Answering the Call to Be a Writer

Rakesh Amar Goyal

The Seed That Became a Story

It began with a magazine.

It was August 21, 1966—a rainy Sunday—and I was a ninth-grade student tucked away in my room with a copy of Nandan, a beloved children’s magazine. Flipping through the pages, a small notice stopped me cold: a short story competition for children under 15.

Something stirred in me.

Outside, rain poured steadily, blurring the edges of the garden beyond my window. The banyan tree stood strong in both the image and the storm. In that moment, the ordinary scene transformed. The garden wasn’t just a garden anymore—it was a stage. Characters emerged, and a story began to take shape.

That story, Giraffe, Neelu aur Cake, went through many drafts before I dared send it in. I didn’t know it then, but I was already learning a fundamental truth about writing: good stories aren’t born—they’re forged in revision.

Weeks later, a letter arrived. My story won first prize. It was a simple envelope, but to me, it held a whole new identity: I could now call myself a writer.

That early recognition became the spark that never went out.

The Making of a Writer

Childhood gave way to adulthood, but writing stayed by my side. My work began appearing in respected publications like Kurukshetra and Yojana. I wrote in both Hindi and English.

When Pain Becomes a Story

Some stories aren’t born from imagination—they’re shaped by witnessing, as in my book: Seven Women, She-Power and Lovers.

As a child, I often saw women come into my parents’ clinic—bruised, battered, and broken. Victims of domestic violence arrived silently, their wounds speaking what their voices could not.

I was twelve when I witnessed something that would never leave me.

Dusk had just settled. After play, I wandered into my parents’ clinic. Inside, a woman sat hunched, her face veiled by the edge of her sari, her body bruised purple and blue. One eye was swollen shut. Blood traced her lip and temple. Her sobs cut through the quiet like a blade.

“My husband came home drunk… started hitting me… bamboo stick…” she whispered, barely audible.

The nurse tended to her with care. My mother, calm but firm, asked if she wanted to file a police complaint.

She shook her head. “What’s the point? The police laughed last time. Said it was a domestic matter. Told me to keep him happy. This… this is my fate.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her words haunted me.

Why was violence in the home dismissed so easily? Why did society stay silent? And why was her suffering treated like something she was born to bear?

A World Beyond Borders

My travels, too, have shaped my stories.

During a trip to Fiesole, near Florence, I found myself standing among the ruins of an ancient Roman temple. The sun dipped low as my guide—a woman with a voice as enchanting as the hills around us—spoke of Juno, goddess of marriage, and the festival of Matronalia, when Roman husbands honoured their wives.

That night in Florence, I dreamed of the ruins. But they were no longer broken. Under moonlight, the temple rose anew. Crumbling stones pulled themselves together. Peacocks strutted proudly in the courtyard. Inside, a marble statue of Juno watched over the cella, regal and still.

A young woman stood at the altar, her face glowing in the flickering torchlight. She began to chant. As her voice echoed, the statue blinked.

Then she turned to me.

“You remember me,” she said.

Before I could answer, the dream collapsed in on itself—walls crumbling, light fading—leaving her untouched in the dust of centuries. I woke, breathless, heart pounding.

That dream found its way into Chapter 23 of Seven Women, She Power and Lovers. It began as a visit to a ruin. It became a vision that rebuilt history—and a temple—in the space of a single night.

The Writer’s Joy

Writing has never been a career—it’s a compulsion, a joy, a discipline. There’s a quiet thrill in finding the perfect word, the right sentence. When a paragraph clicks into place, it brings a kind of satisfaction no award can match. And when the book finally arrives—polished, bound, and alive with meaning—there’s a deep pride in seeing your inner world take form.

Zorba Books helped bring that vision to life. With their author-friendly approach, attention to quality, and timely delivery, they helped shape Seven Women, She-Power and Lovers into the book I had imagined. The cover alone captured the novel’s emotional essence—a rare alignment of form and spirit.

Still Writing

Even now, I continue. Every story I write is like planting a seed, unsure of when—or how—it will bloom. But I’ve come to trust the process. Because just like that banyan tree outside my window all those years ago, a writer’s journey begins with roots you can’t see.
And one day, something magnificent begins to grow.

If Rakesh’s journey stirred something in you, do share it with fellow dreamers, writers, or anyone in need of a nudge to begin again.

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