never remembered doing, and carrying the hopes of entire wizarding world to save them from evil.

Clearly, Harry’s childhood and formative years, his schooling are all something that no child or adult ever wishes for their own.

Hardships, pain, pressure taunting him from all sides at every walk of his life, Harry grows up.

But yet despite living an incredibly difficult life, Harry Potter grows up to be one of the most loving, compassionate, caring, daring, kind, loyal, courageous, just and warm human being.

The first time Harry realized his parents left him tons of gold, and he can use it for anything he wants, Harry ofcourse buys his school things. But immediately after, his instint is to buy candies. But buying candies does not give this poor fellow happiness, it is sharing with someone that makes him happy. A boy, who has never had any money, or any liberty to buy candies, when he buys one for the first time, his first desire is to share.

“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).

Despite facing prejudice himself his entire life, Harry is never prejudiced. He stands up for the weak, helpless and the bullied.

He befriends a half-giant, the gamekeeper of Hogwarts and loves him, cares for him, respects him. Half giants or giants are particularly despised, neglected, belittled by most wizards. Harry does not know that. And even when he does know, this popular boy, the hero of wizarding world, the savior, the most respected young man loves his half giant friend like he did when he first met the man.

In his third year, one of his teachers and his dad’s best friends turns out to be a warewolf. Again, warewolves are considered the most diminishing creatures by the wizarding world. But for Harry, it does not matter. It was his teacher, his father’s best friend and any form of prejudice that people hold against the person is of no importance to Harry.

The discrimination against warewolves, giants, muggleborns is more or less very similar to what we call racism in the real world. And Harry being on the privileged side of the spectrum, always, stands up for those not on this side.

On his fifth year, Harry meets Luna Lovegood. She is weird, strange, different, and imagines all the impossible things. People hide her stuff, call her “Loony” Lovegood and try their best to either bully her or stay far away from her. While most “cool” people feel its their birth right to bully students like Luna, Harry stands up for her. He defends her and befriends her. He likes her so much for who she is that he even names his daughter after Luna.

Not just this much. Harry even forgives his most annoying teacher Professor Snape. Even when Snape spent every living moment trying to bully Harry. Even when Snape made Harry’s classes a nightmare. Even when Snape is part of the reason his parents were murdered. Even then, Harry forgives Snape at the end, after learning about him, and his past.

Harry also shows a crazy and powerful love for anyone who is his friend, who cares for him. He cares for Dobby, the house elf deeply too. And house elves are what we understand as “slaves” in the real world. Its beautiful that Harry befriends a so-called slave, because ofcourse no one deserves slavery, to live that way, to be neglected. And Harry understands that.  It was when he considered both the headmaster, the great Dumbledore and Dobby’s funeral to be held with equal grandiose, I truly felt Harry is the hero we all need, he is the hero indeed.

Harry placed the elf into the grave, arranged his tiny limbs so that he might have been resting, then climbed out and gazed for the last time upon the little body. He forced himself not to break down as he remembered Dumbledore’s funeral, and the rows and rows of golden chairs, and the Minister of Magic in the front row, the recitation of Dumbledore’s achievements, the stateliness of the white marble tomb. He felt that Dobby deserved just as grand a funeral, and yet here the elf lay between bushes in a roughly dug hole. “

Harry has a heart of gold, and he is extraordinarily brave. In his first year of school, when he is just 11 years, he, without much thought, plans on fighting against his own teacher, so that Lord Voldemort does not return, the greatest most evil wizard can not enter the wizarding world again. His chances of either expelled or killed are the highest at this point. But for Harry, doing everything he can to fight against the dark side is the top priority.

“I’m going out of here tonight and I’m going to try and get to the Stone first.”

“You’re mad!” said Ron. “You can’t!” said Hermione. “After what McGonagall and Snape have said? You’ll be expelled!” “SO WHAT?” Harry shouted. “Don’t you understand? If Snape gets hold of the Stone, Voldemort’s coming back! Haven’t you heard what it was like when he was trying to take over? There won’t be any Hogwarts to get expelled from! He’ll flatten it, or turn it into a school for the Dark Arts! Losing points doesn’t matter anymore, can’t you see? D’you think he’ll leave you and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the House Cup? If I get caught before I can get to the Stone, well, I’ll have to go back to the Dursleys and wait for Voldemort to find me there, it’s only dying a bit later than I would have, because I’m never going over to the Dark Side! I’m going through that trapdoor tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me! Voldemort killed my parents, remember?”


“But while I was at the Dursleys’ . . .” interrupted Harry, his voice growing stronger, “I realized I can’t shut myself away or — or crack up. Sirius wouldn’t have wanted that, would he? And anyway, life’s too short. . . . Look at Madam Bones, look at Emmeline Vance. . . . It could be me next, couldn’t it? But if it is,” he said fiercely, now looking straight into Dumbledore’s blue eyes gleaming in the wandlight, “I’ll make sure I take as many Death Eaters with me as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it.”

He risks explusion from his school, the only place he ever considered home to save his cousin Dudley. Dudley who did everything in his power to make Harry, Harry’s childhood as worse as possible. Dudley, who never cared about Harry and bullied him in every way, every time.

Harry even risks his own life to save that pathethic boy whom he hated more than Dudley – Draco Malfoy, who made every effort to get Harry punished, expelled and bought several bad omens in Harry’s way. Harry even tries to save him, by putting his own life at stake.

“Harry, let’s get out, let’s get out!” bellowed Ron, though it was impossible to see where the door was through the black smoke. And then Harry heard a thin, piteous human scream from amidst the terrible commotion, the thunder of devouring flame. “It’s — too — dangerous — !” Ron yelled, but Harry wheeled in the air. His glasses giving his eyes some small protection from the smoke, he raked the firestorm below, seeking a sign of life, a limb or a face that was not yet charred like wood. . . . And he saw them: Malfoy with his arms around the unconscious Goyle, the pair of them perched on a fragile tower of charred desks, and Harry dived. Malfoy saw him coming and raised one arm, but even as Harry grasped it he knew at once that it was no good: Goyle was too heavy and Malfoy’s hand, covered in sweat, slid instantly out of Harry’s — “IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I’LL KILL YOU, HARRY!” roared Ron’s voice, and, as a great flaming chimaera bore down upon them, he and Hermione dragged Goyle onto their broom and rose, rolling and pitching, into the air once more as Malfoy clambered up behind Harry.

And though this is a bit off topic, Harry is sassy too 😉

“You think you’re such a big man, Potter,” said Malfoy, advancing now, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him.

“You wait. I’ll have you. You can’t land my father in prison —”

“I thought I just had,” said Harry.


The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling. “Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?”

“Yes,” said Harry stiffly.

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.”


“An Unbreakable Vow?” said Ron, looking stunned. “Nah, he can’t have. . . . Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Harry. “Why, what does it mean?”

“Well, you can’t break an Unbreakable Vow. . . .”

“I’d worked that much out for myself, funnily enough.”


“You can try,” said Harry indifferently. “But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I’d have thought you’d have learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at Hogwarts. You might have noticed he’s not Minister anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I’d leave Dumbledore alone, if I were you.”


Malfoy glanced around. Harry knew he was checking for signs of teachers. Then he looked back at Harry and said in a low voice, “You’re dead, Potter.” Harry raised his eyebrows. “Funny,” he said, “you’d think I’d have stopped walking around. . . .” Malfoy looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him. He felt a kind of detached satisfaction at the sight of his pale, pointed face contorted with rage.


“You’re going to pay,” said Malfoy in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done to my father. . . .” “Well, I’m terrified now,” said Harry sarcastically. “I s’pose Lord Voldemort’s just a warm-up act compared to you three — “

This is Hary Potter.

Harry Potter is not very smart. He is at times dumber than a stick of wood. There is nothing very attractive about the way he looks. Many times he is overpowered by his emotions. Many times his rational and logical thinking go to bed way before his does. Harry is not extraordinary in terms of talent, looks, intelligence or even power.

But he is exceptionally daring, courageous, kind and caring. He puts all others’ life ahead of his, even that of his enemies. So much so that he is willingly ready to sacrifice his life just at a young age of 17 to save others. So much so that he never even bats an eyelid before helping someone, for risking his everything for another person.

Harry Potter forgave his worse enemies. He spent 11 years in physical and mental abuse, yet never became sour or filled himself with hatred. He stood up for the weak, spoke for the voiceless. With his mixture of rebellious attitude and strength, he always powerfully advocated what was right, no matter how much danger or threat he had to endure because of it.

I often compare this young lad with many fighters of our time – Rosa Parks, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Nelson Mandela and Malala Yousafzai, people who spent most of their lives fighting for what what was right and just. Harry too, for a large part of his life fought time and again to ward off evil, to keep at bay or kill Lord Voldemort, to save the wizarding world, to bring peace and love into the world.

But yet surprisingly, for a large number of Potterheads, Harry Potter is not even in their list of top 5 favorite characters from the series. A lot of fans ridicule Harry for being dumb at times, for doing stupid stuff, for this, for that. Despite being the primary character of the series, Harry gets very little appreciation and love from the fans. And this is exactly why I think Harry Potter is an unsung hero. The young boy has nerve, courage, kindness, warmth, love, respectfulness, modesty, bravery and loyalty in unlimited abundance. He always fights for the greater good, puts everyone else ahead of him and is a true warrior. But I suppose nerve, courage, kindness and loyalty – these are the traits we often undermine in people. We generally look up to people with determination, ambition, wit, hunger for power, intelligence. Maybe that is why. Probably that might be the reason that Harry Potter is a hero, but an unsung one.


it felt kind of nice! 

This morning, as I had been doing the dishes, my eyes paused on a particular sight.

I spotted two construction workers a little away from my house. Two of them were facing each other. One apparently, could not speak, so he was signing some words for his fellow colleague. His colleague, the man facing him was watching with great patience. I do not know if the other man understood sign languages at all. And by the speed with which the first man was signing his words, I doubt if anyone could understand even a bit. Yet, the second construction worker looked patiently for a really really long time, nodding in agreement, with this legs deep into the mud, a shovel in his hands, and sunlight hitting his eyes. For a long time, I watched the two, one signing his words and the other patiently looking and nodding.

After watching them for a while, I drifted my eyes off them. And for a strange moment, it felt kind of nice!

I want to break free, or wait…screw it !!!

I want to break free. From the chains of my mind. I want to know for once how it feels to be indifferent, to not care, to be numb. To stop thinking, to stop feeling about anything, about anyone. I want to be separated from the world for once. For once, I want to break free. To not feel, to not think.

It is hell sometimes.

If a maze and a bizzare puzzle have had a baby, that would greatly resemble the workings of my mind. Trapped in layers and layers of randomness,  a complicated mess. An untangled mess of thoughts, of emotions, of feelings, of decisions, of what else I don’t even know!

There are days that eventually turn into months where I wonder how the hell does my brain fit into my skull. For all I know, it should have exploded from my skull for its intensity, for its weight, long long ago. But then again, the size of the brain is in no way a definition of its capacity. Probably that is exactly the reason why my skull is still intact.

Having said that – Hi!

Hi and welcome to the mind of an over-thinker – who thinks too much, feels too deeply and has a crappily negligible amount of courage to express herself.

It is exhausting to be me. The reason I started to write what are you are reading is because I find a tiny ray of hope when I write. Because writing gifts me ease. Comfort. Pleasure. Because just before I was writing I had to go to the bathroom, pull my hands into a fist and hit my chest hard. I do not know why. I was helpless. My brain hurt. It was about to explode with thoughts and emotions. I put my two palms on either side on my head and sat on the cold floor. The chill radiated from the floor spread from the outer layer of my buttocks to the inner muscles of my brain. I sit. I can not weep. There is nothing wrong. Everything is okay. But yet, remembering and feeding on things that deserve no attention, I am sitting here burdened under the weight of the thoughts and of the emotions. I can not take it. I want to shout, scream and yell. And that is exactly when I get up, open the bathroom door, and go outside to sit in silence. Yet, it’s hell inside my mind. I felt like an erupting volcano inserted into a snow-clad mountain.



Then, minutes later, I got a call for hosting an event. Suddenly, the possibility of the opportunity spun my mind. I was looking forward to a happy place that included me doing something I loved, and that was feeding my mind with all the positive emotions. I started browsing the place of the event, looking forward to gathering more details of the event even though at this point I had no clue if I can/wanted to do it or not. But just the possibility made me ebullient. Seconds later after this flush of joy was entering inside my mind, my friend happened to show me all the intricate details of the Ambani wedding and I showed her memes related to the wedding. When we were in that moment talking about how many flowers were  inserted in the entrance of the Ambani’s house to how much money did Beyonce take to sing to dreamily looking at the wedding card of the fanciest wedding ever, I felt another gush of warmth stirring in me. It was the warmth of humor. Another few minutes passed and I was now talking about writing collaboration and Harry Potter fandom to a friend of mine. By now,  I had forgotten, completely forgotten how I was longing to break free before just a mere 15 minutes. How my brain, my thoughts, my emotions were chaining me to feel dreadful. How I felt either my brain is going to explode from my skull or I am. How I felt overthinking is ruining my life.

Within a span of just 30 minutes, I went on a roller coasters ride of thoughts and emotions. And I felt each thought, each emotion with incredible intensity and depth. At first, I felt helplessness and pain to the fullest. The pain of having an overthinking brain. The pain of not being able to express anything to anyone and dying inside. The pain of fretting over the tiniest details. The pain of emotions that burdened me. Then suddenly with one single phone call, I felt the warmth, the beauty of possibility. Soon after I was feeling, thinking, laughing, joy running into every bone, traveling through every vein, touching every nerve of mine. One more conversation with a friend, and then I was floating in another dimension. I was in another world enjoying powerfully the present where I have found someone who shares my  love of Harry Potter and writing.

Whatever I was feeling, whatever on earth I was thinking, one aspect remained constant in those 30 minutes. I felt each emotion with all the intensity and density possible to a person. I thought each thought that I thought deserved my attention with all the power of my brain muscles. I crazily, madly, stupidly engrossed myself in one state of mind and heart at a time.

Now as I am writing all this, I remember countless occasions when I have done this. Feeding on emotions and thoughts, each one with every possible attention and strength I could muster.

I do also remember tons of occasions where I went numb. I had no thoughts inside my head. No emotions to feel. No words to express. I spent hours staring at the ceiling with numbness, without consciousness.

When I think about these two aspects of my life, each time, each time I reason these two aspects, I strongly agree always on one front. I want to break free from the chains of my mind and be free sometimes. An overthinking maniac like me who knows no way to express herself correctly but powerfully ponders upon every thought with unlimited intensity.  For someone like me, the mind can be hell sometimes. Like a monster groping up from every side, not letting you move, not letting you breathe. So, in times when I become numb and unconscious for not being able to think or feel anything, I ask myself, “Is this how being free, happy feels like?”

Each time I do ask, only one answer jumps out of me. NO.

Because it might be hell inside my mind at times when I am chained by emotions and thoughts. But when I am feeling each emotion – be it pain, joy, grief, happiness, empathy, love, care, I feel like that particular emotion is the only thing in the world. I feel alive. I feel alive. I feel most alive. When the pain grips me, I can feel my bones breaking and face tearing. When there is joy, I find myself dancing in my head, bones light, lungs free, relaxing mood, blood jolly. When I empathize, I can actually walk into someone else’s shoes, actually be in those shoes. When I love – I love without pause, without limits, without condition, without reason. When I care, I care like a nurturing mother.

So, screw it! It does at times feels like hell because I think too much, feel too deeply and goddammit have no courage of expression. But on all the other times when it does not feel like hell, my brain is the best place to live. Imagine being so invested in an emotional situation or a mental thought, you can literally carry yourself through their weight. How many people have this superpower? In my world, just me. So I might as well take full advantage of it.


Let pain sweep into me, but also the pleasure.

In all those times, I feel like hell I am going to find ecstasy.

Find it, brew it, bottle it, drink it

Drink till every bone rejoices with the liquid

Drink till every vein dances in peace

Drink till I pierce my skin with joy

Drink till there is no space for coy

And in all other time, when sadness is the only partner

I might as well drink it too

Drink it, feel it, go through it

Because a great strength it is to feel pain like pleasure!

It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird !

I have never read this book wherein these lines reside. But these lines, these few lines make me think hard every time I read them –

“Atticus said to Jem one day, “I’d rather you shot at tin cans in the backyard, but I know you’ll go after birds. Shoot all the blue jays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. “Your father’s right,” she said. “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” – Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

You can go around doing bad to people who have hurt you, or damaged something around/within you. You can, if you choose to. But its a sin to even think of harming someone whose mere purpose of life is to make you feel pleasure. Its a sin to kill a mockingbird !