Anjana CD Stories

Hi everyone, I want to say sorry for not being able to publish my stories on time. I’ve written many parts of " My Journey " but had to stop because some people found them boring. So, I tried writing a new story called The Monsoon Diaries. I rushed to finish it and used ChatGPT to help me write, but it didn’t turn out well. It felt fake and didn’t connect emotionally, so I decided to remove it. Now, I’m thinking about what to do next. Should I continue My Journey, rewrite The Monsoon Diaries, or start a new story? I really need your support and ideas to keep this blog going. Thank you so much for reading and supporting me. It means a lot! Looking forward to hearing from you,

My name is Rohan, 30 years old, working in the sales field in Mangalore. I am single, 5’6 inches tall, with an average build and wheatish complexion. My aim was to move to a bigger city where I could get better and bigger opportunities. Hence, I applied to a lot of companies in cities like Mumbai and Bangalore. I was called for an interview at a reputed concern for the position of Senior Sales Manager. The package and perks were attractive, and I was sure that this career move would make a positive impact on my otherwise mediocre career. I traveled to Bangalore a day before for the interview. I took a room in a small hotel close to the interview venue. I reached the rather swanky office, where a receptionist greeted me and took my details. A few minutes later, I was escorted to a discussion room where I was supposed to be interviewed by the Head of Sales. As usual, the wait was longer. With nothing to do, I walked out of the room into the corridor, which was noisy. I could hear a woman

Please read the previous parts to understand this story click on the name of previous part to read it  My Journey: New Start Part 2 The morning of the performance began quietly, a peaceful silence that seemed to hold its breath with me. I woke up early, my heart thudding in my chest, excitement mixed with nervous anticipation. The sky outside was still a soft gray, touched by the first light of dawn. I could hear my mother moving about the house, the subtle clinking of metal and the occasional rustle of fabric as she prepared everything for my transformation into a Yakshagana artist. Today was more than just a performance—it was the day I would step onto the stage alongside my father, the man whose passion for Yakshagana was the heart of our home. I wanted to make him proud, to show Arun Sir that his guidance had not been in vain. After breakfast, which I ate quickly despite the fluttering in my stomach, I made my way to my mother’s room. She had turned it into a dressing area, and the