The beginning of the quill

I was an average student. A ‘nobody’ in the farthest corner of the class; with my head sunk into a Harry Potter book or any novel. School was bearable because of two of my closest supports. I did not have too many talents. And at that age, I did not know that it was really okay to be an introvert. All I knew was that I could read. It was an English period that changed something within me. Not a gigantic change, but it was my first step. 
Shobha miss was one of my English teachers at school; and when I think of her, I always remember that one period. That day, miss had asked us to write a poem. This was in the seventh standard. I had never attempted writing. I just looked around. The sight of heads bent into notebooks and pens dancing in the air did not serve as an inspiration. I went into a panic mode because I did not have a story within me whose magic I could bring out in verses. Or that is what I thought. I closed my eyes and just looked into my desk. My copy of ‘The Twins At St.Clare’s’ lay in front of me. I thought that maybe I could write Enid’s story in verse. It was a book that I had enjoyed. I wrote my poem using a typical ‘abab’ rhyme scheme. I particularly chose incidents from the novel that had left me with a smile. Once everyone was done, miss asked me to read my poem out loud. And to my shock, she actually loved my poem! To actually hear someone praise me in relation to academics was surprising. And later that day in the night, I wrote a second poem for Daniel Radcliffe. And after that day, I never put my pen down.
It was a poem written in the seventh grade that began my writing journey; it taught me that I need not be a ‘nobody’ biding my time in some corner of the class or trying to be someone. I could still be myself with genuine words as company, if not people. 
This World Poetry Day, write that poem which is aching to be realised on paper than just languishing within all that hidden potential. May the verses be with you. Always. 



My road is marked a lot more by stumbles than glorious sprints. This too was going to transition into another stumble; the horrible one where the feet get too comfortable with the familiarity of the ground than the mystery of the sky. However, I thought that let me run the course of these six circles. Let me continue waging a war against proportion that tries to restrict me to width and length and radius and diameters. Maybe one day, I will get to know this inner life state, which is waiting to be tapped. Maybe one day I will understand that my victory cannot be measured on someone else’s yardstick.