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by Manjit Handa

Who is a writer? That thaumaturge of words who astounds us and makes us wonder why- I- knew- this- too- but- could- not- put- it- that- way. That "chosen one", not because he knew it all already, but because he would humbly get down to arranging and organizing words until he was convinced of their eutaxy.

That "solitary" seeming soul who actually is always in conversation with his inner voice. That "introvert" who is continuously preparing for that extrovert disclosure. That "friendless" (How many can be reached out by his standards? Where is the time?) looking individual who extends a friendly hand in our loneliness. That "brooding" being suggesting us ways of living a brood-free life. That creature who dies a million times before striking the gold of the quintessence of life.

It is not easy to be a writer. If you ask a writer how he wrote a certain piece he would never be able to tell. Or if you ask any artist that question for that matter chances are bleak that you would get a reasonable answer. To put it in simple terms there is one thing that made them what they are and that is their persistent pursuit of their interests. They just fell in love with their work. Pure unconditional love. And when that happens, that is when their love reciprocates. For a spectator he seems to be a solitary-introverted-brooding-friendless magician but HE up there knows that he is in love. With his work. Always with a companion, never fearing its loss.

We all have a companion like that somewhere in us. Before it gets really late we need to divulge him out. CHASE him this Valentine. Before you know it you could have that glint of a lover in your eyes.

With love,
Manjit