Friday, March 16, 2012


I have always believed in stories, the famous ones told over and over,the fairy tales of childhood,the romantic legends of youth and the tales of wisdom as you age.But these are only the stories that are told, I also believe in the untold incredible stories hiding in every nook and corner of mundane lives in small towns,rigid routines of remote villages and common people just like me.
Our stories might not consist of what legends are made up of,but they do have their heroic moments and deeds,their personal giant leaps of faith generously interspersed with their every day failures that tear the heart apart.
More than three years ago, in the sleepy lanes of Daryaganj in Delhi, among the bee-hive publishing houses and printing presses , I was doing my job of content editing mundane academic books and enjoying every day in the heavy intoxicating smell of fresh books being loaded and unloaded in the basement storehouse and the cheap but amazingly tasty culinary delights at lunch-break.I had traveled quite far from my small town roots in Shimla,from the highly guarded childhood and youth of a hilly town to the bad predator roads of Delhi,from the back benches of literature classes to the noises of strict deadlines in big offices,from the carefree single days to the responsible pedestal of a wife and soon-to-be mother.
I was happy most of the time,and by my own standards had done quite well for myself - personally and financially.I had a life of my choice and by divine grace all was going well.Yet on some occasions there was a strange nagging echo somewhere,as if I was carrying a vacuum inside waiting to be filled by some sudden stroke of destiny or coincidence.Most of times I managed to curb this uncomfortable itch in my soul and blame it on the surging hormones of pregnancy,failing to recognize that while my body was expecting my first biological offspring my mind had been pregnant too long with so many ideas and experiences that it needed a voice.
A couple of months after my baby girl was born,and as I was settling into the tough terrains of new parenthood,I gave birth to my second child -my blog- this blog.
And that is not where the story ends ,that is where it all begins.The story of how a blog became a friend and mentor as if I was not writing it but it was writing back to me as well.It is here that I delved into the hereby ignored crevices of my mind and soul,it is here that I traveled to my ancestral town of Rawalpindi (now in Pakistan) and to the many destinations of my dreams.It is here that I would stumble upon hence unacknowledged emotions for my parents and the surge of dreams for my young daughter.
It is here that my poetry found its words,its skeletal frame began to be filled in by the flesh and bone of shared experiences and thoughts,eventually leading to some of them being published and more importantly winning the time,attention and mental space of many friends and several esteemed fellow-poets.
My incredible story is still on,so I am sorry there is no end to this one at present,but this is MY INCREDIBLE STORY of metamorphosis ,of finding myself and connecting with the wonderful world, of a small pebble that accidentally falls into a rushing stream and years later downstream ,after all the polishing and rubbing has become a piece of art.
I hope that as this story progresses its plot thickens and gets interesting,the present characters grow and welcome new ones with open arms and this open-ended story keeps charting its unrestricted course.

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To Kill a Mockingbird
The Catcher in the Rye
Animal Farm
The Alchemist
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Romeo and Juliet
The Odyssey
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
The Count of Monte Cristo
Eat, Pray, Love
The Da Vinci Code
The Kite Runner
The Silence of the Lambs
The Diary of a Young Girl
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre
The Notebook
Gone With the Wind

The Human Bean Cafe, Ontario

The Human Bean Cafe, Ontario
my work on display there !!!!!