Every time someone in my circle says, “I am not a writer like you,” I want to check behind me to see which award-winning novelist they’re talking to.
Because it can’t be me.
Friends say it with such respect that I feel like I have been felicitated with a shawl and a fountain pen, by the President of India. Colleagues say it like I have a secret room where I manufacture metaphors in bulk. And people who barely know me look at my sentences the way villagers must have looked at the first drone, thinking “What creature is this?”
Relax. I am not a peacock in a crow universe. I am, at best, an okay-ish writer. The kind you clap for reluctantly. The kind who Googles spellings and still gets them wrong. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Nothing to frame on the wall either.
When someone tells me, “I am not a writer like you,” I try to act wise. I nod. I smile. I say, “Please don’t be. You can be better.”
This is not false modesty. This is fair advice.
Because if you ever climbed into my head, you would find chaos. Half-written thoughts. Dramatic monologues rehearsed in the shower. Three unfinished drafts titled “Final_Final_RealFinal.” Inspiration visits me like a relative who borrows money and disappears.
And yet, somehow, I became the designated “express yourself” guy.
It’s funny. I’ve met people who are charmers. People who are walking encyclopedias. People with hearts so pure you feel guilty breathing near them. Movie buffs who can quote scenes better than the actors. Readers who finish books faster than I finish snacks. Living legends. Pet lovers. Chirpy little bastards who enter a room and change its temperature.
I wish I had more time with them.
Some left before I could fully understand them. Some stayed for a short season and vanished midway. Some came into my life just long enough to show me what companionship feels like. A few remain. A few turned into stories. A few turned into lessons.
Maybe that’s why I write.
Not because I am gifted. Not because I am some Word Magician. I write because I don’t want those people to disappear completely. Because if I can trap a memory inside a paragraph, it feels like I’ve stolen a little eternity.
And to those who think I am some God of Words, I beg you, lower your expectations. If you must worship someone, choose ChatGPT. At least it updates itself.
I am flawed. I overthink. I rewrite texts before sending them. I wonder if what I wrote will land or just float away unnoticed. I question if any sentence of mine has ever truly made someone smile on a bad day.
Will my words touch your heart? I don’t know.
Will they make sense every time? Definitely not.
Will I inspire you to be like me? I sincerely hope not.
Because once you see the full version of me, the bloopers included, you will fold your hands, look up at the sky and say, “Thank God I am nothing like him.”
And I will smile. Because maybe the point was never to be someone like me. Maybe the point was to be fully, unapologetically, beautifully you.
And if my slightly dramatic, occasionally confused, very human words helped you see that, then fine. I’ll accept the shawl the next time we meet.
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