Writing

It all began with an insatiable hunger to read. Long before I ever put pen to paper, my family would say I was reading at an impossibly early age, a memory I hold true despite the fondness in their voice. I remember being a small child drawn to words everywhere, like on scrap papers, tabloid headlines, and even signboards, anything that offered a glimpse into a story. As time went on, I came to grasp that a single life is far too short for the infinite experiences and stories that unfold around us. As Seneca’s words suggest, the true tragedy is not the shortness of life, but the way we so often waste it, losing precious moments to the hands of time. This feeling of limitation, this sense of stories slipping away, is what fuels me. I write to touch those fleeting moments, to breathe life into the small details and, in so doing, to live countless lives beyond my own.

My words are not born from a desire for a career or a hobby; they are born from a deep, internal pressure to give form to what is otherwise inexpressible. It is the only artistic form I feel I can truly create. In the act of writing, I find a profound sense of relief, a quiet act of rebellion against the pressure of all the stories I might never get to tell. This compulsion makes me feel both blessed and burdened, and yet, I would have it no other way.

Manik Bandopadhyay, a famous Bengali novelist, said, “I write to convey things that cannot be conveyed in any other way except through writing.” The origin of this urge to write is unclear, but the desire to express these scattered thoughts is relentless and cannot be suppressed. I wrote a short story about this a decade ago, in Bengali; you can read it from here if you wish.

The question of whether my work is ever read by others is not something I give much thought. My motivation is entirely personal, and for me, that is a sufficient purpose.