A story is only as good as the storyteller.



Of Endings.

I believe gradual ends are better than the ones that happen all of a sudden. Some people believe that it’s better if the pain is excruciating but only lasts a moment. Me? I’d rather it lasted a lifetime, an instrument not for torture but for sorrow, a dull heartache that never seems to end. Because I believe that this pain lets you know that you are alive, that there was something worth losing, something worth mulling over for hours at an end. It’s easier to forget such pain and for a moment you are happy. The other kind -the one that comes from something being snatched away is the one that you should be afraid of, for it comes back in snippets, a ghost of that which once was – that which you can never forget. But it’s okay. Because after a while the day comes when neither of the two matter, a day when you are invincible. It’s only a day and maybe you won’t even remember it, but it’s enough to know that such days will always be there – the ones where nothing really matters and you don’t care.



I believe isolation is key to creativity. Because the way your mind works when you’re all alone, standing on the edge of society….your mind would never work that way if you were surrounded by people.

The First Copy

So I received the first copy of Mudmen in the mail today, and I have to tell you, it’s the best feeling in the world.

Grab your copy here of the book here –



The Haze

A haze of forgetfulness seemed to have settled over the world, pervading lives that had earlier been untouched. People forgot their names and names ceased to have any meaning. And once that came to pass, there was very little left to hold the fabric of the world together. And happiness was gone, just like that, a candle snuffed out by a wayward wind. And the flimsy winds of change too failed to bring about change in this constant buzz of the memories, the dead and the dying, the lived and the universe. Imagination became just another imagined word.

Book Review – Mudmen by Shitij Sharma

A Review of Mudmen by Eric Lahti

Eric Lahti

Mudmen: The Quest for Humanity is one of the more unique books I’ve read. It starts with a question I think everyone has asked themselves at some point or another point in their lives: could I do a better job than God?

Don’t worry, the jury is still out on that one.

I think at some point in their development, every writer goes through a deeply philosophical phase. Most books don’t go too deep into philosophical territory for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is takes a steady hand to make such huge things small enough for most people to wrap their heads around.

Mudmen follows the events that take place after the world comes to an end and the whole of humanity is reduced to ashes. One person winds up with the ability to rewrite reality and sets out to do exactly that. Unfortunately for him…

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The unforgiven

Chapter  1 – The meeting

I first met her at my mother’s fortieth birthday.It seemed as if she had got it all wrong. She was still hugging me and my shirt was damp from her tears. She stepped back to look at me. She was now laughing and crying at the same time. “Abdullah”, she shouted , ”I found him, I found my little boy.” A refined looking old man who had been in conversation with his peers broke apart from them and rushed over to us. “I’m so sorry”, he said. He held the gently but firmly by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. “It’s not him”, he said. “What?”, she stammered. “It’s not him”, he repeated. She looked at me more closely, realization dawning on her face .the light went out of her eyes. “I’m sorry”, she said , “it’s just that you look  so much like him” , and then she collapsed.

I caught her before she hit the ground. I looked up at the old man. I had been speechless all this while. “I am sorry, I have no idea what she was talking about”, I said. He brought up his grief stricken eyes to meet mine. He asked if I could help him carry her to the car which was parked nearby. Together we lifted her out to the car.We put her in the back seat. He told me that he recognized me and was a good friend of my mother’s. He gave me an  address and asked me to meet him there for dinner and with that he got into the passenger seat. They drove off.

Chapter 2 – The letter

I arrived at his place a little after six. His house was huge, a haveli situated on the outskirts of Delhi.A servant opened the gate and led me inside. My host was there waiting for me but the woman who had hugged me was nowhere to be seen.

He introduced himself as Dr. Abdullah Zaffar . Over dinner he told me his story. The woman i came to know , was his wife Dr. Riya Zaffar. They had a son , he told me, his name was Suhail . Suhail had always been quiet as a kid. They had sent him to a boarding school in Nanital . He had been studious and sincere. He never complained. A few months after his nineteenth birthday, he left home. In a letter he told them that he was going off to fight for Islam.

It came as a shock to his parents. They had never been very religious. They both attributed more to Science than God the workings of the world. His father kept the news a secret from the world and told all their friends that they had sent him to study abroad. It had been five years since he left.

Mr .Zaffar suddenly became silent. He poured himself  another glass of whisky. My wife’s resting upstairs just in case you’re wondering”, he said. I did not reply. “ I received a letter from him a few months ago”, his voice was barely a whisper. “He said that Allah was nowhere to be found, only talks of him and acts that would repulse the only one true god, acts that he had been a part of”, he looked directly at me, “My wife does not know any of this. I burnt the letter but kept this”. He took out a photo from his pocket.

“I want you to burn it because I cannot.”

He slid the photo across the table to me. In the photo there was a skinny young man in uniform. He was standing on a chair and there was a noose around his neck hanging from a fan in the ceiling. I turned the photo upside down. On the back he had scribbled,

‘The forgiveness which I will never find in your hearts I go to seek in heaven’.

The Search

How are you today? What have you been up to? How long did it take you to answer these questions? I mean how long did it take you to give an honest answer and not the usual drivel that questions like these usually call for.

But of course the second of the two questions does not really entail much so lets take it out of the equation. Why did I ask you that question in the first place? Hmmm…..let’s think. Because it seemed like the obvious follow up to the previous question. Hmph..well small talk does make up for a huge chunk of everyday conversations.

All right…let’s get back to the real question. How are you today? How do you feel? Are you happy or sad? Maybe you don’t know how you feel, after all it’s all just chemicals anyway.The elusive quest for happiness, for your mental well being but then again mental health does not really have anything to do with happiness. I mean a crazy person can be happy can’t he. How would you know? You’re not crazy. You’re sensible. You fit in with the norms of society so why would people not love you. You are just like them. You must be so happy among these people who are just like you, upstanding citizens of a civilised society. People who are always looking for those cues so that they can smile or they can cry or feel whatever outside stimulus allows them to feel instead of just breathing and letting go, instead of exploring your own mind because everything that’s in there is a product of what is out there.

But how can you make sense of what is out there and your place among it all unless you look inside or look in the mirror and understand what you are? You are a building block of society but that does not mean that you cannot change your shape. That block does not have to be square, it can be a circle or a straight line or it can be ragged around the edges. Would it really matter as long as it supports the weight of the rest of the structure? You don’t have to carry the weight on your shoulders, you can place it on your palm or balance it on a fingertip. What is that burden after all, the one that society places on you? It’s intangible. It’s not really a burden at all. Gazes can be shrugged off, words can answered, fists met with fists and in all of it lies the seed of anarchy. But isn’t present society the very example of anarchy, leaders without a purpose, laws without basis and in the middle of it all you, still searching for happiness in a world where misery and confusion has made its home in every heart, fear behind a facade of confidence. Because we know that it is fleeting. Society is fleeting and so is anarchy, happiness is fleeting and so is misery. The only thing that remains is the search, because the search can never end, it must go on. The search for happiness, for purpose, for it is the only thing that gives shape to our dreams and for a moment peace lives in the heart that is plagued by turmoil.



 (It would mean a lot to me if you took the time to read this particular article.)

It’s five in the morning right now; I’ve been awake since three. The thing is I have been thinking, worrying mostly. I would like to say that I’m worried about poverty or income inequality or world hunger or even terrorism, but I’m not, I have matters closer to home that need my urgent attention. I’m worried about my future. It’s not like I don’t worry about the other stuff but the other stuff doesn’t break me, it doesn’t cripple my desire to live my life the way it’s supposed to be lived. It doesn’t stop me from being the person I wish to become; it drives me to want to be more.

You see I’ve been alive for nineteen years now and I like to think I see things different from most people. I’m not saying that I’m smarter than anyone else or that I even know how the world works. I’m not making any grand claims of some innate knowledge that is forbidden to others. Heck I’ve always been an average student who sucks at math more notably than other subjects. What I am trying to say is that I try to think about the stuff that I see other people ignoring. The bottom line is I like to think, you can call it daydreaming or whatever else that suits your perception of me developed through your assessment of the way I write.

I enjoy blogging because it provides me with a platform where I can convert my thoughts to something useful rather than remaining idle thoughts. It provides me with an opportunity to transform my dreams into works of fiction which I think other people enjoy reading. It gives me joy to think that there’s someone halfway across the world, a stranger, who smiles at a joke I made or who cries because of something inexplicable in my writing that may have touched something inside him or her that made that person feel something or help him identify a feeling he/she hadn’t realized was there to be felt. That’s all I wish to do. I want to make people feel; to share in what were once idle thoughts running through my head. That is what blogging is to me. That is what writing is to me. And that is the work that I wish to do. I wish to be free to think and to write. I may be young but I like to think I am wise. I may be careless but I like to think that’s its simply because the things that mean so much to you mean nothing to me, but for you I’ll try.

But reality has to intervene at some point. I can’t keep on blogging simply because I wish to. It’s not a hobby for me and as yet I don’t think that I have approached it as a professional. But I’d like to keep on going, simply because I enjoy doing so. There are tens of thousands of others like me that use platforms such as Word press to share their thoughts with the world and I have to say that it’s a thriving community. The blogosphere is full of talented people who spend years honing their craft and yet true success is a rare thing. There are many people who blog just for themselves. I am not one of those people and at the same time I am one of them. I blog so that other people know what it is that I would never have been able to convey in front of a microphone but can easily do so on a sheet of digital paper, something which I believe is worth sharing, something beautiful and useful and a product of my mind.

I want you ‘dear reader’ to share this article with the world. I want you to help me continue what I am doing because you have the power to do so simply by clicking a button. I want you to share my thoughts with that stranger halfway across the world. You’ve seen me come this far, for you I’d like to go farther, because it is for you that I write and you that I thank for allowing me to come this far.

Yours faithfully,


(Please share this article, I want the world to know the value of our words)

PS – I wrote this article a year ago and since then a lot has changed. I published my first novel this year and am on the brink of finishing the second one. I’m thankful to all the people who encouraged me and made this possible.

Here’s a link to the book in case you would like to take a look

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