They say that writers are eccentric people. I never really believed it till I started writing at the age of thirteen. Things ceased to be simple. And the voices inside my head grew louder. I couldn’t choose between things or decide soon enough. I was becoming a writer. Or maybe having a bad entry into teenage.

Now that my teen years are way behind me, I can safely say that it wasn’t teen-troubles. I have a girl inside my head. Writers and artists all over the world would give her different names – muse, inspiration, driving force, spark of creation and so on. But for me, it was always a feminine spirit inside my head talking to me about my characters, story lines, plots, titles and themes. I don’t have a name for her. But then again, I don’t think she really minds. She talks to me on silent nights – sometimes as loud shrieks and other times as silent whispers. She embodies love, kindness and everything romantic. She melts inside of me with girlish shyness when he sends me flowers on every possible occasion. She fills me with such silly happiness and I pour those lovey-dovey lines on paper that I feel mortified to read them out later. And when I see helpless, hopeless people around me, I can feel the girl inside my head crying and shedding tears. They flow from her eyes, through my hands into the white sheet in front of me. The ink in my blue fountain pen becomes my tears and I cry on behalf of her. And when people read through these tears of mine, they share the sorrow of the girl inside my head. I choose to be quite and try to calm her down but it rarely works.

Sometimes the girl inside my head has her temper tantrums. She grows so restless that it seeps from her into me and I get these bouts of restlessness where noting calms me – except maybe prayer. Injustice, Corruption, Exploitation and unfair treatment of people – all of these things have her going on non-ending tirades and I move my pen according to her whim and fancy. I help to let her frustration out and write fiery pieces about social reforms and positive changes. God knows, I do. And He knows that all those words remain just that. Words. No life, no meaning and sadly, no action taken on them. The girl inside my head goes into depression and doesn’t speak to me for days on end. Needless to say, I often have a terrible case of writer’s block when she does this. And after repeating this cycle innumerable times, she has learnt not to talk of these things. Nobody wants to know about the harsh reality. They just want entertaining stories. And I am included in the “they”. I fight with her and get her to talk to me. I fight to overcome the writer’s block. And eventually I win over her depression. I ask her to then tell me stories. Stories that she creates.

And boy, does she tell stories! She has a story for every occasion. And times when she doesn’t shut herself in her cave of depression, she tells such colourful, lovely stories that you feel you are living through them. She creates princes and paupers, magically weaves an empire to her liking and she reigns supreme there. She creates twists and turns in her world. She makes people to fall in love, she creates happy children and there is no sorrow in her land. And then she turns bitchy in my head. All the bitterness she has for this world, she spews it out through her stories. She creates ironic moments to reflect our lives – she breaks up happy lovers, she kills people and ends these stories abruptly. She, who used to feel sorry for the sad state of things around her begins to create them in her world too. In accordance to the universal law ” Like begets like”, she becomes so much like the world she clearly despises. But fortunately, she doesn’t stay that way.

The girl in my head looks for the good in this bad world. And fortunately, she finds it. She finds it in the eyes of newly-weds, in the song of a mother as she puts her child to sleep, in the kindness of a random stranger by the road, in the way a Christian priest donates money to a Muslim orphanage, in the innocence of a four-year old’s prayer for a sick puppy, she finds it in me when my words help to soothe someone in need. Correction. Not my words. Her words. Words that she put in my head and whispered in my ears.

She slowly believed in the good over evil and she works through me for it. She comforts me when I need it so that I can share the comfort. She continues to talk to me and I’m ever so grateful for it.

They say writers are eccentric people. Are we? I ask my reflection in the mirror. And I see her light brown eyes looking at me. “Maybe. Maybe, we are” , she whispers in my head. I smile back at the girl in my head