Welcome to Homebody Stories! A newsletter offering reflections from an ex-productivity enthucutlet trying to live a more meaningful life, one step at a time.
Picture this: I'm 12 years old. My sixth-grade English homework looms before me. The task? Create a story inspired by a single image. I've a dozen ideas, but nothing seems good enough. Enter my mother, my saving grace. With a knowing smile, she suggests we take our brainstorming session to the park. My mother doesn't write the story for me - instead, she becomes a sounding board, a gentle guide, helping me find the missing pieces. On the way back home, I can't wait to finish writing the story. There's such urgency to put the words onto the paper. Days later, my English teacher returns the assignment. There, in bold red ink, is the word 'Excellent!' accompanied by a top score. I get a pat on the back for my creativity.
This moment, seemingly small, plants a seed. This is when my love for words and creative thinking sprouts.
On my 14th birthday, one of the gifts I receive is a diary. But not just any diary - this one comes armed with a lock and a tiny golden key, as if to say, "I dare you to fill me with secrets."
Oh, and it's pink (!)
This is the time when I first start journaling. The musings of a 14-year-old. Best friend dramas. Crush on SRK. Favourite teachers. Fights with parents. Fights with brother. Period problems. Now that I think about the entries, I can't help but cringe. But, there's also this thing - within its pages, I was unfiltered, unafraid, and unapologetically me.
My writing was further fuelled by all that I was reading at that time. And it was mostly Enid Blyton and lots of comics. In my diary, I would write about finding my own band of four friends and the adventures I would embark on with them.
Come Sunday, my mother would take me and my brother to Crossword - it was a ritual. There was only one Crossword store in my hometown back then. Once there, my mother would ask us to pick whichever book piqued our interest, unleashing us into a world of endless possibilities bound in paper and ink. Those Sunday afternoons were portals to other worlds, other lives. When we outgrew this tradition, my mother got me a library membership. This little sanctuary of books, run by a father-son duo, was just a stone's throw from my home. It became my new weekend haven. Oh wait! Am I digressing? My love affair with reading is a story unto itself. And it surely deserves its own essay considering it's a journey spanning the spectrum - from Chetan Bhagat and Durjoy Datta to Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath.
You see - I'm in my early 30s now. About two decades have passed. Life has thrown its fair share of plot twists - careers, relationships, adventures, and setbacks. But through it all, one constant remains: my refuge in words.
I wrote after my first heartbreak. I wrote when my father moved to Hong Kong. I wrote after ugly arguments with my mother. I wrote when I got into journalism school. I wrote when my grandmother died and the sadness wouldn't leave me. I wrote when I was solo travelling. I wrote about broken friendships. I wrote after seeing the most beautiful sunrise. I wrote when I found love. I wrote after my extreme burnout episodes. I wrote as my husband and I stood in the waiting area while our younger cat, Idli, underwent surgery.
In laughter and in tears, in triumph and in doubt, my pen has been my anchor. It's not just a habit - it's the very pulse of my existence, beating steadily beneath the chaos and calm of life.
These words - sometimes a whisper, sometimes a roar - have been my constant companions. They've witnessed my evolution, chronicled my growth, and held space for every version of me.
As Joan Didion once said:
"I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear."
This piece sprouted from a speedwriting prompt at the
workshop facilitated by & Thank you for inspiring me!
Awesome!
Absolutely loved it <3