So unfortunately I have been born in a family of writers. Now being a Bong, that’s not very strange. I mean every Bong has attempted poetry in life. The problem is that my family gets published, from magazines (that the Puja Committees bring out on the occasion of Durga Puja with a massive circulation of fifty copies) to having authored books. The bigger problem is that knowing my reading habits, I have been subjected to reading everything everyone has ever written, give or take a few.
So there I was, having my name in the papers a few times for ICSE and ISC, quizzes, debates, basically all the menial things in life but never having written. So even when the BITS Pilani and OASIS competitions helped me pay my Shikanji bills and I helped water a few Cactus Flowers I was actually never published outside Pilani. (Musings was the only saving grace. The family still had some hope left for me.)
And then IIMB happened. And Shilpa Kapur and Namrata Roy and the Media Cell. The family nodded in disapproval but accepted the black sheep. At least, I was being quoted and was seen speaking on TV. Not everyone can write. I was redeemed.
But not for long. As I came back from a nice sizzler at my favourite childhood haunt (affordable only when some cash was given as a prize at school fests) my mother showed me a newsletter. And there on page 4 on the bottom right corner was a poem, written by none other than my cousin of nine years. Et tu Jhelum!!!
So there I was, having my name in the papers a few times for ICSE and ISC, quizzes, debates, basically all the menial things in life but never having written. So even when the BITS Pilani and OASIS competitions helped me pay my Shikanji bills and I helped water a few Cactus Flowers I was actually never published outside Pilani. (Musings was the only saving grace. The family still had some hope left for me.)
And then IIMB happened. And Shilpa Kapur and Namrata Roy and the Media Cell. The family nodded in disapproval but accepted the black sheep. At least, I was being quoted and was seen speaking on TV. Not everyone can write. I was redeemed.
But not for long. As I came back from a nice sizzler at my favourite childhood haunt (affordable only when some cash was given as a prize at school fests) my mother showed me a newsletter. And there on page 4 on the bottom right corner was a poem, written by none other than my cousin of nine years. Et tu Jhelum!!!
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