The writing bug bit me quite early in my life. It was when I was in my Standard VII that I wrote a book, initially on a writing pad and then on my father’s typewriter. As I bound those rough pages with a stapler, I saw a book taking shape; and as its pages unfolded I saw how a figment of my imagination had taken a concrete shape. There is rarely another joy that compares with seeing your creative thought taking a concrete shape. Some have likened this joy to what a mother experiences when she holds her firstborn for the first time. But, all I can say was that was one of my greatest pleasures, and it set me onto a path of no return.
Life had other plans en route, and I found myself indulging myself with my other passion — teaching — for over two decades. I still teach, and with a similar passion as I began with, but I need to showcase my other side to the world as well. For a number of years, I dabbled with freelance writing as well. Though I won numerous accolades from my clients from all over the world, I found myself speaking someone else’s voice. At a point, the dam burst, and I could continue no longer as a freelance writer. I resolved that if I would ever write again, it would be only for myself.
Having lived in this wonderful metropolis called Mumbai all my life, I have been fortunate to meet a huge variety of people, and partake of several experiences. The city is always on the move, and though that’s a cliché, it’s quite true. There’s never a silent moment when you are in Mumbai. Even in the dead of the night when I sometimes find myself writing, I sense things stirring outside. Stories are being made here at every instant, so many stories that will be lost for want of someone to give them a voice. I tried to create a blend with my stories, a blend of my penchant for writing and my astute sense of observation of the things that go around me, and weave my yarns.
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