Check out the ultimate guide to 16 return-to-work programs in India for women
I am ready to start my whole new beginning again. Unaware where I shall reach but I will tread this path.
It is not that easy to play with words. They wobble and spin in your head before the mot- juste pops out. How frequently our thoughts change. Some indelible, some bedevil, some cozy and some dreamy. Like perennial river inexorable they flow. But when we try to jot them on that white page they vanish. Where you can savour the incense but can’t hold it. And you feel enervated of pushing hard your brain to start with something. That one word, one idea you desperately are dying to start with but in vain.
How frequently had I experienced this and how despondent I feel when I fail to scribble on that white blank page. The one laughing right on me. Looking straight into my eyes. Teasing. Alike bully. Forcing me to believe I am worthless. Trying to embed the belief that writing is not my cup of tea. And then this effort of me of expressing myself truly and rightly is loosening because of my incompetency. Incompetency with words. Incompetency of expressing self.
I feel deserted in my own garden. How desperately had I wanted to be a wannabe writer and how pathetically I lost. Bereaved I feel. And then my brain works in all possible ways to enforce me to give up. Writers are born. Some studied high literature. Some were great at academics. Some had gone to Oxford and others been writing since child. Umpteen reasons arrayed quickly one by one to convince enough to give up.
And I give up!
But then I am not happy. I felt cheated. Cheated by self. How a dream could I see? When I knew there is no corroborate to support it. Only few prizes in local competitions. Few unfinished short stories, few poems and some articles. All kept unnamed, unedited, raw in unknown folder of my old computer desktop. And then a single thought from nowhere hits. But this is what you have always wanted to do. And you cant leave it. You don’t want to die panting and grieving your failure. And you don’t want to live without trying.
So with this sudden burst I rise. Rise again. Elbowing all my devil thoughts I start afresh. With all my collected mettle. To write, write again and write what I feel. This time with more vigour .
I am ready to start my whole new beginning again. Unaware where I shall reach but I will tread this path. For the beauty of the path will be the treasure I shall cherish.
Image via Pixabay
Senior working professional in a reputed firm.Live,love and let live,my philosophy of life.Inside I am a complete nautanki who dreams all weird things.But secretly I do trust intense desires are read more...
This post has published with none or minimal editorial intervention. Women's Web is an open platform that publishes a diversity of views, individual posts do not necessarily represent the platform's views and opinions at all times.
Stay updated with our Weekly Newsletter or Daily Summary - or both!
I huffed, puffed and panted up the hill, taking many rest breaks along the way. My calf muscles pained, my heart protested, and my breathing became heavy at one stage.
“Let’s turn back,” my husband remarked. We stood at the foot of Shravanbelagola – one of the most revered Jain pilgrimage centres. “We will not climb the hill,” he continued.
My husband and I were vacationing in Karnataka. It was the month of May, and even at the early hour of 8 am in the morning, the sun scorched our backs. After visiting Bangalore and Mysore, we had made a planned stop at this holy site in the Southern part of the state en route to Hosur. Even while planning our vacation, my husband was very excited at the prospect of visiting this place and the 18 m high statue of Lord Gometeshwara, considered one of the world’s tallest free-standing monolithic statues.
What we hadn’t bargained for was there would be 1001 granite steps that needed to be climbed to have a close-up view of this colossal magic three thousand feet above sea level on a hilltop. It would be an understatement to term it as an arduous climb.
Every daughter, no matter how old, yearns to come home to her parents' place - ‘Home’ to us is where we were brought up with great care till marriage served us an eviction notice.
Every year Dugga comes home with her children and stays with her parents for ten days. These ten days are filled with fun and festivity. On the tenth day, everyone gathers to feed her sweets and bids her a teary-eyed adieu. ‘Dugga’ is no one but our Goddess Durga whose annual trip to Earth is scheduled in Autumn. She might be a Goddess to all. But to us, she is the next-door girl who returns home to stay with her parents.
When I was a child, I would cry on the day of Dashami (immersion) and ask Ma, “Why can’t she come again?” My mother would always smile back.
I mouthed the same dialogue as a 23-year-old, who was home for Durga Puja. This time, my mother graced me with a reply. “Durga is fortunate to come home at least once. But many have never been home after marriage.”
Please enter your email address