There is no real reason to write, nothing at all. But perhaps, after reading Premankur's eloquent posts, I want to write something even an ounce as good as he does.
May be I cannot. Writing rests as a forgotten memory which you remember only when you chance to come across some old picture of yours in an old, ragged family album. You try to fondle the memory by talking about it. You may even try to remember the names of all those captured in that memory. Sometimes, if leisure permits, you will try imitating the expressions lost and forgotten. But the end of it all is that you dust the album and shove it right back towards that end of the almirah where yours eyes hardly reach.
Sometimes, I wish I was in a city as quaint as Raigarh or atleast Kolkata. But then, I know people think it is merely an excuse to hide your inability to write. Perhaps, I should atleast begin to admit it...
