Why would I ever want to become an author?

I wish there were a simple answer to that question, one that would make sense to people given the yardsticks of success in today's world. In fact, the response is straightforward. I am passionate about writing and have been blessed with the opportunity to do so. However, my aspiration is not to become an author, rather, I aspire to become a writer, a storyteller, a weaver of tales, and unburden my heart from the stories that I have carried for a considerable amount of time, stories that are not solely my own, but also those of my people, tales that have been handed down to me as folklores.

I'm not sure when exactly I first saw the dream of becoming a writer become possible. I wasn't born to be one. After school ended, and having passed with a good percentage, I decided that I must study science. There was no alternative approach and I was unaware of anything better. I was unaware that, with a tiny decision, I would have to say goodbye to so many of my childhood inspirations that kept me happy during so many of my dreary childhood days. As I solved the problems of Newton, Boyle, and Kepler, solitary reapers, selfish giants, bazaars of Hyderabad would slowly fade into the deep recesses of my memories.

My love for literature, my desire to create some, remained like a lover I was forbidden from seeing. However, I often found ways to break the rules and engage in clandestine meetings with my lover. Occasionally, I would compose a poem, while at other times, I would spend arousing nights contemplating the potential plot of my debut novel, pondering over its narrative. But those sleepless ponderings crumbled in daylight as reality hit me with Schrodinger equations and the fluidity of Stokes.

However, I met my future spouse before I would venture into my PhD era, and that may have changed my entire life. I had other plans. I would have to become a professor, or just a homemaker helping out my spouse on his farm (which was the plan after I received my PhD), and keeping a neat home. Perhaps you are a teacher at a provincial school. It was still a distant dream to be able to write a full-length novel. However, one morning, the pandemic happened, and it changed the world. For better or for worse, it brought my illicit lover closer to me.

With no significant tasks to attend to and the burden of maintaining oneself occupied lest they should go mad with ennui, I was afforded the opportunity to detach myself from any thought related to science for a considerable period of time, and instead devote myself to composing my thoughts on my computer. For a week, words kept pouring out of my mind into the pages of the computer. The torrent of water poured like an avalanche that had been held captive for an extended period of time. All the stories I had buried away in my mind during those long sleepless nights and had forgotten about them, made their presence felt like a genie out of a lamp, unannounced and unexpected.

I could now see that it was all happening. I could see my lover taking shape from the dark abyss of my mind and adjusting to the bright glimmer of daylight it had long been deprived of.

Presently, I possess two lovers. One I nurture on my computer, and the other waters his plants every day, and I have never been happier.