Of one of the many disappointments in my life, would be the fact that I could never become a meaningful writer, or at least in a commercial capacity as that would have provided me the resources to hone my craft and perhaps put rest to that nagging voice that always suggested that, hey man you are the Gabriel Garcia Marquez of the East.
Now that could be a lofty assessment but if you can trace your bloodline to private parts of Western Uttar Pradesh, you certainly have dabbled in magical realism. Knowingly and unknowingly, as everything I know about myself is true and the opposite also holds true.
I am the microcosm of the dichotomous nature of human experience.
Though this was supposed to be the runway at yet another attempt to purposeful storytelling, it sure comes when I exit from an agonizing antechamber to open skies, mountain air and on some fortunate days an afternoon nap on a hammock on a beach, without the flies of course.