Inspired by Sindhuja Sarasram's beautiful anthology, Everybody's A Stranger in which a dear friend is a contributor
It was 2007. Second year of college. I spent every day making the most of my new found freedom. Internet was this beautiful rabbit hole that had something for everyone. Back then, people loved meeting strangers online and it wasn't so frowned upon. Something in me wanted to find spaces to be myself. That took me to Orkut writer communities. There, among many brilliant writers, I met a writer called Raj. His poetry had this distinct Bengali intellectualism to it, which I really liked. He seemed to like my writing too, and we became 'Orkut friends' who sometimes exchanged messages. Somehow, we managed to loosely stay in each other's lives and in admiration of each other's writing for a few years. By 2009, most of my friends were moving to this new platform called Facebook. On first looks, it seemed overwhelming. There were too many pictures, too little text. I didn't relate to it. Reluctantly, I too, though, fully migrated to Facebook. In 2011, Raj messaged me and asked me if I wanted to be part of this 'secret' incredible online group of writers on Facebook that he was part of. He told me there is only one rule. There is no rule. You write whatever you want, without inhibition, without judgement. When I was added to Blurts, I held back for some time. I read other people's writing. There was Anupama, whose writing took me to a small town of Kerala, simple pleasures, sticky, mundane afternoons, complex family relationships, a bicycle and ice lollies. There was Sidra, who happened to hail from the neighbouring country and whose writing was familiar, raw, honest, and at a very deep level, a reminder of the female experience on the subcontinent. There was Abhipsa, whose poetry felt like hope, like flowers in spring, like love, and Sarat, whose writing about bike rides and mental illness and heartbreak represented this honesty with himself which reminded me often of Bukowsky's brokenness and almost spiritual bravery, and Esha, who wrote right from the deepest place in her heart about the world, about family, about making sense of a very harsh world, and Richa whose words, like her photography, represented presence and taught me that presence is sometimes joy and sometimes brokenness, and Vibha whose words contained her whole heart, and Vaishalee whose writing was her ode to learning to love oneself, and Kinni whose writing was rebellion and a fierce expression of her soul, and Smriti who was the 19-year-old mother hen. Smriti's head and heart and hand lived in that group. Her writing was summer, it was childhood, it was dissent, it was love, and it was like K, her partner, honest, clear, true. There were so many more - people who didn't write much but read often: Smriti C and her humour and attempt to figure life out, Madiha and her constant encouragement, love and commitment to learn, Sanjeet and his unwavering friendship, Santon and his quiet, deep reflections. When I first wrote and received love on that group, I felt overwhelmed. It was the first time I felt part of anything. Blurts was community. It was not just a bunch of strangers who liked to write. It was a bunch of us who were courageous enough to be our whole selves in our writing, and a bunch of us who were somehow able to hold that space for each other. We were from different parts of the continent, and some of us got a chance to meet, but even the ones who we never met, never felt like strangers. We did birthdays and Secret Santas. Raj and Vaishalee married each other. Smriti and K are still together. Sarat and I dated briefly and remain active parts of each other's lives as very close friends. We have seen each other through graduations, first jobs, career transitions, marriages, kids, divorces, and we do not write as much on Blurts anymore, but we remain - a community. Sometimes, stars align and strangers become much much more. Everybody's a stranger...until they aren't.
