A letter to the editor of a magazine.

A letter to the editor of a magazine.

Respected Editor,

When you probably read this mail, if you do read it, I don’t blame you if you don’t , you may wonder who is this unfamiliar name, I am a writer, not a famous one, which you would have realized by now, I thought to write to you about what keeps me writing even though I’ve not published or made money out of my writing.

I have always pondered upon the question why is that books or any other piece of art move us, why do we feel sad when a hero created of fiction dies. But this happens only when the book is riveting. We do not feel the same if the book left much to be desired. We would not feel the same if the president of a distant unheard nation died no matter how earth -shattering the news is for his countrymen. Of course, we are sympathetic but we are not emotional, how can a book about a non-existent person move us when the real-life demise of a normal person fails to induce a similar effect. The emotional scenario created by the author is so powerful to evoke this in us. It fascinates me even now.

I also observed this emotion when reading what someone else has written is significantly lesser than the creation of a mind that is mine. I have often felt the same emotions course through me that I felt when I first wrote the text. I aspire now, in making others feel those emotions.

To me the most arduous task in the world is writing a novel, I have time and again marvelled Enid Blyton who has so many works to her name and also been astonished by Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina that runs for a massive thousand and two pages. Writing novels are arduous tasks and getting anything published these days is tough for a newcomer with the publishing industry turning commercial, but there are the sheer joy and relief in writing that would make the effort worthwhile after all and that’s what keeps me going on.


Waiting for the chrysanthemums

I visited Japan for the sake of pleasure,

But ended up sick and confined to a solitary retreat,

With only leisure in view,

A solitary chrysanthemum tree.

My thoughts were unlike Johnsy in “The Last Leaf”,

For I wished to not die in a foreign land,

Where none would shed tears on my tomb.

I wished to return home ,

Before I closed my eyes forever.

And so I strived against the Grim Reaper,

Who loomed over my head with burning scythe.

But as days crawled by , I lost all hope,

All my thoughts were extinguished but for one,

To see chrysanthemums before I died.

When I first set foot on this land,

Even though no one greeted me,

I was filled with sheer delight,

For I beheld a truly lovely sight.

Chrysanthemums in full bloom ,pale and white,

In stark contrast to the shadow of night.

Every day I wake up before dawn ,

And muster all energy to peep through the window sill,

But not a single bloom I see ,

To soothe my growing misery.