So it has been a while since I’ve been able to write. With all the running around this city has got me doing; along with fabulous sufi nights, long evenings with a bottle of Pinky and of course, my various attempts at being the Masterchef in my kitchen.

It’s been a great run, these past two months, something quite out of the ordinary. I’ve always thought of writing, but day after day, an excuse to procrastinate would come up and I would chase it thoroughly.

I dreamed of peacocks last night. They were flying around me, I was trying to click a picture of them. Even in my dreams they reminded me of Him. I was watching the Peacocks, two of them were babies and the big male peacock was dancing around them, not letting me close enough. I tried to, but his dance was only too mesmerizing for me. I waited, and watched, he continued dancing. I don’t know where exactly the dream went from there, but it was enough for me to wake up with that familiar feeling deep inside me.

It’s been two months now since I have been here in this new city. It’s been a great experience, and an even better distraction. But now, funny thing about memories, you can change your city more than a hundred times, travel the world and meet beautiful women, dance your past away, or sing under the bright moon for a stranger. But memories, they come back in the most unimaginable ways.

A late night conversation with a new friend, some songs with the perfect lyrics, or the way the stars shine outside your balcony reenacting a long, now forgotten cold January night. Memories come back, and that’s the one eventual truth.

So it’s almost been two months since I have stopped the memories, stopped the past, stopped the world almost. But now it’s time for the inevitable, it’s time to go back. A friend told me to stop writing for a while, read a book instead… watch some movies, meet new people, discover a city the way it should be. Run around the dusty roads with Google maps and broken gujrati, jump in and out of rickshaws in a dress that was a little short for the night. Eat. Eat to your hearts content. Find new places that have the perfect tiramisu, or the most serene coffee; find it, eat it. And that’s what I did, I clicked no pictures, unlike most of my passing days where every moment needed to be captured.

Here, now, I just watch. Watch and learn. For someone who used to love listening to the sound of her voice, I’ve started appreciating the words of others. Listening to their stories, searching in their eyes for something that would teach me more about them. I had decided to help someone, a stranger in whatever way I possibly could. And one hot afternoon, a stranger helped me in the kindest way possible. She shared her rickshaw with me, and spoke to me like a friend. Being the over-cautious me, I decided to take a chance, sober for a change, and found her company not only pleasant, but insightful.

My past asks me why I wish to be alone; the one girl who loved dressing up and dancing the night away – I was now sitting at home most Friday nights, watching movies and listening to new stories over coffee. Sometimes I listened to music, instead of dancing with the beats, I smiled to the lyrics. Many times I cried too, but these days, I’ve just been smiling.

Some people ask me why I write. With a powerful imagination like mine, I feel it safer knowing it’s in my hands, to rewrite my story, and give it the perfect ending a character like mine truly deserves.

A new city can do many things, it can literally make or break you. I decided. And that’s the best part about being a writer, I can rewrite. 


When 60 days could change your life.

” I want to walk in 2014 already knowing I started the work it takes to be who you really have always wanted to be… inside & out.” – hb

hannah brencher.

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Dear you,

I don’t ever write about these things. If you’ve been a reader, you know. Someone will surely think my blog has been hijacked but I am over here, waving my hands in the air, and yelling, “No! It’s really me! It’s Hannah! I promise!”

This post is in lieu of the one I won’t be writing on December 26th when the trees get hauled out and the lights get packed up and everyone begins plotting what they are going to change for the year ahead.

I’ve never been a New Year’s fan. I get the point of it. I even have a tradition where one of my best friends and I pick a new coffee shop every New Year’s morning– one that is bustling with the sounds of plates clanking and kids laughing over pancakes sopping in butter– and we write letters to the person we hope will…

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