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When I Stopped Writing


People I usually meet in person first, often come back to me with this statement later – Oh, I didn’t know you write. Some acquaintances have often declared that I don’t look like someone who would write. I don’t ponder upon such words much but I am slightly bothered by the one I heard last week – “Why did you stop writing?”

I was taken aback. I never stopped writing. Who said I had? So I went back and looked at the source she was referring to- My blog. The last date said October 2017. It’s indeed been 5 months; maybe I did stop writing after all.

The last time I wrote something I was in Rourkela, a peaceful city in Western Odisha where life was as slow as it could get. I moved to the capital, Bhubaneswar in late November where every morning I would wake up late but still manage to write a short poem while rushing on my way to work. Within two months I found myself loaded with responsibilities that made my shoulders bend. I would wake up as early as 6 in the morning, I would dream of work and I would talk of work. And sometimes on a quiet Sunday morning I would wish that I wasn’t so tired so that I could sit and write. ‘Next time,’ I would tell myself.

It’s the fourth month of this year and I don’t see the next time coming any time soon. So I look back to see what I did if not write-
I picked up Ayush’s idea of reading every morning for half an hour and I just finished reading Sadhguru’s Inner Engineering. I feel wiser already.

I learnt to cook some awkward khichdi in the microwave for dinner after work. And even when I forget to put salt in it, it would make me happy just for the fact that I cooked something for myself.
I put great efforts to keep my house clean- something I would never do when I lived in hostels. For home should be a place I look forward to going to from office. For home should bring in nothing but peace.

I slept too early to write. There were nights when I dozed off at 9.30pm and forgot to send my daily reports to my boss which I usually send at 10pm. I would wake up too early but would begin my day with the official daily reports we receive so there was no scope of writing in the morning. I would read when I would make my morning cup of tea.

So I started making tea in the morning for myself. One of the things I look forward to as soon as I open my eyes to welcome the new day.

I worked every day but I also learnt that there is more happiness in doing something unusual than doing the regular work. I started counting only the unusual work as productive. The regular were just duties. It made me unhappy most of the times- mostly when the unusual work wouldn’t turn out to be greatly impactful.

I made friends in events and found cafes to eat and hide for a long time. I discovered restaurants serving Odiya delicacy just the way I like. I found small shops that would serve me tea that would make me forget my worries.

I held hands with adult-ing reluctantly and I would be nostalgic most of the times. I could write then but there was too much to grasp already, too much to understand, some things to react to and some things to digest. Growing up is indeed a trap, but the less I grow now, the more shackled I feel.

So I visit beaches to feel free, and collect shells that would remind me of the vast sea.

I embrace the adult life and I forget to write. So, I listen to new music every morning in the cab so that I would feel just right.

But no matter what I did or what I learnt, and no matter what I am yet to read and yet to learn, there is nothing that makes me happier than the point of time when I sit down to type.

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