So, let’s address this once and for all.

Why do I write?

Quite frankly, I’m forced. It’s a gun upon my head, a compulsion.

Have you heard of Vikram and Betal? An ancient tale, featuring a spirit named Betal and King Vikramaditya. The Kind is bound by his royal promise to transport the spirit back to his tree, and free the people of his kingdom from the fatal curse. But! But, but - you see, Betal has a interesting way of spending the time it takes till there.

As the resolute king huffs and puffs uphill towards the tree with Betal clinging onto his back, Betal recites morally riddled tales to him. At the end of every tale, there is a weighted, expectant pause - a question for the king. If King Vikram has an answer but stays silent, his head would burst open and it’s game over for everyone. But if he does speak, the spirit escapes back to the tree and poor Vikram has to go back and fetch him all over again, back to level 0.

So this is the perfectly crafted compulsion; the rules are clear, but the right thing to do, isn’t. A grand dilemma. My compulsion is pretty much comparable to this. I am born into this human world, and hence I am bound to observe. I observe and hence I mull over it for several weeks, and inevitably, I reach a conclusion. But you see, the conclusion is quite amusing! And now, with this knowledge, the compulsion begins. The urge to just catch somoene on the streets by the shoulder, shake them, and tell them about my findings, is very strong believe me. But I could be labelled a madwoman and quite possibly sent off to someplace with a one way ticket. So, I take the better option: put it out here, for the world to see. The best part is, the world will not see, and that works in my favor. I’ve put it out on the internet, and by rule, everyone is free to read it. A mind other than my own has atleast a greater than zero chance of consuming this content - and that’s just the only consolation that this little demon on my shoulder needs.

And that is why sometimes, unfortunately, it gets a little bit too cryptic (yes I’m self aware like that haha). You might interpret it in a hundered different ways, or worse, you might get entangled in the elaborate web of words that I’ve laid and not be able to make it safely to the other side at all, skipping the understanding part altogether.

A great risk. Why do I do it then? Now, I will ask you to be a little empathetic as I reveal my reason. It is because… well, I feel a embarassed. With truth, comes the rawness that’s often a part of my emotions, which leads to vulnerability. If I write it in plain english, I will be confessing something that doesn’t define me. I might be confessing to crimes I never committed, and betray perhaps the only one thing that I still trust - my heart. And that I keep locked up in layers upon layers of bare spiked metal fortified cages, wrapped in barbed wire and locked up in molten sealed locks. I want you to know, but I cannot tell you.

And so I write in riddles, in references, and in metaphors. Everything that you may not understand is a concrete reference that exists in history, in culture, immortalised by records in time. But its burried, and if you are astute (correction: patient) enough to catch any of those references - atleast the ones I place as the lower hanging fruits - I would be quite impressed. A wave of gratitude would wash over me. Because dear friend, you might have perhaps fulfilled the artist’s only ever desire - to be seen.

So for that, I thank you.

Thank you for you time. See you very soon (: