Fiction — The World I’d Rather Be In

To some, this title might spark instant connection. To others, it might raise a brow.

Either way, fiction has shaped my life.

Fiction has been a huge part of my journey for as long as I can remember—ever since I started reading.

This irreplaceable bond began when I was just seven. Credit goes to my birth twin—an inspiration born eight years ahead of me, sharing the same birthday, birth star, and even parents with the same names (yes, really!). She introduced me to books, and the rest, as they say, is history.

As a child, I didn’t care about themes or genres. I simply read whatever I could get my hands on.

My love for fiction truly began the day I randomly bought a Tinkle comic from a railway station vendor. I fell in love instantly and wanted more. Unfortunately, English comics weren’t easily available in a small town like mine.

The only time I could get a new one was during train journeys—and as a kid from the early 2000s, those journeys became even more magical thanks to those rare Tinkle comics.

I would reread the few copies I had, again and again.

When I reached my teens, society quietly told me I was “too old” for comics. But my love for fiction never faded.

At the time, I didn’t have access to novels, either. So I devoured any fiction I could find—in any language.

Growing up in a fairly strict household, books were my only window to fiction. Television was restricted until I graduated school (classic Indian parenting, right?). Even recreational reading was subtly discouraged once I entered Class 9.

But once I stepped into my undergrad years, free from those barriers, I rediscovered my love for fiction with full force.

I dove into novel series, binge-watched fictional and mythological films and shows, and embraced that world completely.

It took me nearly 20 years to realize that I didn’t just love fiction—I loved fictional worlds.

There’s a reason I emphasize that. It’s not just about reading a book or watching a show. It’s about immersing myself so deeply that I feel like I belong there.

I’ve consumed countless fictional stories, and not once has the magic worn off.

It’s the place I turn to when life is hard. It’s also the place I return to when life is beautiful.

Fiction is my home.

I know I live in the real world—but my heart often resides in the fictional one. That imagination resets my mental peace in a way reality never could.

Yes, it’s an escape. A deliberate one.

Whether it’s right or wrong is not up for debate—this is my coping mechanism, and I stand by it.

When I look back, I realize:

My love for fiction began with reading.

And truly, nothing nurtures the imagination like a book.

I often say:

People who don’t read are people who’ve never experienced the depth of imagination.

“That’s the magic of fiction.

Let’s talk! Let’s break!

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