I Express

 I miss my Daada, my grandfather, I miss him so much. It's been more than 12 years since he passed away but I can still feel his presence. I was in school back then and I didn't realize how huge that loss was. He used to pick me up after school. He had retired but used to go to office at times and came to pick me up in his car during his lunch time. I used to ask him for 10 Rupees to buy a packet of Chips. He happily gave it to me and I munched it on our way back. I always used to offer him one piece of chip and ate 2 myself, and we used to have a lovely journey back home.  I wish I could talk to him, I do feel his presence but I would really like to talk to him. I long to hear his voice.  One time, back when there were nokia phones, the button to cancel the call was broken on his phone. He had accidentally dialed someone and I was laughing so hard when he couldn't cut the call. He let me have a hearty laugh and didn't scold me about it.  He used to wake me up in the mo

When I quit being a Lawyer, it was an obvious assumption that my parents would never support this decision. These hard-working, middle-class parents took a loan and spent lakhs on my college education, and I decided to play and teach Guitar instead?! To be honest, I didn't hold on to any hope or support. It was a heavy risk, one where I just went with the flow of doing what I loved, while feeling incredibly guilty.  . Living independently in Delhi was a crucial and a necessary decision. More than my family, I wanted to prove it to myself that I can make a living out of just music.  'Making it' holds a different definition for everyone. For me, it was always about spreading the joy of music -  be it by performing or teaching or social media. The platform didn't matter as far as the message was passed across. . I look back and I wonder, was I really that alone in the journey? There were several things that I was never permitted since I was brought up in a small town, bu

I had forgotten about the existence of this Blog. . My student shared a really vulnerable writing of hers' that I happened to read, and it inspired me so much that I hungrily started searching for the time I used to write like that. Shamelessly, honestly, vulnerably.  Read here how she named her Guitar . I read a couple of my old posts and I am in awe! I have fiction-ed stories that never happened and I completely forgot about the existence of this side of my mind. I do journal my real emotions every now and then, but weaving stories that are hardly related to any real life moment - how did I do that? And why did I ever stop? I guess social media has a part to play - the need for instant validation. This was indeed a beautiful world I was building and I was probably not even expecting someone to read it, it was my own little bubble. I am confused because writing like this was a grand escape that I let go . I did write a poem a few days ago that felt liberating, and this poem was al