Inks and Reels

  I never dreamed of becoming a teacher. It wasn’t my passion, not even my Plan B. In fact, I always believed that the education field wasn’t meant for me. But life, as always, has a peculiar way of rewriting our scripts, and here I am, standing in front of a classroom, discovering new sides of myself every day. People often say teaching is a divine calling. I used to disagree. Until I found my own metaphor for it. Teaching feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. From this height, we are aware of the dangers, uncertainties, and responsibilities lying ahead. When we raise our voices, in excitement, frustration, or hope, our words echo, amplified by the wisdom and warnings of the teachers who came before us. Their voices remind us of the pitfalls we must avoid. And when we laugh or celebrate a child’s small triumph, we hear echoes of pride, the pride of all those who once lit the same torch and passed it on. Just like a cliff, this profession has a dual power. It can awaken a sen...

Some days just begin slowly or rather, they barely begin at all. I wake up late, already feeling like half the day has slipped through my fingers. I tell myself, “I’ll start soon,” but soon takes its sweet time arriving. I do nothing much. I scroll through my phone, switch between apps, watch random videos, and then realize an hour has disappeared, maybe two. I think of all the things I should be doing, but I don’t feel like doing any of them. Cooking? Not today. Cleaning? Maybe tomorrow. My energy decides to go on vacation without informing me. Somewhere in between my naps and procrastination, a tiny voice inside whispers that I should be productive : that I’m wasting time. I listen to it for a moment, feel guilty, and then remind myself that e ven motivation needs a break sometimes. Lazy days make me restless at first. I feel like I’m stuck in slow motion while the world rushes ahead. But deep down, I know these days are normal ,even necessary. They’re little pauses that remind me I’...

Writing has always been considered a natural act of expression. For some, it is a profession; for others, a way of making sense of the world. Yet, no matter how experienced or passionate we are about it, writing does not always come easily. There are moments when the words arrive like an unstoppable tide, filling the page with clarity and rhythm. And there are moments when nothing comes at all,when the page remains blank and the mind feels strangely heavy. This is what we know as writer’s block. Almost every writer has faced it at some point. It can happen to a beginner attempting their first short story or to a seasoned author working on their tenth novel. The experience is universal, yet it always feels personal. To the one who faces it, writer’s block is not just a creative pause—it is a deeply frustrating silence, an inner resistance that makes writing seem impossible. In this blog, I want to reflect on what writer’s block really is, why it happens, and how we can approach it with ...

Your growth is real even if it doesn’t look like what you see online. Don’t compare your journey to somebody else’s - you don’t know where they started, which resources they had, how long they’ve been doing it, how many times they failed, etc. So, keep going!!! In your own way♥️

I chose literature as my degree, masters, and for profession. People often ask me what is the use of literature, when I read people ask why you are wasting time. When I write, people ask me who is going to read this crap? When I analyse a film, people ask why this is important? We need to know we are not alone.  - William Nicholson Before I learned to write my name, I learned how to feel through stories. The bedtime tales my father told were not just distractions - they were windows into worlds I hadn't seen, but somehow knew. Even now, long after I have grown up and moved through different cities, roles, and realities, literature continues to be the one constant that listens, speaks and says. In a world that moves fast, where screens flicker endlessly and news changes by the minute, it's tempting to ask: Is literature still relevant? The answer is: more than ever. Literature is not just about reading novels, poetry or even watching a movie. It is the a...

The room was dark and silent. It barely looked like two people were living in it. There were no windows to open—not because they chose to keep them closed, but because none existed. The air conditioning was faulty, yet somehow they could still breathe. It was a jail. The rich preferred to call it a prison, but inside those concrete walls, wealth and status didn’t matter. Everyone there had been punished for something they did. In this room lived two thieves. One was Emerald—tall, dark, and strong. His silence made him intimidating, and his chiselled build betrayed a lifetime of hardship. He rarely spoke, but when he did, he often stared into the emerald ring he wore—perhaps as a reminder of his crime. He had stolen a priceless emerald from a museum, only to be caught soon after. The other was Harry, who had a gentler face. He was tall and handsome, with lips that were unnaturally red and light brown eyes that glinted even in the dim light. His crime was poetic in its own way—he had sto...