The Promise of The Pen
“The literary life can be cruel, so we must write for ourselves, and then we won’t be disappointed.”
Ruskin BondI have always been an unsocial person. In school, I would rather work on my projects alone than in groups. I never fit into fancy, big circles who chit-chat about others; something deep within me always asked me not to even try to “fit in.”
At parties, I would only include myself for the craving of my tongue, then find a secluded space and eat with music in my ears—lost in my own whimsical world. The same went for college life. Fighting for leadership, president elections, grand proms—these were never my kind of events.
Even my parents sometimes get annoyed by my “all-me” nature. They expect me to sit for hours with their friends and indulge in that vast, never-ending ocean of gossip. But whenever I sense a guest arriving, I quietly hide myself in the corners of the house—where even the wind fails to reach.
Sometimes, this nature of mine left me feeling alone. I wondered if something was wrong with me. But as days passed, I began to imbibe the rustle of winds, the enchanted music in the soft voice of birds, the beauty of the first blossoms of spring, the ethereal calm in dancing waves, the echoes of rustling leaves, and distant hum of a city that never quite rests.
In the folds of my solitude, I searched for a passion—and I found my pen. And I began to write.
Writing, I realized, asks for a certain kind of life—a life that observes more than it speaks, that feels more than it shows. It asks for a calm, attentive soul, one that can find beauty in pauses and meaning in silence.
In what the world might call loneliness, I found companionship—in the form of words.
But as the journey began, and I wrote my books, I started to grow desperate. My once-calm nervous system began to tremble with “wants”—so many wants: name, fame, recognition, money, luxury.
This ocean of wants can kill the destiny of a writer. Because writing is not about wanting—it is about feeling something deep. And the only true audience of a writer is the writer herself—and that should be enough.
Writing is for the soul, not for shine. It is not for pennies, but for a gentle, deep smile. It is not for stage lights, but for inner peace.
I may be writing this today, pouring my thoughts onto these pages—but when the days begin to swallow me in greed, I shall return here and remember what I once promised myself.
Because all I truly want…
is to keep the pen moving
until I take the last breath of my life.
— PIYA
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