Why do I write?

Awareness of audience and purpose is one of the first things I teach my students when I teach them to write different forms.

And I sit here, this sunny Monday morning wondering why I write. I realise that having the time to write is a luxury with so many things waiting to be done. It is a Monday long weekend, Civic Holiday so I do not have to rush off to my summer course.

All I want to do these days is sit and write these days but there is just no time. There are classes to attend, buses to catch, groceries to buy, lunches and dinners to cook, homework to complete and dreams to dream. I am also preparing to watch my first born go off to a city 5 hours away for her first year of university: a milestone.

I am fast approaching the age that Amma was when Pappa died and am five years younger than what Pappa was when he passed. I am extremely mindful of the wonderful opportunities that I have to get fit, stay well and also to stand up for what I need, opportunities that were never available to either of them.

I guess therefore the responsibility to make this life worth something by paying it forward and also to commemorate the memories of our parents is immensely valuable for me. After all, Pappa is the one who encouraged me to write from as early as grade 5 and Amma taught me to read, long ago in Panaji, Goa. The siblings weren't even born then, there was just them and me. Now from that long ago trio, I remain. With my memories that I cannot share with anyone as they have no context of a time before they existed.

When I write, I write for them too. I write to share my memories with my siblings, my children and their children. I write to invite my students to understand who I am and I write to tell the world that I am here. I was here.

So writing then is a quest for immortality, especially in this day and age when everything I write leaves a footprint that will outlive me.

Scary and comforting, the paradox of being remembered, even if it is in the past tense.