I love writing passionately for the creative pleasure it brings. And no less passionately I love turning conscious of getting into the writing mode- it’s kind of witnessing the metamorphosis of my usual self into another self, the feel of which is just magical. Silence ringing even amidst din, solitude waxing even amidst bustle, vague sadness flaming into a brilliant melancholy, thinking leaping up into imagination, and the amorphous thoughts converging into a definite shape, sort of the colours scattered on the rainy horizon suddenly patterned into a rainbow!! How different is the man from the writer! How correct is T.S.Eliot when says that the man who suffers is different from the artist who creates!!