Yes, I am a writer. But that isn’t it, really. The usual terms (thinker, philosopher, artist, craftsman, poet, etc.) are not enough. So, I tried to create a  new term for what I do. But I am not sure that any one word is enough.

I am a teller, a speaker, a reed,  a seed, a fountain, a mountain, a river and a moonbeam. I write to breathe, to eat, to think, to believe, to learn, to make my heart beat, to make my ears sensitive and my soul transparent. Writing is more than what I do. It is even more than who I am. Someone has written me into the palimpsest of the universe.

Separating language from language and word from word is easy enough. But does anyone know how to separate the ink from the word, the word from the meaning, and the meaning from life? I seek neither separation nor unity, neither travel nor stillness. I seek simply to understand what I am, where I am, and how the flow of the ink that is Life, that is Spirit, is changed because of me, because of you, because of it, because of them.

I write to the universe, to God, to that which is and which is not and that which is forever and which will never be. And this is my little speech: I am you. You are me. I will die. You will die. And yet, you will be forever a part of me. And I will forever be a part of you. And so, I stand up and say, quietly, but inevitably — I am Nandan. And I am here.


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