Inks and Reels

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...