Twelve Rupees

Why do we write, asks every literature teacher at some point. Why does anybody write? And I would put my chin in a cupped hand and smile ever so slightly. As a wide eyed Chennai school girl, I wrote my little snippets and faltering poems. I wrote them to mend my past, to find my voice and to hear my heart.

Then college swept me away. And suddenly what I had to say was not good enough for me. The way I said it was not good enough for me. The single member audience that I was was not good enough for me. I was sure that nobody would give 12 rupees to hear the two cents of an unusual little woman in Chennai. The cynic replaced the romantic. The child hid behind inhibitions. And the question to answer now is why do I not write anymore?

There is no answer that is good enough. Fear is misplaced faith, my mother tells me. And my time is misplaced watching too many YouTube videos of Adam Levine. I mean, the guy’s engaged. I think I should take the hint. And sure, keeping a blog going would need the will power required to climb a mountain (or a small hill, in my case). But the cynic is willing to let the romantic try.

I live each day by the grace of a big God. I love clichés, coffee and movies that make me cry. I grew up with Harry Potter. Fairy lights make me happy. I am definitely an Anglophile. I want my wedding to include a flash mob. My name is Anukripa and this is my 12 rupees.