Tulika Verma

Writing happens to me,like love,like the weather.It makes me a million things more,it gives me an adrenaline rush,and at times it induces an enveloping calm.Sometimes,I write for myself,and sometimes,just to be read.I love words.Words that are soft and simple and still magnificent in their implication,and the way they are pronounced.I would not be me but for this congenital love for words and stories.I love everything simple,and everything old and classy.I love the scent of old yellow pages of books,and the scent of the earth satiated by rain.I love beautiful Rajasthani ornaments, Victorian buildings,old,heavy metal boxes that contain secrets,and stories,of lives long long ago.May be thats why I love all things old, the story part-stories that are hidden in a smile in a black and white picture,in the wrinkles at the back of hands,in the silver of the hair,in large dusty,sound-echoing rooms, in the widespread roots of age-old trees that still stand with enviable dignity;which reminds me,I love trees,and flowers,and mountains, valleys,rivers,deserts,and oceans. They overwhelm me,they whisper to me in the language of the universe,and they love me too,I think.I love having leisure,like now,to sit and write about all things I love,or to stop and smile at a child,to click pictures,to hold an old man's hand and listen to his stories,to stare at the star studdded night sky.I laugh, pray and cry a lot.I love to narrate if you'll listen.