The creator’s dilemma

A writer is a creator. When he creates characters and gives them life through words, he holds the strings to their lives and fates. Look at it like a puppeteer playing with his puppets. All is merry until he reaches the end of the story and he realises that one of his beloved creations has to be engulfed by reality and has to face something tragic- whether it be a broken finger, a murder charge or a broken heart. That is when the toughest decision is made– Which of my limbs do I cut out?

I don’t know much of God or the creator. But if such an entity were to exist and were a writer, then I would bring my hat to my chest and bow my head to it- not out of reverence but out of pity and compassion. I waste pages and pages of paper; drink cups and cups of coffee and diligently pull out each one of my hair to make that decision. Wonder what the big boss does to soothe its nerves.

The plot and the setting is easy to create and perhaps the most enjoyable part of the journey. The end is a different story altogether.


I have you.

There has been a poem lurking deep inside me;

Waiting to out into the world.

But somehow my fragile heart

Made me swallow them words back.

But today I made a choice to speak;

To write as I please without a care

Of who, what, where.

After all my words are all I got my dear.

After three years and seven days,

I am back to the city;

To our city

And to you.

After three years and seven days,

I breathed the smell of you again:

In the smell of the rotting garbage

Waiting to be picked by rotting hands;

In the fragrance of the whore houses

Waiting to be explored by equally fragrant men;

In the rubbles of cement

That promise to build a world which will never come to pass.

After three years and seven days,

I walked with you hand in hand again:

On the roads near the coffee shop

In which we first met;

Where you told me my eyes were a dream

You wished to keep dreaming till the end of days;

On the road near the shady bar

Where you first held me like a child;

On the road near the graveyard

Where we went to visit your mother’s grave

And you told me stories you had told none.

After three years and seven days,

I saw you again:

In the slow chaos of the trams

Which waddled on like disoriented schoolboys in the morn;

In the vastness of the ocean

Which reminded me of the unsolved mystery of you;

In the smiles of the street kids

Which was as pure as the day I said yes.

After three years and seven days,

I tasted you again:

In the tea of the hawker

You enjoyed so much because you said it was plain honest;

In the fudge brownie of a certain place

Which you said would change my perspective on chocolate forever;

In the smoke of the cigarette

Which I held the day you left and held on to ever since.

After three years and seven days,

I am back to the city;

To our city

And to you.

And all I feel is you.

This city is my shrine

And you are my God.

My pilgrimage will be paid

In intervals of three years and seven days.

Ask me not why that exact period.

All I know is- I had to say it and I did

And now,

I have you.


I like treasure hunts. I like history. I like the thought of ‘El Dorado’ existing somewhere in my backyard. I like the search for things long gone. I strive to achieve the impossible. Yes, I like living in the past. Call me an escapist but I like fiction over nonfiction. It is more peaceful than the latter and allows room for imagination and possibilities. And I like my options.