The Birth of The Wise Owl

The year was 2021. COVID-19 had upended our world and altered life as we knew it. Simple joys we once took for granted—meeting friends, shopping, watching films, being part of a crowd—had all been put on hold. I was then posted in Delhi as a senior IRS officer, managing work through the fog of uncertainty and loss.

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The pandemic’s toll was deeply personal. I lost a valued member of my staff—a hardworking office supervisor and cancer survivor—to COVID. Two of my colleagues, one of them a doctor who had volunteered at a Mohalla Clinic, also lost their battles. Another dear batchmate survived, but just barely. Conversations about the fragility of life, once philosophical musings, had suddenly become real and raw.

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I was alone in Delhi then. My husband, also an IRS officer, had taken voluntary retirement and settled in Chandigarh. My son was in New York, and my daughter, an engineering student, was in Chandigarh too. Away from family, in the midst of lockdowns and isolation, one thought began to crystallise: I wanted to spend quality time with my family now, not eight years later when I retired. COVID had taught me that life—and every breath we take—comes with no guarantees.

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So, I decided to take voluntary retirement.

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But a practical question loomed large—what would I do after VRS? My life had always been structured around work: 8–10 hours a day, an unending stream of files and decisions. Without that rhythm, I feared time would weigh heavily on my hands.

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Yet there was another side of me that had always quietly thrived—my love for literature and art. I had devoured every new book, visited every art show and concert I could, and even published four books along the way. I was also a frequent contributor to newspapers and magazines, writing on an array of subjects close to my heart.

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There had been a time when I had dreamed of founding a magazine—one that celebrated literature and the arts, one that gave creative voices a platform. Perhaps now was the time to make that dream a reality.

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I began sketching a framework for the magazine: the kind of content I wanted to curate, the niche I hoped to carve out, the literary ethos I wished to uphold. My husband and children were encouraging but realistic. “Getting contributors and readers won’t be easy,” they warned gently. They were right.

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When I began reaching out informally, most writers told me they couldn’t contribute without remuneration—and my budget was modest. Still, I decided to take the plunge. To minimize costs, I planned to launch the magazine online. The only recurring expense would be website maintenance. My husband, ever supportive and tech-savvy, stepped in to help design the website, set up the domain, and create the first layout.

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The first call for submissions met with a deafening silence. My co-editors and dear friends, Ranjit Powar and Neena Singh, rallied to help. They reached out to their poet and writer friends, urging them to contribute. For several sections—reviews, creative nonfiction—I wrote much of the content myself.

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A few established poets came forward with generosity and grace. I remain deeply grateful to Tabish Khair, Arundhathi Subramaniam, Roger Frappier, Raghu Rai and Namita Gokhale for agreeing to be interviewed. Their presence lent The Wise Owl the credibility and heft it so needed in its fledgling days.

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From the beginning, I wanted The Wise Owl to have a global voice. I reached out to a poet in Colorado, a passionate advocate of literary arts, and requested her help in spreading the word. She did—and soon, I was deluged with poetry submissions from across the world. Listing The Wise Owl on Duotrope further widened our reach.

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And that was the moment when The Wise Owl truly spread its wings and took flight.