I have written quite a few posts on Writing in the past, and this is one more along the similar lines…
I moved cities. Started over in Bangalore. Built a new rhythm around unfamiliar roads, filter coffee, bookstores, book clubs, pickleball courts, and the hope that community can be built one conversation at a time.
I realised writing came with me… and no I didnt do a course on writing, nor am I BA english/lit student..
I’ve spent years writing for brands, founders, newsletters, websites and marketing campaigns. Thousands of words with someone else’s name on them. But these weekly pieces? They belong to me. They remind me why I fell in love with words before they became my profession.
I know when I write best now—early mornings before the world starts asking for things, or late evenings after the house has quietened down. A notebook. A black gel pen. Sometimes my laptop. Often Chewy asleep beside me, convinced my writing sessions are simply longer cuddle breaks.
I read differently now.
I don’t just enjoy a sentence anymore; I stop to admire how it was built. I underline. I copy. I wonder why one paragraph lingers for days while another disappears the moment I finish reading it. I find myself returning to writers who can make ordinary moments feel extraordinary. The kind of writing that doesn’t shout to be noticed—it simply stays.
I collect prompts everywhere.
A conversation at a long table. Something Partha says over breakfast. A stranger at a café. A book club discussion that refuses to leave my head. A song I’ve heard a hundred times suddenly revealing a line I never noticed. Even Chewy deciding that 7:30 p.m. is the perfect time to demand attention feels like the beginning of an essay.
Life has become a notebook.
My writing has been hopeful. Angry. Tender. Funny. Embarrassingly vulnerable. Quiet. Loud. Sometimes all of those in the same week.
I’ve stopped trying to sound impressive.
I’d much rather sound true.
AI has made that lesson even clearer.
I use AI almost every day. It helps me think faster, organise better and draft quicker. But the more I use it, the more I value the parts it cannot manufacture—the hesitation after a difficult conversation, the warmth of an inside joke, the silence after disappointment, the way grief changes your voice without changing your vocabulary.
Those are still ours.
My writing has become shorter. Simpler. More honest.
Whenever I find myself avoiding a topic, I don’t ask, How do I write this?
I ask, Why don’t I want to?
The answer is usually the story.
I’ve also realised that not everything in life has to become content.
Some moments are meant to stay with Partha and me. Some belong only to family. Some belong to Haseena and the women who’ve become my chosen village in Bangalore. Some belong to Chewy, whose greatest contribution to my creative process is reminding me that walks are often more productive than staring at a blinking cursor.
Not everything needs publishing.
Everything deserves noticing.
Writing has also made me kinder to myself.
For years, I measured productivity by deliverables. Articles shipped. Clients managed. Campaigns completed.
Now I know that sitting with a difficult thought for an hour is work too.
Watching people carefully is work.
Living fully is work.
Writing is often happening long before I type the first sentence.
I still feel guilty sometimes.
Guilty for writing instead of doing something “more useful.”
Guilty for not publishing enough.
Guilty for wondering whether anyone cares.
And then I remember that the point was never to feed an algorithm.
It was to pay attention.
The biggest gift writing has given me isn’t better sentences.
It’s a better life.
I’m more curious.
I’m more present.
I’m less afraid of changing my mind.
I notice stories everywhere because I’ve finally started believing that my own is worth telling too.
I hope I keep writing like that.
Curious.
Playful.
Unfinished.
Like every week is an experiment.
Like every conversation could become an essay.
Like every ordinary day is quietly asking to be remembered.
