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Updated: May 19

On an otherwise dull weekday, late one evening it rained, without a warning. It was a sticky, thick drop rain, that left muddy prints all over the patio. The rose bushes were flooded, the door mat lay soaked and the dog’s kennel was far from a pretty sight. When the sudden downpour ceased, I wondered if I should clear the patio of puddles left by the strange deluge. Instead, I intrinsically glanced a long admiring glance up into the skies. Thick charcoal clouds didn’t seem to be in a hurry to depart any time soon. Then why should I be in a hurry to clear the patio, I alleged! Impatiently I scurried inside to get a pen and a favorite blue diary. I gathered this seemed to be an ideal time to write. I looked around and seamlessly words flowed into what became a poem.


Out of my window I peered today,

The fog caught my eye on a cloudy day.

On the grass lay a lone drop of dew!

The wind blew cold making its way through.

Outside shivered an old pigeon,

She looked deserted from her legion.

I wished to send some warmth her way,

But didn’t open my window, fearing a storm set firm on its way.

A lone biker rode away,

A trail of music he left on his way.

Oh! What a foggy day!

A man rushed out to take in the laundry,

The clothes lay scattered all over his home’s boundary.

Leaves shook up trembling in cold,

And all the old man cared for was his noon snore!

The clouds grew darker just like coal,

Looked like some more rain was in store.

A hurried squirrel broke my gaze,

And I could no longer laze.

But a day like this comes rare,

Oh! let it be, can I continue my stare?

Long after I had revered the grey black clouds and hours after I had put the favorite diary aside, I wondered what was it that made me write. In fact, what was it that inspired writers to write at all? To pen swan songs to orchestrate the greatest literary works of all times!

Was it because they had a lot of knowledge that meant one should share it? Was it because they wanted to leave a legacy behind for generations to seek? Perhaps they wanted to make a living or maybe they craved a swelling fan base. Maybe there was a ready audience to enthrall or was it simply because one had much to say. The more I thought about this the more it became evident.

I wrote not because there’s so much, I wanted to say. I wrote because there’s so much, I couldn’t say!

My pen did the talking and I relished the written word. Soon it became a habit. To talk less and write more. This held me in good stead. Over the years on every occasion my face spoke less and my cards did all the talking. Long letters without sojourns, took over dialogues. Heartbreaks, aches and pains, birthdays to anniversaries, birth announcements to one passing- I found words that became my substitute!

Eventually would I want to trade this arrangement to civilized talking?

Would I want my facial expressions to convey my feelings in this age of image? Maybe I’ll let this pass. I’ll let words continue to talk, just making sure that I use the powerful tool to it’s potential. Now you know why writers write, isn’t it?


Rupal Mohta is a Company Secretary, author, artist and mother. She's passionate about writing. She’s keen on learning new skills; be it gardening or photography. She loves to spend time in her undisciplined garden. You can catch her clicking silly selfies with her kids on a free day!

She has penned two books for children titled INDIAN SIDE UP- A FASCINATING TALE FOR CHILDREN and JUST STORIES-SHORT STORIES FOR BOYS AND GIRLS FROM AROUND THE WORLD. Het books are available on Amazon.

You may know more about her work:

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