Words are profound. They have made and altered history, swayed minds, touched hearts. I remember vividly the effect words had on me as a child. Truly, I could travel a million miles without taking a single step. At times, this ability to get away to far away enchanting (and not-so-enchanting) places was exactly what a boy of my years needed. This love affair with books and writing has continued over the years. I consider words eternal – everyone should write. When we write, we release a part of ourselves into the universe – a part that will last forever. We all have a message within us (sometimes, many messages) – and it is really our duty to share that message with the rest of the world.  This blog is my attempt to do so. I write on issues near and dear to my heart. They may seem random, and at times infrequent, but I say what I have to say when I feel like I absolutely have to say it.

Here is a short passage (one of many, but certainly one of the most fundamental) that had a deep effect on me as a child. I cannot begin to explain how I identified with the character, shutting herself off from the world with her book. It is from C. Bronte’s Jane Eyre:

A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself

of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up

my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in

double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of

glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves

of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud;  near a

scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable



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