If you're reading this, I am assuming you have read through the entire story. I hope it made you a little nostalgic, a little sad, a little enlightened, and filled your heart with a sense of content. So a huge thanks to you and all the people who spared time to read my story. There is a time when every artist must face the music when the curtains are drawn and the show ends, things aren't in their control anymore. The only thing left is the symphony of reality.

This is my first novel on a public platform as a writer. So, let me tell you some stories behind the story...... because the show must go on.....

My introduction to Naxalism :

Naxalism in the 1970s is one of the better-known realities of Kolkata, that spawned numerous urban fantasies. Right up there with the cringe of Al Capone drowning his victims, the sexiness of a Russian spy choking her mark to death, the joke of Mary Antoinette screaming to distribute cake, the legends of Chinese warriors fighting on the Great Wall or 300 Spartans challenging 5 lakh Persians. It was all there, a forgotten era of numerous stories and people.

As it so happens, poets and writers wrote too much of the Naxal craze within Kolkata, the capital of West Bengal, almost making it their own. Naxalite poetry was coded by revolution, blood, death, injustice, violence, weapons, even the sickle in the emblem. But to date, I had yet to encounter a single remarkable poem about the village itself. This was odd given how rare it was to find a Bengali poet who had not written at least one good poem about a generic village.

The village where it all started is not mentioned even once, not even as a hint to memory. I heard about it the first time from a classmate in 7th grade when he showed me a copy of Jhumpa Lahiri's book 'The Lowland'. Not that I knew the happenings in Kolkata either. Funnily enough, my mother is a native of Naxalbari. I've gone there since my childhood many many times. I loved my uncles and even the railway track in front of my maternal house. But never even once heard of this great concept and the stories that come with it. My friend mocked me as he told me the little he knew of Naxalism.

Just for clarification, this was just my reminiscence, acknowledging how I learned an important part of my state's history and has nothing to do with my political opinions. Which when I've them, I mostly keep to myself.

Me and my words :

Writing is an attempt by me to express myself successfully. There was a time when anything and everything I said was meaningful, just had to put that non-existent depth in my voice.

Over time, the cuteness ran out and I realised, I've grown very differently from other people around me. I had a lot to say, but you must've people to say it to, and I failed miserably to gather an audience. Because I only had things to say and none to listen to. Self-help books were no help at all, turns out my dilemma was a very small problem. Everyone has friends.

So I started to listen, most obscure things they were. The public bus passengers (most intense scenes in this story came from there), the jokes I didn't understand, and most importantly to the people who were always angry with me for some reason or the other.

Then, I discovered that most things you want to say already lie out there. I didn't grow differently, I had just grown apart. People hear a lot of truths every day and they seldom free them. What they want is being lied to, lies that are spun wonderfully to arrive at a much greater truth.

Thus began writing. It started with drawing inspiration (nearly plagiarising) from the various stories, I've read over the years. To date, I have written thirty (30) incomplete novels, two complete novels, one short story. There are also many many poetries written by me for actresses and models on Instagram, that's a whole different level of dedication.

This Story :

It has been a year since the construct came to me. The association of a rebellion with a storm. People making up with a problem over years, and one day the vapour rises to set off a storm. Then the question comes of comprising as a society for good people to survive. Hoping that they can do a better job than us.

I've read stories on Wattpad for a long time from chrome and thus thought of putting one out there. Maybe my, incredibly rehearsed, revised, and exhaustively typed, lies will sound good to you. And you may let me know how you like it (vote and comment, like a lot! As I said I'll listen)

Dear Readers,

Thank you once more for reading my story.