As a child, I wove stories. I brought brilliant beasts to life, I molded beautiful young princesses and I made up a world with astounding creatures. I told stories, to my friends, to my parents but mostly to myself, of a world where everything went according to my thoughts. My mother read me stories every night, about a tower-trapped girl with long golden hair, about a beautiful girl cursed into eternal slumber, about houses made of chocolate and evil witches with wicked smirks. I grew up and read stories on my own, taking the dull words out of books and transforming them into magical worlds. I started picking out the mystical worlds out of my imagination and placing in neat little alphabets. I wanted to become a storyteller then, I wanted to create entire worlds, entire planets because in my dream world, anything was possible.

When I was a child, the little pond was a lake where ferocious pirates waged war, the sky was a brilliant blue canvas where the clouds formed magical shapes and the dull sad city was full of life and wonder. I walked around my old neighborhood a few days back, the house that I grew up had disappeared leaving only little traces of foundation, the small shop where I brought bubblegum had been replaced by a jewelry store, the big football field where we played as a child was replaced by a big shopping complex. Everything had changed, everything was bigger now, everything easier and the magic that I’d seen as a child had disappeared, lost somewhere in the fold of urbanization and I’d somehow lost my gift of imagination, I couldn’t see magic in anything anymore. Bhat-Bhateni was nothing but a place to shop, the restaurant beside it was nothing but a place to eat and the pond that had harbored epic battles between the pirates was nothing but a collection of dirty muddy water.
Everything is duller now, lacking luster, lacking magic. Everything had been created for a purpose and I don’t have the time to see anything other than the purpose. I’ve become less of a storyteller now, everything I write is more mechanic, more style oriented, more descriptions and more structured, no more scribbling grammatically incorrect adventures my protagonist went on. “You’re older now” people tell me, “you must grow up, think about more important things in life, like your future, like money”.

I think about it a lot, what’s the use of stories that aren’t even true? What’s the use of stories of places that don’t even exist? And of creatures that our zoo’s don’t display?
I can never come up with a good answer; I can never tell people why I write what I write. All I can say is it’s written more for me than for other people, I write more for myself because I want to recover that magic that I had as a child, I want to be able to see wonder in everything, I want to grab the dying rays of the light I had even though the source has already faded. I want magic in my life, I want the pond to be a lake and the stream to be a river. I want to see that which is lost.