I wrote my first poetry, on a rainy afternoon, as I stood on the river bank, watching my uncle tip the urn that contained my mother’s ashes. It was as if something within me had escaped through my broken soul – words just kept flowing out. They didn’t care about day or night, whether I was in solitude or in loneliness, in joy or in tears – words rushed out to find a medium to be eternal in any form, as long as they had a final resting place. Language didn’t matter either and I found myself writing in Hindi, Marathi, English and even Maranglish! I don’t know if it even qualifies as ‘poetry’ for there was no conscious manner to rhyme or allow free verse – I simply wrote.
Then on I found that I could write for almost every feeling that my heart encountered. There have been new emotions and ‘old tired ones’. There are stories told, joys described, descriptions of feelings of love and many more!