Not quite an Interview

They asked, "Is it your story?"

"How does it matter, Whose story it is?", The story teller answered.

Why do you write?

To tell a tale.

What is the aim of your writing? Do you wish to achieve anything through your writings?

I am interested only in telling the tale, rest is useless and futile.

Does that mean that you are a complacent writer?

Is there something called a 'complacent lover'??

I write because I love to write and love cannot be forced upon. It should come to you willingly. I can't coerce my pen just to satisfy a few hungry minds. So, if that makes me a 'complacent writer' then so be it.

How much of your writings are based on real life or has autobiographical elements in it?

There is something of us in each of our writings. Period.

There is a striking resemblance between some of the characters and situations in your stories/novels and your life. People say that the character 'Kalpurush' is based on you. How far it is true?

There might be a few resemblances as I have already said that there is something of us in each of our writings but it is difficult for an author to differentiate the real from the unreal or the unreal from the real; for he lives and breathes many lives in his head along with his own. It is only the hand that wields the pen knows where the line blurs and where imagination meets reality.

Any message for the readers and your admirers?

Read the tale not the teller.

Crumbling

Restlessness is back like the daily newspaper which misses me more than i miss him. Life is strange which has an unusual way of revealing the truth to you. Those little truths makes one feel like a dry leaf fallen off the branch which is at the mercy of wind and breeze. Crumbling at the feet of life, lifted by wind and reduced to dust with time.

Whispering Rain

   

     It was a summery night. She was lying down, resting her back on a rock with lower half of her body snuggling in the flowing river. Dry breeze played with her hair gently, curtaining her face with stray strands that wafted in breeze like the notes of music. Moon smiled at her from above but the clouds were cruel enough to pull Moon back into them. Moon was equally naughty. Like a playful child she just wouldn't stay still and made them chase her, till they were tired and stopped for a while gasping for breath like old men allowing her to stand afar and watch them with a glee. The game went on and she watched them delightfully as her feet played with water. The silver anklet kept swimming around her ankle silenced for once by the gurgling sound of river. She found the cool water running over her body better than being locked in an AC room. 

     She looked at the Moon peeping from the clouds. The sight was so beauteous that her lips parted inadvertently to recite Rabindranath but quickly she pursed her lips on realizing that her rendition might not do justice to a great Bard like him. Instead, she let the wind and river create the music of night. The cool flowing water, the dry breeze, the moonlight, the hard rock, the sound of the river, the solitude and her pristine beauty melting into the night seemed just perfect until the dark monstrous clouds gobbled Moon with a thunder and her cloudy friends cried in dollops with a moan. 

     The colour of the night changed suddenly with the coming of the sinister clouds. Playfulness gave way to seduction. Night turned from silvery to ebony yet it remained as alluring as ever. She lay there savouring the gentle and hard kisses of mighty and tiny droplets. Water gushed on her that was gently lapping till now; even then she lay unmoved with her eyes closed. There was chill in the air and was drenched to the core yet she felt so warm. The warmth grew in her numbing her to the chill around and the icy droplets. This made her feel uneasy and she opened her eyes to see. The heavens roared in anger at her and blinded her furiously. She woke up with a jolt only to find herself drenched in her own sweat in bed. "Huh...another dream", she whined. There was no power and she scrambled in darkness to find herself. She could still hear the heavens roaring and the window panes flapped against the wall in unison with its jarring tone. It was raining outside. She ran to the window to catch shower. Thick and mighty droplets kissed her skin, waking her senses to the elements of nature. And, she knew that the night was back with its dark intentions...

Re-construction

                                 Creating new memories
                                                      to erase old ones.
                                 Covering old wounds
                                                      with new ones.