I woke up around 4 a.m. today, finished the first task on my to-do list, and then took a bath. I was still working when my mother came and told me to eat something. I refused, saying I’d eat later. She reminded me that I shouldn’t have spoken so rudely last night. I stayed silent. When she realized I wasn’t going to reply, she left, telling me not to disrespect elders. Her words kept circling in my mind.
Her words stayed with me. The thought twisted in my mind. Respect isn’t an automatic right given with age; it’s something you earn by first knowing how to respect others. Just because someone is older, does it automatically mean they deserve respect?

The echoes of last night’s fight replayed like a broken recording. The voice, the taunts, the weight of it all. I tried to sleep but failed. Instead, a new thought arrived. I don’t want to be just another student with average marks. I don’t want to be just anyone’s obedient daughter. I don’t want to be just anyone’s wife. I don’t want to be just anyone else…. I want to create an individual identity.

To make my name. To do something where my name becomes my designation. Where just my name is sufficient. Where every identity labeled by society fades in front of mine. But can we really escape where we are from? Can something be done or achieved that stands apart from our background, class, religion, caste or place? Something that is above all collective identities? When someone says your name, people focus on what you actually do. Can such an individual identity be created? An identity that no one shares with you. Something which only you are known for.

Sometime later, I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, it was already evening. I marked dates on my calendar—the days I plan to self-publish my books on KDP. Bade Bhaiya’s poem was still lingering in my mind. Then, in a sudden moment, something clicked. I opened my drawer, searched, and found it—my first diary. The one from my school days.

It was worn out, with pages torn and ink spread unevenly, but the smell of it was pure nostalgia. As I flipped through the pages, I was dragged back into my childhood. The poems were silly, even hilarious, but behind them was the memory of a teacher who changed everything for me. She was like a mother to us at school. She always encouraged me, always praised me, even when my writing made little or no sense. She once told me, “Never leave something you love. If writing makes you happy, don’t ever stop.” Maybe she never knew how deeply her words carved into me. Her words stayed with me, silently guiding me even now.

I laughed at my poems until my stomach hurt. They were so naïve, yet so honest. There I found the Ghost Poem. And I was surprised because I couldn’t tell if I had actually written it or just noted it down from somewhere. Back then, I was obsessed with horror shows and movies. Whenever I liked something, I used to note it in my diary. That’s why I wondered—was that poem mine, or was it borrowed?

The laughter didn’t stop. I stumbled upon my silly drawings, including an amoeba. Of all things, an amoeba 🦠. As if my childhood self had predicted I’d one day end up in biotechnology. Today, I don’t draw much, unless you count biological diagrams. Kidney, lungs, heart—that’s what “art” looks like now. Drawing ke naam par ab sirf kidney phephade banati hu. 🤣🤣

Then I saw my first attempt at a story—Flora World. Written in Hindi, was the word “LAB.” Maybe my younger self already knew that a lab would become a part of my everyday life 🙂.

Somewhere in those pages, I found what looked like an early, messy version of the Weekly Diary blog I write now. My handwriting was so bad that I laughed until my stomach ached again. My past self already had a strange sense of endings🤣🤣🤣🤣. The handwriting was awful, the words clumsy, but it was basically one of today’s blogs. And the funniest part—it was both the first and the last page. I remembered how I had stolen that diary from my father’s drawer. When he found out, he just laughed and told me I could keep it. That small diary carried entire worlds inside it 📔📚.

Reading it brought back memories I didn’t know I still carried. Childhood felt close, like I could reach out and touch it. Rabba, vo din bhi kya din the... But now I’m in my early twenties, standing in what people call early adulthood—the phase where your choices decide the next thirty or forty years. Maybe I was overthinking. Or maybe I wasn’t.

What stood out most was the contrast. Back then, writing was joy. Pure fun. Today, it feels like a chore. Deadlines, money, expectations—they have eaten the joy alive. But what if I wrote like I used to? Just for myself. No deadlines. No pressure. No “bestseller” label. Just words and me. Would it feel alive again?

I remembered a TED talk I once watched. The speaker said, “Focus on the process, and the outcome will follow.” It sounded wise. But what if you’re too tied to the outcome to even enjoy the process?

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First Diary

Poem Collection

Ghost Poem

Drawing

Flora World

First and last diary entry