“The lovers who lose their beloved become the best writers,” Aasha had read somewhere, and somehow that first break-up did wonders for her. Thus sprouted her creative journey—every time she stumbled, fell down or was bruised—she found material for her writing endeavor. Whether writing in prose or verse—she gave free reign to the tales of her aching heart.

 “Either a lunatic, a lover or an artist can create things” her English teacher in college used to say and recapitulating it, Asha remarked, “for certain I am the first two, but about the third one, well I don’t know yet.”

“If you want to write about something, start with something you know” and that was the very thing Jane had done in Little Women—one of Aasha’s favorite books. After she had sat before her hand-me-down Acer, courtesy of her brother, she had a sample draft ready to show her editor. She read it loud for the third time that night to herself.

I cannot remember when and how I fell for him. But I still remember his first day in  school. Even though he had moved to a new school, he was not intimidated by other boys—the bullies because he fought back. The scene was actedout at the school ground. It must have been then when I first noticed him- the new boy while my friend and I were playing during the recess. Cupid was assigned for the job and we were to fall for one-another. It can’t be love at first sight though. We were too small to know what love meant then. But he was the boy who I secretly wished for to win the arm wrestling every time he and the other boys had a bet; he was the one who I smiled at every time I passed by , who I sent all those Archie’s cards to before the holidays, and who I prayed would be taking the same school bus every day till the day when his father bought a car. After that I loathed the journey to andfrom school. It was pure and unspoiled love. A love, whichI took years to confess and confine in. He was the one who made me feel loved, and he was also the one who gave me my first heartache. I think of him even today but surely, I think of him more as a part of my past- the chubby, wilful, handsome boy I first gave my childhood heart to. When together we would either be feeling shy or feeling our first love. There was no holding hands, no kisses- we were too innocent to do all that.

Next morning when she showed her piece of writing to her editor, he grinned and in between his boisterous laughter said “Miss Aasha I thought I’d see some mature matters dealt in your story. Your story sounds like a 50s black and white movie where nothing much happens. Give me something else. There should be drama, hope…there is no hook to your story. Why would someone read your story? You should always interest the readers.”

Disheartened and weather-beaten, she said to herself, “may be writing is not my forte”. She felt her career shattered, and she gave out a sad laugh at her idiocy to have even thought of making a career in writing. “Star writer! Was I dreaming when I thought I could make it? I suck! I know I do. May be I am born to be a receptionist; no offense to that profession.” She was apologizing as if she was talking to an audience.

“God! What am I to write about if not on love and relationship? How about politics? These days politics sells best and everyone writes on the same topic as if they know best. Or I could write on science fiction—the female version of H.G.Wells or may be I could try my hands on Women issues, every one sings the song of feminism lately--even the Men as if they are ready to exorcise the male chauvinism engraved in them. Or else, I could present myself as a learned writer and write on Globalization.” Desperate enough to impress the editor, Aasha contemplated on the millions of subjects suitable enough to write on to give a good start to her future as a writer. She had just one night to come up with a ‘good story’.