Flashback.

Spelling errors in one of my father's IAS friends' diary had me dreaming. At seven, I had corrected: ``it is conscience and not consense''. Father was very proud and showed me the proverbial sky: `You can do it!' I nurtured it till the time I was 16.
After XIIth, there was a furious debate between father and I. Must I take up Literature or Economics? Literature turned out to be the natural choice. I loved poetry, wrote a little and could speak the language fluently, apart from editing the school magazine.
Once the romance with Literature began, aristocracy became a monster. A scorn for paan-chewing politicos was all I could revive in me whenever prospects of babudom loomed. I often said: ``How can I ever follow a boss i can outsmart?''

Later, life taught me two major spellings: destiny and patience.

But the slateboard was different. I wanted to be paid for writing. A course in journalism seemed most lucrative. An anxious father kept sending letters exhorting me to come back from my journalism school but an adamant I kept at it.

The beginning was tough. Tears were the bedtime companions. I was home-sick, impulsive and incredibly silent. A stint in Bombay taught me to start living my struggles; I was painfully mute while they hung heavy on my dreams.

It's been five years since then and I continue to be fazed by my dreams. I can't see through still; the route to my happiness remains hazy.

It's not babudom, I know. It's certainly in the letters, I am sure. But how?

Long ago, when grandfather dreamt of me penning a research paper, I had just shrugged rebelliously at the thought. I guess I am such a fool. I like to waste myself so much.