Hi, I am Namrata!
I often stand by what Joseph Conrad explored in ‘The Heart of Darkness’ — that for all the adventures I undertake, there’s almost always a parallel journey into self. And for me, writing is a way to organise all those unstructured expeditions and make sense out of them like scientific experiments. Most of the time, they fail. But often, they lead me to uncover some deeper truths of life that I didn’t know I was looking for.
Throughout my life, I’ve only tried to live deliberately. And I’ve mostly failed. But I have to say – all those rare times I did, there was a quiet realisation why it matters.
Take, for instance, that one rainy afternoon when I was in Landour – the small hill town in Uttarakhand that Ruskin Bond once called home. I had no map, not a single soul with me, no list of places to tick off. Just a pair of shoes, a foggy sky, a gloomy mood, and a mind brimming with quiet questions. I walked almost 10 kilometres that day, without knowing where I was going. I passed couples huddled under umbrellas, loud tourist groups playing annoying music, people in a hurry to capture moments. But I wasn’t in a hurry. I just walked deliberately. Taking every step, observing the unknown flowers, walking by the horse grazing shelter in the churchyard, and noticing the tiny raindrops that found a home in the folds of the leaves. That day, I walked myself back into myself.
The next day, I took the road less travelled near Mussoorie and ended up in a monastery tucked in solitude, overlooking the hills. It was there that something inside me stirred. Not a plan, not a dream, but something far simpler: presence. I didn’t need to become someone else to belong. I just had to be.
Twice, I walked the remote mountain town of Kalpa: once through its sleepy apple orchards, and once in the rain when everything was shut. I had no company but the mist and the echo of my own thoughts. I did not come back with any souvenirs or with perfect pictures. In fact, I came back with nothing tangible, but with a desire to live deliberately. To pay attention. To slow down.
In most places I’ve visited, I never sought divinity. I sought solitude. And I always found it in the quiet corners, in the way the wind rustled the prayer flags, in the stillness of butter lamps, and in the echo of my own breath.
I’ve had moments like this in the Arctic Circle, walking by the Barents Sea, where waves would suddenly turn to ice and slap my face like a reminder. To live. To not have any fixed form. It was almost like the ocean was yelling to my ears that I can become whoever I need to be.
I’ve hiked by some unnamed waterfalls in the Himalayas that made me feel small in the most comforting way. I’ve stood on a beach in Lakshadweep, feeling like the sea could swallow me whole, and I’d be okay with it.
At other times, I’ve had that feeling in places close to home. Roaming the streets of Kolkata as a college-goer, skipping classes to breathe in the smell of old pages in the musty college library. I wouldn’t read the lot, but I’d have a fetish – for old, woody, weathered book covers. Or in Delhi, where I’ve been curating stories on every street corner for a decade. I love observing people and situations quietly, mentally collecting metaphors and moods to write about later. Even during crowded metro rides, I’d find characters.
As a teenager, I was obsessed with bloggers who wrote about their lives in raw, imperfect honesty. I’d spend hours on the terrace of my home, reading them and dreaming of writing like that. I even published poetry under the pen name Avis Moon. Most of my poetry was about longing, loneliness, love, and imaginary escape. Some of it still lives in the corners of the internet.
#Articles By Author
