Sometimes I even thought of turning into a writer and publishing a work that would justify the appetite of the readers ranging from the old memorial parks to the young trees. But then what to write, classic or contemporary? How can I write classic if it’s not contemporary?

I was weighing my options. I knew after my experiences of dropping a line here and there for various plays, that there was a marked difference between authors and other lesser souls. In this world of blind men a writer was the one-eyed guy doomed to observe and register the dirt and the realities. The rest had the privilege to form an opinion and ridicule things too alien for their grey cells to understand.

Irony being that every artist needs an audience and so does a writer. But then wasn’t I too old now to dive into this unknown sea of writing. My marksmanship was now limited to IT or so I concluded. This was my life sentence.