Some days you write just to hear the krikkettykrat of pen on paper. You let go the drive to communicate, to elicit a response, to mean. Some days its just for the pleasure of seeing the letters pop up, come together and define their own form on the blank page.
Some days i smell a riot in my masala-dabba. The moment i open the dabba everyone sits still, holding their breaths, but not before they can scramble back to their places. That's how i catch the cloves tearing into the chilli powder which bleeds on the jeera as mustard seeds try to hide between fenugreek seeds.
Some days it is as though an abyss hides in my doorway. I step out
through a blur and the pine trees outside stand startled as I meekly fumble around.
i let days like these slide off my mind, careful not to let them cling on, careful not to let their gazillion spokes scratch me. Some days one has to write just to hear the clickettyclak of the keyboard.