To Tennis and Roger, with love..

What a match it was! Roger Federer at last won the epic final that lasted over four hours – his 7th Wimbledon Championship pursuit in which he had so much at stake. And he did it, - broke Pete Sampras’ record as the holder of maximum Grand Slam titles, became one of the few players to have won the French Open and the Wimbledon in the same season and of course regained the prized No. 1 spot. At the end of it all, he was smiling politely, no fuss, no tears – kissing the cup, perhaps the most coveted of all slams.



Of course, I haven't forgotten the other man in the game – the other gladiator as they called him. Andy Roddick with his spirit to fight on, to see his name up there in the list of winners, was so powerful with his serves and gave Federer, truly, a run for his money and claim to fame. Andy reminds me so much of those fierce fighters of the past. Michael Chang, the short little guy, with small eyes, but a big determination to make opponents feel that every penny they earned was well worth the effort! And forget not, the Spaniard, Arantxa Sanchez Vicario and the lovely Monica Seles whose grit was responsible for some of the finest three-setters in women’s singles.

I loved the Sunday’s men’s finals for yet another reason – for the fine display of sportsmanship. Andy Roddick accepted defeat gracefully and Pete Sampras landed up at the Wimbledon after seven years, to watch and appreciate his record being broken.

Tennis is such a wonderful sport. Ask a die-hard fan like me. It isn’t a love affair just for the players but also for the millions who follow the game with such ardent devotion. Tennis is many things in one. It’s about ego, anger, tranquility, patience, sportsmanship, eccentricities, fashion, endorsements, victories, defeats, fame, obscurity, and records.

I was delighted to rediscover the joys of watching a good final yesterday night. I haven’t watched a tennis match in many, many months now, a sad fact – considering that as a girl of fifteen I used to follow the sport so closely. I have always been and still am a big of fan of Pete Sampras, but I should also admit that I used to have a very crush-like liking for the big serving Croatian player, Goran Ivanesevic. With him, what comes to mind is the changing looks of players and of course, their foul temper.

I used to like him with his clean-shaven face and one fine day, he sported a goatee in one of the matches. I really felt like running up to him and telling him, please take that nasty thing off your face! Somehow, the interest in him kind of fizzled out, particularly with his habit of spitting on court!! And yeah, I vaguely remember that he used to lose his temper quite too often!

Talking of emotions on court, we had the very sentimental Andre Agassi, who wept when he won. And as we speak of Agassi, I can immediately think of Steffi Graf, the usually cool player, who fumed after suffering a shocking first round loss in Wimbledon in 1994. The unconquerable defending champion, Graf, lost to Lori McNeil and left the court seething! After all, it isn’t so easy to accept defeat, particularly if you are the queen of the sport! And well, haven’t we heard much about John McEnroe’s temper tantrums?

On the other hand, Pete Sampras has been one of the cooler sorts. In many ways, I find Pete and Roger so similar. They hang on patiently, appear calm, even as matches grow challenging. At best, I have seen Sampras sticking out his tongue, which I assume he did to release the mounting tension! With Federer, I suppose he wipes his brows every now and then! In Sunday’s final, it is perhaps this stay-calm attitude, what I would call the Champion material that gave Federer the edge, despite the fact that Andy Roddick played a better game at many points in the match. Towards the end of the final set, one could see Andy getting worn out and close to giving up. Federer hung on and waited for that one point and it did arrive, finally!

Well, tennis is just not about emotions. What’s the sport without a word on the ever changing looks of players? Sometimes it is a pony tail and at others, it is a close cut – men or women. Andre Agassi and Boris Becker used to sport long hair once upon a time and then one day, Agassi arrived with his head fully shaved and Boris had a neat hair cut! And don’t I distantly remember seeing Martina Navratilova with long hair and then a boy cut? (or am I imagining it?;))

And without a trace of doubt, tennis is a showcase of fashion. The names almost flash immediately – Gabriela Sabatini, Mary Pierce, Maria Sharapova, Anna Kournikova – these ladies have remained fashion models in every way, prompting sports journalists to turn the sports page lead stories into poetic pieces!

Well, then, there is the darker side to the sport too. Promising stars who unfortunately faded away. Jennifer Capriati, Martina Hingis, Mark Phillippousis, and Monica Seles. Sometimes, life is indeed cruel and unfair.

From some of the finest moments to the heart-wrenching ones, the world of tennis indeed is a journey. A journey in which legends are born and records are created, records that are indeed meant to be broken. Yet, the history makers continue to remain history makers.

And dear Federer, you have just found your place in history. Rock on!

Jasmine memories

It is a quiet Friday morning. Sitting by the window in his bedroom, Sankaran watches the street bustling with activity. Men hurrying to work, children walking to school, and women, busy with their daily chores – some sending off their husbands and children, a few rushing to work themselves, some getting back from the temple. He also sees the old men and women warming up their feet for the day. Even as the world goes on with its life at a hectic pace, Sankaran has very little to do, at least that morning.

“Vasu..” he calls out, “Get me coffee.”

A retired man, sitting in a house that he has proudly called his own in the last 30 years, Sankaran lets his memories take charge – a sort of planned indulgence for the morning.

He recollects the story that saw its beginning almost four decades back.

The year was 1970. The start to Sankaran’s married life had been somewhat reel-life like. He had spotted Vasundhara in his family friend Swami’s wedding. The bride, Neela, was Swami’s classmate. Swami was about eight years younger to him and Sankaran’s mother hadn’t failed to remind him then that it was high time he got married as well. As was his practice in those days, Sankaran had simply kept mum. Marriage had never interested him, till of course he had landed his eyes on that young girl, who had fluttered around in Swami’s wedding.

When Sankaran saw Vasu, he had realized that he desperately wanted to live with the girl, only with her. It was as if some divine hand had pulled the strings of the so-long dormant bell inside his heart. Vasu was dressed in a mango-yellow, green-border silk saree that day. She had worn her thick black hair in a single plait that ran well below her waist, and had decorated it with dense strings of jasmine. Sankaran’s eyes had followed her wherever she went, as she laughed around with a bunch of people – whom he had presumed to be cousins or friends.

Within a week from the wedding, Sankaran had discovered that her name was Vasundara and that she was the daughter of a retired teacher in Triplicane. He had also found out that she was Swami and Neela’s classmate at the Presidency College, Chennai. Exactly a week from the day he had seen her, Sankaran’s mother had met Vasu’s parents, exchanged horoscopes and soon, he had visited her place, for the official girl-seeing.

Vasu’s dad had been exceptionally impressed with Sankaran. After all, he held a masters degree in Physics, a big thing in those days. Add to that, a cozy government job, and who wouldn’t have been impressed?

Sankaran could still remember how his mother had beamed, proud of her son’s choice, when Vasu came around with coffee and snacks. It seemed like she was quietly celebrating the fact that Sankaran’s refusal to marry all those days had indeed been for a good ending.

He had married his dream girl exactly a month from that day. During their first night together, he had been visibly nervous. When Vasu had stepped in, he had felt a strange feeling surge through his body. Her beauty had had that narcotic effect on him. Sankaran had slowly and hesitantly moved his hand to hold hers, but she had quickly withdrawn, looked at him straight and said, “I need time.”

All he had said in reply was, “ok, I understand.”

A voice interrupts Sankaran’s train of thoughts. It is Varshini, his first daughter. “Appa, Coffee.” Sankaran nods. Varshini looks around the room, glances her father’s way and quickly leaves.

Sankaran places the cup of coffee on the wooden table next to the bed. It is his wife’s writing desk – been one for years. A scratch pad is left open and pens and pencils lie scattered around. There is a picture of Vasu and him, smiling gently, feeling totally at ease, framed and placed at the right corner. There are few of Vasu’s books – books of her favorite authors – in the small rack above. He had got that designed for her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The desk looks a typical writer’s desk. A reflection of his wife’s deepest love, her nature at the very core that she had tried to preserve over the years. After all, she had been a literature student.

Sankaran runs his fingers over the table, they tremble slightly and he breaks into a sweat. The house is quiet. The radio is not on. This is the time Vasu usually visits the temple. But, not that day.

Two weeks back, before leaving for the temple, Vasu had, as was the routine, placed the filter coffee for him in a duvrah tumbler on the table and turned. The next thing Sankaran had heard was a thud and she was on the floor. He had rushed to her side – and grabbed her into his arms. But, the life in her eyes had ebbed out and a glazed look had taken over, as he held her helplessly. Her lips had worn a vague smile and were slightly parted. Perhaps she had wanted to utter Shanka, for one last time.

It was a massive heart attack – the second one in six months.

Slowly, Sankaran gathers himself and walks back to the window.

His wife’s death was the biggest challenge that life had thrown at him. What was he to do - He still had not stopped calling her for coffee. The last few days had indeed been difficult. Her absence had been painful and he had found it almost impossible to cope.

As he absent mindedly sips the coffee, Sankaran recollects how women had always played a crucial role in his life. His dad had passed away when he was too young to even comprehend death; forget that, even distinguish between presence and absence. His mother had been his world, till he had seen Vasu. With his mother still alive and Vasu gone, he had come face to face with the harsh reality of the death of a dear one – try how much ever he could not accept it gracefully.

Sankaran recalls how Vasu was different. She had always enjoyed the company of men. Vasu’s best world had always featured them. In fact, she had agreed to their marriage for the sole reason that her father, her role model, was thoroughly impressed with Sankaran. What’s more – Swami had been her best friend. He had always visited the Sankarans at least twice a week, for their homes were just two streets apart.

Not just that, while Sankaran felt the proudest father after Varshini and Haasini’s birth, Vasu had insisted that she wanted a third child. “I need a son to prank around with,” she had said and her belief had come true. With Sashank, their lives, more importantly hers, had come a full circle.

Sankaran had always felt that his wife’s beauty had a particular boldness and her character, a certain firmness – one that would attract men. Her sharp eyes along with her graceful appearance had always remained a deadly combination.

It was that very boldness that had given her character a defiant touch – the woman who had said a no to his approach in the beginning.



Yet, Sankaran could never forget that one particular night, when they had sat in the balcony, gazing at stars, while Haasini and Varshini slept inside. It was that time he had popped a question.
“Vasu, I had wanted to ask you this when I came to see you at your house for the first time, but we never had the chance to speak.”

She had turned around, a little surprised,
“hmm..what is it?”

“What do you think about marriage?” he had asked matter-of-factly.

Vasu had taken his hand into hers, a rare gesture – and had told him – marriage was about boundless love, unquestioning faith, and accepting each other’s eccentricities as much as their lovable traits. “Marriage is you and me,” she had said.

Sankaran had found her soft nature so wonderful, so refreshingly different from her often bold self. He had even wished she stayed like that always. But, he had quickly dismissed that idea for it was these rare displays of her demure side that had made her real personality all the more beautiful.

Yet, she had transformed, through all those years of their being together. The reason, he had never been sure of. But, Sankaran could remember a few instances, when she had been as tender as she could get. The change had happened slowly in those in-between years of listening to Binaca Geet Mala huddled together(Khilte Hain Gul Yahaan had been their favourite, one that had sparked the first act of love between them), of secretly dancing together for “Unnidam Mayangugiren”(Vasu had taught the shy Sankaran to shake his leg), of becoming parents and feeling responsible for the lives of their children – and till her last day, Sankaran’s sweet gesture of buying jasmine strings for her almost every other day. (Jasmine and her husband’s move used to melt her each time and she had never failed to reveal that to Sankaran by looking straight into his eyes and beaming a divine smile.)



“Sankara..”, someone calls out. It is Swami. He gently puts a hand on Sankaran’s shoulder.
“How are you?”
Sankaran smiles and sighs. Nods.
“When are the kids leaving?”
“Varshini is going to be here for a week with her sons. Haasini is leaving tomorrow for Bangalore. Sashank has to get back to work on Monday. He is flying to Bombay on Sunday. Both of them have told me that they would visit me soon.”

Swami presses Sankaran’s hand.
“I have something for you.”

Swami hands over a white envelope with the words “For Mr.Sankaran” written in bright green ink. “It is from Karthi,” Swami informs him. “He left for the U.S. today morning.”

Sankaran is surprised.
Swami turns to leave. He stops near the door. “Sankara,” he hesitates, “any help please ask me.”

Sankaran raises his hand to acknowledge. He looks at the envelope. Karthikeyan had visited their house three days after Vasu’s death. Swami had introduced him as their – his and Vasu’s classmate at college.

He opens the envelope and finds a few pages clipped together. He immediately recognizes the handwriting. It is Vasu’s.

*****
30th March 2008
Mylapore, Chennai

Karthi,

It’s been 38 years. Yes, I have broken the promise. I asked Swami about you yesterday. I know you didn’t, all these years, which is why I have always been proud of you. You kept your word and that is one of the many reasons why I love the man you are. Wait a while till I tell you why am finally writing to you.

Don’t ironies rule our lives? Remember what our dear friend Swami had said on the day he had wedded our darling Neela? He was so sure that the next wedding would be ours – you and me – Karthikeyan weds Vasundara. Ah, those remained just words. The other irony – the poor fellow had said he would come to the marriage with his son. Those beautiful souls have been so unlucky. They haven’t had a kid and continue to be each other’s child. And the third irony, I have two men in my life – one who did not marry because of me and the other who married because of me.

Life is such a weird experience, you know, Karthi. It wants to keep us on our toes, keep guessing what’s going to come up next. It often tests our ability to stay balanced through happiness and sorrow. Of course, it is an altogether different point that happiness or sorrow is the creation of our mind – essentially a perspective. But, we being what we are, plain human beings, have evolved a boring pattern of seeing things. Something as simple as –when things go our way, we are happy, and when they don’t, we are just that- plain sad. So much so that, we don’t even take an effort look beyond a point and see what we can do to go ahead. But, I have learnt to change myself.

I gather from Swami that you teach Journalism in the U.S. You have lived your dream, haven’t you? But, why didn’t you marry, Karthi? I have to tell you what a beautiful experience it has been – to have a caring husband, to have lovely children. A family can make even the worst of challenges seem conquerable. I really wish you had married. But, knowing you, I understand you made up your mind. I remember the last conversation we had before my marriage. I am indeed delighted you have found your happiness in your profession.

I am sure you think – if you call me the man who doesn’t budge after he makes up his mind, what is she? You are right. After all, I was the one who adamantly made you promise that you wouldn’t ask a word about me to Swami. Looking back, I wonder today, if what I did was right. I mean, I did not breathe a word about this to Shanka. Have I betrayed him by holding back the ghosts of my past? But, what do I do? I was worried that it would lead to unrest in all our lives. Perhaps, I have been selfish too.

I should admit that there have been many times when I had wanted to share it all with him. But, I was afraid, very much, that I would lose the affection of a loving husband. Shanka is a gem, Karthi. He made me realize that you can definitely rediscover love in a new person. I don’t have an iota of regret that I agreed to this marriage. My life indeed feels so complete. We have two daughters and a son, who fill our lives with delight. And then, there are the grandchildren too. But, you never know how certain matters can turn the flow of life.

I am sure you will be happy for me, aren’t you? I am often plagued by guilt that I dramatically altered the course of your life. Pulled you into something that finally never materialized. I perhaps didn’t understand the workings of the society back then. I should have put as much heart into that as I had done in loving you – truly, madly, deeply. I never really understood back then what it meant to belong to an orthodox family, to be a daughter who never went against her father’s words, but still out of a stupid boldness chose to fall in love with a man of another caste.

But, what was I to do? During our days together, I didn’t even know when I fell in love. It just happened and when my dad objected, it was as if my whole world had come to an end. What an irony again, that the same marriage in which we spoke of our wedding, my husband decided that I would be his life partner. What strange patterns fate creates!

But as they say, all is for good. Of late, Shanka seems very worried and I am deeply troubled. Why? Because I have a weak heart – quite ironically, not mentally, but physically. I suffered my first attack (a mild one) a few months back and ever since Shanka has been broken. I know he is smiling for my sake, to keep me happy. I smile too, to make him happy. I am worried Karthi, as to what he would do after the eventual thing happens. No, I am not being pessimistic. It may happen anytime, that’s what the doctors say. But, I am insistent (adamant?) that I will carry out certain aspects of my daily routine even now – like my temple visits and some cooking.

Why I am writing to you is for this. I have a responsibility to complete. I need to tell Shanka everything, before it is too late, but in your presence. I want you to meet him, and I want to tell all that I have told you now to him, while you are there. I know I am asking for a costly help – an unreasonable thing to expect – asking you to come down all the way. But, if you can do it, I will be really happy. It’s been so long, Karthi. I want to see you.

You can write to me or call me or if you still don’t want to do these, at least keep Swami posted of your plans. My house address and phone no. are enclosed.

Love,
Vasu

****

Dear Mr.Sankaran,
Here’s what all that your wife wanted to tell you. I wish we had had a happier get together. I am terribly sorry for what happened to you and it was unfortunate that I had to meet you under these circumstances. I considered it an absolutely wrong time to reveal what Vasu wanted to share, when we met.

The truth is that I received her letter a day before I was scheduled to leave for India for a seminar. But, by the time I had landed in Chennai and tried your number, someone answered the call to give me the bad news. Destiny’s designs, they are so fuzzy. Aren’t they?

Sankaran, I really don’t know what’s running in your mind now. But, I need to tell you this – you are a nice man with a good heart. I gather Vasu was really happy being with you. You made her life truly beautiful.

I wish the days ahead are filled with peace for you, ones in which you go back again and again to those evergreen memories of your days together; ones that make you smile.

And here’s something that would unlock the gates to those memories. It belongs to you.

Regards,
Karthikeyan

****


Sankaran turns the paper and to it is clipped a rare colour photograph of Vasu – in the mango- yellow and green-border saree – taken during Swami’s wedding.

He holds the picture and as he watches, a tear trickles down and wets the photograph. He is perplexed. Should he feel guilty that he snatched Vasu away from the man she had loved? Or should he think why she considered him a stranger to not tell him something from her past? Was he that stiff? He did not know. But, all he knew was that Vasu had grown to love him, through the years.

He walks towards her photograph hanging on the wall and touches the jasmine string adorning it. “Vasu,” he mutters and breaks down, inconsolably.

Some reasons to smile

1) I got a book for a gift after a long time. Gift wrapped and with a card that read "wishing you more reading time!" (How much I need it!)

2) I picked up three notebooks and a set of 12 Staedtler color pens - stationery after ages!(Although it is over four days since I bought the stuff, a warmth fills me up when I look at them even now! Perhaps, it is the warmth of pure joy!)


3) I rediscovered (almost!) two songs from the movie Pavithra yesterday - "Azhagu Nilave" and "Uyirum Neeye" (Looped in Winamp! They melt me each time!)

4) I changed my blog template last week - something that gives me the hope of another new beginning. (Post more regularly?!)

5) I finally put up something of a post - the first one for this year! (Smile, smile! Honestly, I wish I could manage more. I will try!)

Memories of a free period

Remember those days in school? When it is the third hour (or period) after the morning prayers and your strict math teacher with her bossy spectacles and her equally bossy stature walks in and starts explaining algebra in a (well, again!) bossy voice? Ok, for me math was the terror - you replace it with a subject you used to dislike and the picture is pretty much the same!

But wait! The rest of my discussion isn’t going to be about the math teacher! Rather, I intend writing about another scene. Picture this: It's the third period, and you are digging through your bag for the math classwork notebook and textbook. But..but...Lo! A different teacher walks in, quite unexpectedly, and very well to your delight, instead of the numbers woman who rattles your brain! “Substitute teacher” yeah! And so, the moment the other teacher comes in, an irresistible smile escapes your lips! And then, you frantically try to cover it up – smart if you are that is. Or else, if you are one of those “cannot-hold-back emotions” types, you let out an uncontrollable giggle much to the annoyance of the substitute teacher, who would already be fuming at the thought of having to spend her “free hour” in a class filled with devils.

So, that being that, some of the human species that I just mentioned (ah umm, there were quite a few of them at every class that I was in and no, no, I wasn’t one among them!) - even if you had five of them in a class of forty doing that, it would have qualified as a cacophony capable of tilting luck out of favor for the entire class. Here’s how.



Things would have depended on which class you were in. Say you studied in class five. You would have immediately got a “stand up on the bench all of you” punishment and one of the first-benchers would have been sent off to the next section to fetch a wooden scale (After the entire class kept quiet, when asked for a scale!) – of course for receiving a punishing hit on the palm for everyone, including the seemingly innocent ones whose brains would have already started working on a scheduling program as to what to make of the free hour!

Or perhaps the annoyed teacher would have gone to the point of deciding on showering a rain of chalk pieces on the class, the talkative ones being the most targeted!

Here’s another case. Suppose you studied in class ten, and the substitute teacher happened to be a subject teacher, she would have, for all you know, chosen to do some “revision” when she would have earlier decided otherwise - perhaps to let you study for a test that afternoon. Fizzzz…and all your study plans would have gone down the drain!

And that gets me to the next point. Let's assume that the teacher somehow let the class do whatever it felt like. Can you even think of how many different courses of action that each of us would have decided, the moment we realized we had free time in hand? The playful *slash* care-a-damn *slash* branded-irresponsible *slash* cool-headed *slash* freaky and so on types amongst us, would have chosen to play those little games. Like what? Like these – turn to a fresh page of hopefully your rough-book and divide the page into four columns to play the famed “Name Place Animal Thing”. Ok, if you hadn’t been that organized to carry a rough book, it would have been the last page of some “ill-fated” subject notebook, in all probability a subject you hated or the subject of a teacher who was lenient enough to let things pass without examining the last few pages of your notebook during correction.

An associated game – book cricket! I wonder which genius of a child discovered (or invented?) this marvelous discovery (or invention?) of a game! Fetch a book, open a random page, and write down the last digit of the even-number page, which is your score!! I bet there are other versions of this game that have evolved in the thousand different schools across our country!

Probably, the height of delight for the playful young minds such as these would have been when the substitute teacher happened to be the Physical Training or the P.T. teacher. Such kids would have been only itching to run out of the class, after uttering the monotonous “good morning”!

Yeah, playful kids. But, what’s a class without those serious ones? After all, they are the balancing factor in any class! The true darlings of their god-fatherly, god-motherly teachers – the many apples of the school’s eye! And here’s what maybe the branded-geeky *slash* studious *slash* responsible *slash* intellectual and so on types amongst us would have chosen to do.

If we had been in one of those younger classes, we would have chosen to finish off some homework and free up some time. Mind you, no amount of coaxing from friends to play would have deterred these studious minds – even when it was the P.T teacher for a substitute! The literature or knowledge-thirsty ones would even have chosen to get permission to run up to the library and grab a book – literature or science or math or whatever appealed to our brains and devoured it during the period! I remember when I was in class seven, when I luckily got a free hour I spent the period reading through a few chapters of Alexandre Dumas’ “The Three Musketeers” which used to be the “non-detail” syllabus for our English Paper II. (Well, don’t even decide what types I am, there! I have played my share of those intelligent games too!)

But, yes, as we progressed to the higher classes, we probably were left with little or no choice but to sit and prepare for the endless list of tests that popped in front of us everyday, till we gave our board exams!



Yet, whatever type that we might have been, the very memory of a free period unlocks the gates to a treasure house of memories – of the innocent things that we once did, of the many tiny decisions that we took at the snap of a finger, and mind you, with so much ease, of the little nothings in life, and most importantly, of being what one truly was, of enjoying life, of delightfully indulging in whatever we did, with the least sense of guilt. Memories that perhaps become lessons as we work our way through the big adult world today.

Naughty, Naughty, Cutie!!!

Children - they seem to be the theme of this blog these days!!! 'That isn't surprising', you think, don't you? Well, actually it is pure coincidence that this is a kiddo-post too!!!

This blog space has been rusting, literally, thanks to the really tight routine. And of course my son, who is getting all naughty these days! I have left three stories hanging - they have been pleading for attention which, I haven't been able to give thus far. Nothing to regret, but I thought I will at least try and make a comeback to blogging with this sweet pic that a colleague had mailed me recently. It is the sweetest photograph I have seen in many years. Take a look!



Otherwise, hope all is well out there!! :)

Happy Birthday, Blog!

This comes a little late, but this dear blog of mine completed three years on the 1st of february 2008. The past year was not very happening as far as this blog is concerned. But I have realized that one is an avid blogger as long as she comes back to it to share something with passion. At different times, I have seen this blog as a friend, a lover or sometimes even as a daughter. It is a very sweet and different kind of relationship that I have cherished thus far.



I am glad I began blogging at a very important phase of my life. This blog has captured my moods and my ever changing landscape of writing in my various stages - as a post graduate student of journalism, a financial writer in Bombay, an engaged, to-be married woman, a homemaker, a working wife, and now a mother. And, "The Storyteller's Hut" has been a place where I have run into many a day, on a hot summer afternoon or on a rainy evening to tell all that was in my mind.

At this moment, I would like to thank all my visible readers and the silent ones who talk to me through mails and also those who don't talk, for each of their visits to this hut. I would like to say I have enjoyed your presence and look forward to it in the days to come.

I promise stories and some hot tea! :)

Cheers,
Anupama (Viswanathan) Krishnakumar

Many dreams and a promise

Come unto me my little one. I have been waiting for you all these days with anaemic fingers, tapping against each other like warring soldiers; and a breath weighed down with anticipation. How and what do I tell you, my son? Feeling proud has become a habit now. It is intoxicating, it really is, to silently watch you and then swell with pride – at all the things you do – the way you sleep, the way you roll your eyes, the way you smile, the way you hold on to me, the way you just remain what you are, a trait that many of us slowly start to lose as we move away from childhood.

I love holding your little fingers, the five pinkish petals of a tender rose from His garden. No, two little roses. I love running my hand over those soft creases on your hands and legs, the soft folds of flawless skin. I love drawing those neat curves, tracing my fingers over your tiny toes. I love calling you by various names – “Rolly Polly”, “Ingu Pingu”, “Softy Sweety”, “Lofty Softy”, “Chingu Mingu”, “Cutie Sweety” and “Kutty Kanna”. Kutty Kanna, your momma wants to tell you so many things. She just doesn’t know where to begin.

My little boy, there is so much to see in this world and so much to enjoy in life. Trust me, one lifetime isn’t enough! You know what all we can do – so many things. I will just offer you a glimpse of the world we can create for ourselves. These are flights of fantasy that I am making, with the wings of imagination. Very soon, this will be reality, for, you are the key. As you start to toddle, I will share your pride, I will offer you a hug when you walk into me. And soon, we will hold hands and walk together. We will rub noses, share surprise hugs, and exchange tender kisses on our cheeks. We will play little games that you will always win. We will recite nursery rhymes together, when we eat, when we lie down on the bed and whenever we seem to find the time; I will seat you on my lap and we will check out the big rhymes book that Papa has got for you.

And then, we will fly bright, chirpy kites that kiss the blue sky and speak to the sun. We will colour our lives with your red and my green and their many shades. We will discover new colours, explore the big palette and dab on. We will strangle fears to death and burn to ashes, the many negative feelings. We will nurture positive thoughts and build mental toughness. We will laugh our hearts out over the silliest of jokes. We will never miss a light moment and will try not to let a dull one seep in, as much as we can. We will pillow-fight. We will tease your Papa about his snoring. I am sure there will be times when you guys will gang up together. Your Papa is drawing up his own plans for you! And my best guess is that it is a world of games, gizmos, cars, dogs and movies!

For now, I will get going with what I have to share. When you get a little bigger, we will read out favourite passages from the books we read. We will grab sunshine with our hands; we will dance in the rain and waltz together on a moonlit night. We will star gaze on a clear night and go for a quiet jog on a pleasant morning. All the same, my dear, we are humans and we are here to defy the ideal. Let’s admit it. We will have our share of petty fights, and then apologize and embrace each other, only getting closer each time.

What’s more, we will exchange a secret sparkle between our eyes when you get your girl home. My boy, I am here to watch you grow and I will stay by your side, through the crests and troughs of your life. Remember, the silent pride will reside within me, no matter how old you are. I will walk down with you as long as my legs can carry on and then I will hold back and watch, as you advance in age and in your life.



You have come into my world and given it an altogether new meaning. And what do I have but my love and a promise to give in return? I want to make each day of your life special, in some little way and make you feel that this life is truly worth living and that, is this mom’s promise to you.

As I say all this, how much of it do you understand, I wonder! You look at me and beam a toothless smile that melts me to nothingness. You will, my dear, you will very soon understand – the many dreams and a promise of a proud mother.

Baby boy says hi!! :)

Yup, our little bundle of joy arrived on the 8th of December...And, for a start,

Kailash says hi to all!!! :)

I haven’t let go..

I know. I know. It’s all dark inside the storyteller’s hut; almost like a haunted house. Cobwebs. Unwashed tea cups. Mounds of melted wax that once dispelled the darkness as we sat and talked stories once upon a time. And now, with the last instance we spoke being almost four months back, some of you might have slowly started to believe that the hut is shut forever. I wish I had never let that idea creep in, but you see I just let other things take over – like laziness, tiredness, helplessness among others. Nevertheless, I am happy to see so many new guests who have stepped in, rummaged through the story bag and left little notes of appreciation. When I see them, I am delighted but guilty as well, at my inability to tell you more and entertain you better.

It appears to me the status will remain such for some time to come, for I am at the threshold of change – probably the most important one so far in my life. At best, I can assure you that the rugged muddy ground of the hut will continue to stay (aren’t you rolling your mouse over it already?) and hopefully the roof should also be intact unless some gusty wind decides to blow it away; and the story bag is still there and all yours. Having said that, I hope and pray I will return, not just alone, but with a little angel who will tell you more stories. Till then, stay good, healthy, and peaceful and definitely – do hang on!

Meenakshi

18th July 1990. Meenakshi pressed her forefinger hard into the daily sheet calendar. As she did, she closed her eyes to recall how she had pressed the calling bell at the “Khushi Villa” exactly fifteen years ago. Fifteen years it was, since the day she had first touched down on this bungalow tucked away peacefully in a remote corner of Maharashtra. It was a rickety bus journey that had preceded her arrival.

Fifteen years ago, as a charming thirteen year old, Meenakshi had felt deeply thrilled at the prospect of spending her life in the villa. Back then, she had observed with wide eyes, the wild tuskers and stags that jutted out from the walls and the large paintings that accompanied them. She had wondered why the tuskers and stags had only heads and had found it quite weird. She had imagined the animals to wake up and walk around the house in the nights.

Totally fascinated, Meenakshi had felt her stay in the villa would be a launch pad to realize her dream – that of becoming a great Bharatnatyam dancer. Struggling hard to control her overwhelming joy, her eyes had fallen on Ramaa Chechi for the first time. Oh, what a treat it had been to watch her! Looking at her from behind the grilles of a window near the backyard, Meenakshi had thought she could fall at her feet. Draped in a crisply starched cotton sari, Ramaa Chechi was going around the Tulasi Maadam in small circles, with a lamp in her hand.

Rajan who had accompanied Meenakshi on her journey to the place had made a passing reference to a teacher, while sitting in the bus. May be this divine looking lady was that teacher, Meenakshi had pondered. Meanwhile, Rajan had beckoned her to the backyard.

“What is your name?” Ramaa Chechi had asked.
“Meenakshi”
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she had questioned, patting Meenakshi’s cheek.
“I love to dance,” Meenakshi had replied and had stuck out her frail legs and hands, while also rolling her visibly, big eyes.
Ramaa Chechi had smiled, patted her again.
“Lovely, we will make you do that too.”
“Can I too look beautiful like you?” Meenakshi had asked eagerly.
“Of course, yes, why not?”

Standing before the calendar, Meenakshi recalled how much she had believed in that deceptively divine woman. Ramaa Chechi was a professional. She had pushed the little girl into her role so effortlessly. She had gently led the teenager into a room that presented an illusion of happiness, of a heaven free of all troubles – full of flowers and incense that choked her breath.

Meenakshi was reminded of how she had succumbed without protest, the first time. The surrender did not come out of acceptance of her doomed fate or as a move towards starting a new way of life. It was more a means of seeking solace and affection from a complete stranger for the grief that engulfed her broken heart; to blow away the misery and weariness of a young soul that was cheated by her own father.

And as far as she could think, the first time was the only instance she had exuded passion in her profession and never again after that. Meenakshi looked at the silver ring in her hand, thoughtfully. This was the ring that the first man had left behind for her, as a gesture of what Meenakshi imagined to be genuine love. He would have been in his early twenties then. She could say he had liked her. Loved her? She didn’t know. But she preferred to assume it that way. It at least gave her the comfort of having something substantial to dream and ponder about; something to make up for the void that so dominated her life.

Meenakshi looked dreamily at the withered rose that she had preserved in between the pages of her only notebook. Tears welled up in her eyes. Despite the many years of seeing the different men that she had seen, love was not a lost feeling as far as she was concerned. It was lost, yes, in a partial sense, but only deep within her. She had vainly searched for her first man in every man she had met after him. She had stayed hoping that he would come and take her away someday. The ring would be her only proof of identity then. She had imagined he would come while she played on the swing. He would then fall at her feet and tell her how much he needed her in his life.

Alas, but what did she know of him, except for a faint memory of his face and the wetness of his long parting kiss on her cheek years ago? For all she knew, he would be happily married off to some pretty woman who would have borne him his children. Worse still, would he even recognize her if she were to come face to face with him when walking down some street? Even so, she carried on, despite being fully aware of the futility of her dream.

What a life had she lived! She had seen all sorts of men. There were the nervous first timers. Then, there were those men who fed their egos with an air of nonchalance, a kind of despicable carelessness. Well then, animal behavior also found its place. She had dressed and undressed to please and impress them all; acts that defined the very essence of her existence. And after everything, Meenakshi felt the whole place stank of dumped feelings and a nauseating eeriness that sometimes drove her to the point of contemplating death as the soothing alternative. The only relief probably had remained her friends in the villa – Nupur, Selvi and Rekha. They would laugh and hoot together while discussing men – their subject of expertise, and remain thoughtful as they spoke about the fading memories of their lackluster childhood.

And now, after fifteen years of a life in skirts that paradoxically shouted happiness through large, bright flowers, she was waiting with her little box to leave. Meenakshi sighed, as she turned to face the villa for one last time. She was going back, back into the world that brought her into the villa. She had nothing particularly pleasant to take back and nothing particularly exciting to look forward to. As policemen swarmed around the place, Meenakshi walked towards the van with a blank look on her face.

Ironically, it was the deathly infection that had won her the prized ticket to her freedom.

It's home, again!

You know how it is visiting home after a while? It is truly like revisiting a part of yourself. After what seems like ages, mom, dad, my sister, and I are back together to live the feeling of what it is to share our lives under one roof. Vani is on vacation, I am on one too, mom is no longer the busy teacher running to school, and dad is still the man who runs the show. When did we last hear of this? ‘Way too long’ back!

At a time when responsibilities of a different order, ones confronting a married woman is all that you have witnessed for a while, you actually wonder how it felt to remain irresponsible. And that precisely is the feeling I have come to experience again, during this break, the sense of parental pampering, a rare comfort of ‘there is someone to mind it all’. You don’t worry about what’s for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and it is all piled in copious amounts on a the ‘stainless steel plate’ that exclusively belonged to you ever since you came into this world. And what luxury - do you have to remind mom about what would tickle your taste buds? Come on!

We have spoken all sorts of stories, ones buried deep inside our souls, waiting to be reborn, in the words of our retelling and our acts of hearing them out all over again. Tales like how I gave my sister the name she has come to bear today, how she used to be this little brat who wanted everything that her sister had and at one point of time trembled with jealousy over all the attention that the elder one received when she had set off for graduation.

With mom this time, it has been a run through of her patented ‘arranged marriage’ philosophy, as we laughed over all that appeared ‘once serious’ and now ‘outrageously funny’. All the same, it is also the time that she has chosen to send out those signals to my sister about ‘minding the step’. This time, it is my turn to grin from ear to ear!! With dad, the discussion as always has proceeded on a different platform – books, music, investments, the irony of how we so easily complicate our lives, as well as a rather formal talk on how the married life went on. And you know how it is with sisters, you don’t need solid stuff to speak and can get away with all sorts of nonsense!

The most fascinating part of it all is how everything fell into place, the emotions, the long-established signals of communication and the unchanged meaning of silence. And then there are these other things – dad’s driver who taught us Gujarati, and this wonderful little angel who is all but three, living in the same building. She has the most beautiful and adorable pair of eyes that I have seen in a long time. She speaks Gujju, and I speak everything else other than that and she still is so much fun to hang around with!

In between all this I miss him and wonder how he is taking care of himself, starting from what he is eating. Despite all those petty fights and admonitions (fond though they are) we throw at each other over the phone, I deeply wish he were here. I wish I can hold his hand and lean on his shoulder and whisper softly how I miss him.

And yet, I revisit carelessness every night, as I lie curled in my mom’s lap. After all, it is a means to satisfy that burning desire to be a child once again, especially when your little one is already telling you through her soft kicks that it’s time for this woman in her mom’s lap to change roles, very soon.

If I may ask..

While I was working on a report today morning, my mind wandered off to many thought landscapes. Like I had said in an earlier post, I have these questions suddenly popping inside my head that I feel like shouting them out to a crowd.

Here is today's question:

Is there this one thing (need not necessarily be a physical entity) that you love/value the most in life? If so, what is it? And, why do you love it so much??

Waiting to hear sound bytes! :)

PS: No particular reason as to why this question. Just like that!

PPS: And I want honest answers!!! :D

Story Clip #1: Raman

Raman, everyone is so proud of him, except himself. His mother tells relatives he earns plenty that he could buy a house within another year. His father tells friends that his son is ‘settled comfortably' in a rewarding job. House, car, marriage – plans, plans, and plans they made for him. But, Raman is tired even to feel proud anymore. The attraction has withered away. It is yet another Tuesday in Raman's life, a year after he wore the illusorily shining badge called 'software engineer'. He writes ten lines in the morning and stares at it all of the evening. And still he cannot break through. The brain that topped the class in the final exams doesn't help find that one bug that refuses to let the program run. The boss sends a stinker of an email demanding an explanation and accusing him of being slow. Not again, he broods. The confidence curve falls flat and enthusiasm levels dip. Do I have to do and see this all my life? Can't I ever make mistakes? he thinks. Raman shuts the application and walks out of the office, past the manager who summoned him for an explanation. Indifference for a day, to make up for the peace of mind and smile lost for a while now.

Maya's story

“And I scratched and scratched the page with the fine nib of a treasured parker, spurting out black ink, like the oozing blood of a devilish thought, springing out of a wounded ego. How else could I extinguish the roaring flames of anger? The page tore open like a deadly crevice. I ran around like a mad man pulling down all that fell in my line of sight – curtains, table covers; I took the umbrella, poked the bed and the pillows, with its tapering end. Fury and pain wrenched my heart. I had become a loner, in a world full of pretending well wishers, a world without Hanna.”

Maya switched off the monitor and stared wide eyed into the empty space ahead of her. Her hands trembled a little. It was a fiery face of Professor Malcolm that she hadn’t seen thus far, given the six months of personal interaction that she had had with him – in her mind.

She wasn’t sure about that line, she had typed – “oozing blood of a devilish thought, springing out of a wounded ego.” She opened the document, deleted the line and began typing again. “;olr n;ppf ppxomh pgy pg s epimfrf jrsty” she keyed without looking at the screen. Shit, she thought, staring at the train of red underlines that the software had left, like a school teacher who thrilled at striking down everything with that dreadful red ink. Why can’t this damned MS Word convert it to what I want? She felt like suing the software for its supposed inadequacy. Her finger rested lazily on the backspace key till it deleted the unintelligible stuff that she had just then entered. “like blood oozing out of a wounded heart, “ she corrected and sighed deeply.

She could sigh by all means, for she didn’t know where her dream was heading to. Every letter, every word, every sentence, every paragraph, and every page that made sense to the machine as only indecipherable bits and bytes were the building blocks to the vision she was giving shape.

Maya had grown up reading every name board on the road. Even as the bus or scooter or auto she was moving in advanced faster than her letters/second, she craned her neck to finish the name down. “Lakshmi Tea Stall” “Connections BookPoint” and everything else. Sometimes, she had the feeling that the name of a shop didn’t fit its appearance. Such beautiful names for those ugly faced tea shops, she would grumble under her breath.

And, when she grew a little older, she loved assigning names to strangers. May be that girl would be called Rachna – that cute face with two pony tails would be complete only with that name. Swarnamukhi, for the dancer, her friend’s neighbour; Akshay, for the guy who was seen driving the Enfield everyday outside her house; after all, it was her own world of imagination, and people here could assume names that she wished to give them!

Her love at sixteen was books. Papa and Mama had no trouble finding gifts for her. They knew she would smile the widest at the sight of a bookstore. Maya literally fed on books, relished a different taste out of the many writers. Archer was like espresso coffee while Narayan was like a chocolate that slowly melted away, leaving behind that lingering sweetness in one’s mouth. Hesse was like a tastefully prepared filter coffee, an enriching philosophical experience that left one relishing it even after the act was complete. Austen and Dickens were like classic hot chocolate, Woolf was a dense dry fruit milk shake – you had to stop once in few minutes to munch those nuts – those powerful nuggets that gave the dash of splendor to her work. Hardy was bitter chocolate. What would hers be? Maya wondered.


Maya equated writing to love, simply and best put. She absolutely loved it. Stories were her passion. She wanted her words to be the window to a world she created. The characters in her story would be thoughts that danced to the tune of her creative forces – but sometimes they were not puppets. They shaped to something beyond her control sometimes bringing a smile and sometimes making her scratch the whole thing down. Each word was a revelation. Writing was to her, as music was to a singer and dance to a performer.

There was a man who wanted to sell his soul. She found him creepy. There was another who was willing to buy it. She found him loony. And what about those people who wore all that heavy makeup and chatted nonsense? She found them to be a rather strange breed of people. Did the others know about them? After all, they all lived in her paper world. She would let others see them, through her novel. She would tell them things that they knew well but never consciously realized. She would make them nod in childish delight (one arising out of discovering matters, all over again!) at what she told them.

Dreams, she had plenty of them. Like reading out excerpts from her novel to a group, autographing copies to a mad audience, for instance. She even wanted to do a workshop telling aspiring ‘kids’ (she would have moved out of the block then!) how to write. She would clip all reviews for her book together and read them at leisure. She would try correcting herself and scorn at a mindless review. Plenty of them, her dreams; But, she had fifteen more chapters to go and a publisher to find! Talk about literary dreams and aspirations! Would Maya make it? I am clueless, actually! :)

My DNA

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The day

Shyama was not sure. She sat in her room, smiling at everyone, as people walked in and out of the small cube that stored God knows how many things, including herself. She smiled, but her insides moaned – was she sure about what she was doing? Her cousins were chatting, laughing and giggling, throwing sideward glances at her. She was supposed to be the happiest woman in the whole world that day. But, was she? She wasn’t sure. Worse still, the point was, she shouldn’t be worrying about it then, not at that instant.

A few anxious seconds. And then, her dad seemed relieved. Granny hugged him. Mom was brushing away happy tears. Little sister hugged her. A mix of emotions – relief, happiness and a strange emptiness. Amidst all that, Shyama stole a glance at him. Raghav looked at her as well. She felt reassured, smiled for the first time from her heart, since the morning. She trusted her instincts. They told her it would all go on well.

A year later, she stood staring at her mirror in their bedroom, twirling a curl dangling near her left ear. They had taken many steps together, forgiving, fighting, understanding, giving, sharing, loving and holding on. Shyama stood there lost in memories. Suddenly Raghav hugged her from behind. “Happy Anniversary, sweetie,” he whispered. She smiled - a smile of genuine happiness.

Letters to Dad - 15th March 2004

Dear Pops,

I loved pouring over your letter that came in a little late. Never mind, it was worth the wait for those five pages of your still undecipherable handwriting. Dad, you really are getting old. :), and your slants are getting slightly shaky.

You know how busy life is here Pops that I had to postpone this letter by a week. It is ironic that the topic that I choose to write today is about the lives of people who are at the other extreme of those we discussed in the last letter. Yes dad, I am indeed referring to my visit to the old age home, on my birthday. While I marvel at what my son teaches me through his ways, all that was left of me after that visit was silence and a vacuum.

Many of them, Dad - a sea of faces. They were about thirty couples at Karunalaya, each and every one of them, unique. Mr.Prakasam, the one who was so particular about his fitness was the first one that we met. Clad in his starched white kurta and dhoti, he was taking his morning walk in the garden. Full of warmth, that’s how he was. Mr.Prakasam shook hands with Akash, placed his palm on my head and then on Aryan’s and mumbled a blessing. Welcome, he said, we are all expecting you. We could only smile back, gratefully.

The woman behind my success, he introduced us to his wife, who had just emerged from the puja room. Come beti, she invited me, and then it was ‘ey chotu’ to a visibly nervous Aryan. She indeed looked divine in a simple chungudi saree. How could her children leave her here? How could they do away with such sweet parents?

Dad, each of them had stories to say; some happy, some sad, some heart-wrenching, some really brave. The Subramanians have shared sixty four years of marriage between them. And the love hasn’t diminished one bit, Dad. Mrs. Subramanian could hardly hear and said a different thing while her husband spoke something else. But her better half was patient, always smiling and trying to raise his already feeble voice to as high a decibel as possible, to convey the intent. We are old, he said, and our sons are away in a foreign land. We speak to them once in six months when they call up after sending us some money, he explained, while his wife just brooded and nodded. And suddenly, she looked up and smiled, as if there was no trouble in her world. Is that the slow insanity that old age breeds into one?

Seethamma was different. She was loud, frank and full of disbelief. Her husband was timid, unobtrusive and deep into the day’s newspapers. Seethamma seethed in anger. All you children, you don’t care about your parents. Why have you come here today? You distribute sweets or serve us lunch and go away. Does our misery change after that? She glared at me. The man, lifted his head up, threw a glance our way and then a feeble smile. Commotion, it seemed, was a parcel of his life. But dad, her question fascinated me, quite.

What are we to them, other than being people merely sharing a day’s joy with them (ironically, we hardly know whether what’s happiness for us, is happiness for them as well.) and doing the disappearing act after that? But Dad, I think the solace and the answer is that, we attempt, genuinely at that, to try and bring a smile on to their faces at least for a day; to make them believe that there are people in the world who still care; to massage out the numbness of a lack of love that has clung on to their souls.

Mrs. Parvati insisted she would sit next to Aryan. He reminded her of her grandson, she said. She insisted she would feed him. I let her do it. Aryan didn’t understand, Dad. Confusion was written large on his face. His eyes brimmed with fear. That night, he was quiet and finally asked me, Mama, who are those old people? I told him. I told him, they were like his grandparents, but they stayed there because their children could not take care of them. Why, he asked me, that’s really bad. I nodded and patted his head. Mama, I will take care of you and Papa, when you grow old, he said. I cried silently. After all that claim of ‘we will stay independent in our old age’ that I and Akash so often reiterate to each other, I still seek reassurances. And damn that, from my three year old son, who is yet to see the world, in all its beauty and devilishness.

And what’s with this Indian tradition, Pa? Parents would stay with their sons, but never with their daughters. Isn’t it unjust of the society to have moulded such a strange ideology? We grow old, and children are channels through which we remain assured. At twenty nine, I am already seeking it. I wonder how it would be for you. Don’t you wish you could stay with us, but you still deny yourself the pleasure, just because we all live the Indian way?

Papa, I am serious. I really wish you and mom would consider staying with us, for some days at least. I know how it feels Dad, to be old and staying away. Mrs. Srinivasan words still ring in my ears. She is old, frail and dying. When I turned to leave that day, she held my hands and asked me when I would come back again. Do keep coming, she said, it’s not for the sweets or the food, our tongues have long last that desire to taste. It’s only love and company that we yearn for. I look beyond the gates, everyday, seeing as far as my poor vision can let me see. I imagine I see my son and his family. But they never come.

Love to you and mom,
Sumi

P.S: Keep writing.

In a world of many things..

In a world of many things,


At one moment, you feel you could rest your tired head on to a silky pillow that absorbs all worries while the ivory moon sends its love as rays filtered through the window. That’s when you smile, a smile of light-heartedness, of relief, of a realization of peace and calm.


And then, the next instant you are running into the green open, cutting through straight and sometimes slanted shreds of silvery threads, descending from the heavens. That’s when you get soaked to the skin, unmindful of a world existing around you.


And suddenly, you feel transported back in time, when the scent of the past tickles your nostrils; of days that you have left behind but whose vague memories you have carried along. That’s when life’s meaning dawns; that you have indeed come a long way from being a child.


And what happened to those friends with whom you shared everything from a meal to the deepest secrets? They are all away, but something of a memory stirs in you and you are smiling through reminiscences of love, of a different order.


Ah, then a moment to savour, for it brings with it the first instant you caught his eye, smiling, the instant you held his hand and decided to walk together.


I tell you I tie musical notes to precious flashes of time.


I tell you this is what I live through when my iPod slides from one song to another.


They are unconnected emotions; but ones that make perfect sense, in a world that’s only yours, where music is the backdrop, filling the ears and the being.

It's Feb 01 again!

Two years since it all began and the story continues under a new name. I never thought this journey would come this far when I wrote my first (silly) post on the 1st of February 2005. Then on, I have moved through many, many experiences – some fondly remembered, some best forgotten, and some still making me wonder why they ever happened. This blog is where I have given vent to my many literary dreams – I would scribble ideas and gaze at them in wonder, as they took the form of stories, poems, and essays. Here’s where I could do anything, anytime, and in any damn way I wanted.

At times, I have caught myself smiling at a post, for voicing an opinion way too strongly, that it carried the heat of the moment at which it was written. At other instances, I have journeyed down the memory lane, reliving experiences by merely looking at the written words echoing the past. Dreamy, romantic, and fairy-tale like – that’s how it has been – for I live on with the feeling of constantly being engaged in a fulfilling affair with a virtual lover – one that I really hope will qualify for the much-desired phrase “ and happily ever after..”

This blog year (as I choose to call it) has been a memorable one for me for many reasons. It was also the year which saw one of the most tragic incidents of my life. Of late, this journal has not seen much of an activity, but I sincerely hope things turn for the better, very soon.

Like I said last year, I take this moment to thank each and every one of you who has taken the trouble to come to this site and leave a comment. And a double thanks to those who constantly keep a tab on what’s happening here.

I sincerely hope this blog has much more to offer, in the coming year. Thank you all.

Cheers,
AV

Of cobwebs, dust, and inactivity..

Helplessness, that’s what I feel when I look at The Storyteller’s Hut. I began last year with this story (one of the posts, closest to my heart) and this year, something as trivial as this post. What a contrast!!

Now, how do I stop that bitterness that’s lumping up at my throat?

I miss you dear blog!

I really wish I could find the time to experiment more, to write more! :(

God, are you listening?!!