“Why do you write?”

“Huh?” I ask, keeping my pen down and giving him my undivided attention.

“Why do you write?” he repeats, while sitting up on my bed with an eyebrow raised.

I push back my chair and contemplate over the answer to his question. I weave my hands together and place them on my lap.

“Well?” he questions, catching the ball that he’s been throwing up at the ceiling for the past ten minutes.

“Well, it’s an escape of sorts. It’s a way of making sure that the thoughts that go through my head don’t just stay there and get lost over time or get buried deep in a corner. I write to solidify them on a piece of paper in ink. I write to express. To feel, and maybe make others feel too. I also write so that the six-year-old me, the one that believes in magic and fairies and all good things, doesn’t hide in a corner and get lost. I do it for the girl who secretly hoped would get a Hogwarts letter, for the girl who gets excited when she sees angel numbers and makes a wish on every 11:11, for the girl who sees dragons and flying elephants in the clouds instead of just a visible mass of condensed water vapour floating in the atmosphere, for the one who feels most alive in the worlds that never were. It’s for all the girls who dream and don’t wish to stop anytime soon.”

I look towards him to see that he has his head propped up on his chin and is looking intently at me with a small smile on his face. He juts his chin out in a way to tell me to go on.

So, I do.

“When I write, I create worlds. Ones that are different from this one in various aspects. Ones that are imaginary. Worlds that live and thrive only in my head. Once I write them down in ink, I somehow breathe life into them. And then all of a sudden, they don’t seem imaginary anymore. They seem real. Even if it’s just for a while, but they do,” I finish.

“That answers your question, kiddo?” I ask.

“Yeah, it sure does,” he nods his head with a grin and hops off my bed, and then his grin falls. “And don’t call me kiddo,” he says with a very serious expression.

“Don’t call you kiddo? What else am I supposed to call you then? I mean, you are a kid.” I state.

“Am not. I’m 10. I doubt that comes under the category of kid,” he defends.

I put my palms up and shrug, “Sure, whatever you say, big guy.”

He smiles. He then starts to walk out the door of our bedroom but stops once he nears it and looks back. “Hey, Didi?” he calls.


“I hope you never stop dreaming and writing and creating worlds,” he confesses with a calm expression.

My heart feels warm and my face splits into a grin and so does his.

“I hope so too. Thanks, kiddo.” I express.

His grin falls. He stomps his foot, scrunches his nose at me and stomps out of our bedroom, “MOM! DAD! Tell Didi to stop calling me kiddo. I’m not a kiddo. I’m 10! My time on earth is no longer a single digit. That doesn’t come under the category of kid.” He complains and continues to explain to our parents why I shouldn’t call him kiddo anymore, but I can’t hear it over the sound of my loud, booming and heartfelt laughter.

Author: Asmi Pawar

Editor: Diya Chakraborty

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