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To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012


What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy children playing cricket in the streets. I would observe all this with wide-eyed wonder and started admiring the beauty in each of these.

I used to describe to my dad and mum whatever I saw, they would listen patiently and kiss me with a proud smile on their faces. I felt so happy and contented when they were proud of me and whenever they appreciated me. I used to observe more and I used to narrate them whatever I saw with gleaming eyes and this had become my hobby apart from watching tv.

When I was in my 2nd standard, I was inspired by the story that I had read, the story of the lion and the mouse. I was sitting at home with nothing to do after school when I took out a notebook from my bag and started scribbling something in tamil. Whatever I scribbled turned out to be my first written story. It was a story about a lion and a girl like me. I am so proud that my long journey of writing had started with a tamil story, for tamil is my mother tongue.

After my mother read it, she brimmed with happiness and a proud smile and she rejoiced upon my first story. After that story, I didn't write anything for long. When I was in my fourth standard, I wrote my first poem in english titled 'far away across the roads' which was highly appreciated by my teacher. From then on, I used to write about anything I saw, not because I wanted the appreciation, but I loved to express things through my words.

I used to admire God's every creation that was called nature and wrote poems about them in my little diaries. When I outgrew the age of innocence and bloomed into my teenage, I felt all the more lonely and left out among my peers and I held on to writing with more passion. When I was in my 9th standard, I went to being depressed and more lonely, I had many feelings to express and very few people to express to. I started writing lengthy poems that described about my loneliness, my phase of life into depression and I also wrote many songs which I sang to none except myself.

At that time, my poems and stories used to be very intense and sad. By constantly writing out whatever I felt, I felt hope surging into me, I felt life seep back into me. I started gaining few friends who admired me for my talent and gave good company during my higher secondary years. But I still held on to writing, for writing has come a long way with me and I can never abandon my best companion for a few new ones.

I started writing on social issues and continued my poetry on nature. My sister introduced me to the blog space where I could preserve my every precious poem safely, as I kept losing many diaries which held my poems and stories. Writing has been my constant companion from childhood, it has put up with me in my darkest day to sunshine, it has been my greatest and the most understanding friend. It has embraced me irrespective of my physique, colour, character, even though I am a very boring and serious person.

Writing has given me warmth when I was about to freeze to death, writing gave me my own world, where I could happily dwell in if I didn't like my reality, it gave me a friend to lean on and a place where I could shed my teardrops without any inhibitions. Now, I feel sure that even if the whole world is against me, even if no one is ready to hear what I voice out, I am sure I can survive in a good emotional state as my dearest companion from childhood is never ready to let go of me. I am sure we will grow old together and my writing will live on even if I die as it has brought out the best in me.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda


  1. True that. Writing and books keep us going. I started writing to get rid of a a very hurtful episode in my life. I started a blog, poured my pain and tried to distract myself through endless words. The posts are still there in my blog. The pain left but the writing continued.

    Gayathree, your writings bear testimony to the beautiful interior you possess and no one can take that away. Love your words and the creator of those words.

    You rock, dear Gayathree.

    Joy always,

    1. Thank you so much Susan. :) It's a real boon that I am able to express my thoughts through my words. Hurtful occasions bring a man to his reality and penetrate his experiences deep into him and make him wise.. Doesn't it? :)

  2. That was a beautiful work Gayathree... I just want you to remember.. The world takes you at your own estimate.. Always think highly of yourself like you do . Great more things to come your way. Godspeed :)

  3. A very heart warming post Gayathri....True, writing does distract from things...And congrats!! :)


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I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause.
I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.