Dear ‘never meant to be’, That day at the station, five years ago, I did see you - your patent plaid shirt that you insisted was ‘checks’ with your bell-bottomed jeans, sipping your ‘nth’ cutting chai. That train ticket you sent me lies nestled in one of the many books in my library as a bookmark – old, earmarked and forgotten-to-be discovered again. I still think fondly of you, and often, I thank my stars that like you, I did not board that train. I thought you loved me enough to know me well. Yes, I did think for a while that we could be together but not only were we poles apart, I’d never travel in a sleeper class. Hope life has treated you well since. Yours sincerely,
Dear ‘girl of my dreams’, For the entire first year in engineering, I focused on you in
class instead of derivation and integration math. I knew your timetable better
than I knew mine. Your obsession with kala-khatta ice gola was cute too. Your
smile, your long hair, your eyes most of all…they dazzled my senses for the
longest time. However, good things don’t always last. If only… I’d never heard
you talk! You tried too hard to convince anyone who would listen that you had
perfect British accent after your fortnight-long vacation in London’s South
Hall. Are you still waiting for the Queen to call on you for tea? Yours sincerely, Whatever-was-I-thinking-then-stalker ex
I was charmed by your sensitivity. Your words were like music to me; I wanted to wake up to its delicate rhythm and sleep to its gentle notes as your words lulled me into a deep slumber. Everything seemed perfect as if straight out of a book. But then perfection is an illusion, isn’t it? Unlike your cats who may or may not have had nine lives, you had three.
I hope your broken nose hurts you like hell from time to time.
The first time I interviewed someone for an assignment, the
piece came back with a remark which read – ‘MOTS’ needs flesh, i.e. man on the
street needs flesh! Whatever that meant, confusion was my first reaction to it.
However, with writing and then rewriting the same assignment over, and over again,
I realized that I had to add character or rather more ‘meat’ to the story. So
what is my point here? I am trying to say that when someone asks me to read a
new book or try a new author, I am generally wary of them. Why? Because I do
not want to read through the book like a zombie because there is nothing (in
terms of ‘meat) in its story or the characters! But (There is always a catch, isn’t it?) Whispering Paths by
Sneha Subramanian Kanta is different. Her debut publication has already put her
in a league of writers who are out there to tell stories; stories that touch a
chord deep within us and haunt us (in a good way) for time to come. Stories
that a reader can relate to, feel the pain, …
I love the slight nip in the Mumbai air. Although I am a true Mumbaikar at heart, I have come to love winters thanks for four years in Gurgaon, i.e. I don't dread it anymore. A couple of years back, the husband and I took off to Kasauli for a long weekend. The lush greenery and mountains come alive each time I think of the place. I am waiting to go back... someday soon. Here is a shot I took en route the Gilbert Trail.
What comes to your mind when you look at the picture? Share your thoughts!