A couple of weeks back, I told someone in my office that he had lost my trust because he could have done better. I waited, willing myself not to visibly fidget, while he processed this statement. He asked me how could he make it better. I shrugged and replied, “Sometimes you just can’t”. Without the full context this might seem harsh on my part, but I remain convinced he deserved to hear this. Since then, I have basked in this…
no one other than my parents and grandparents perhaps loved me the way she did when i was two and three and four… traces of that love, that favouring, lingered well into my twenties and more. the last time i saw her i was around 38, and her eyes still rested on me gently. tubu mashi of no e-88, duliajan, our next door neighbour. who’d babysit me anytime, who would cry with me if i cried for my parents, who…
gadwal. when i was too young to know anything about sarees other than all women – yes, it was practically all the women i knew or saw around me – wore them, that word always intrigued me. spending a lot of time in delhi while growing up, i was aware of garhwal, near the himalaya mountains in the north, a hilly place with lots of nice small towns and warmhearted people… many of whom came to delhi in search of…
There once lived a rude man in a lovely cottage just outside of town. His name was Mr. Red. And he was very rude indeed. Early in the morning, when the helpful bird outside his window chirped, on the branch of a maple tree, Mr. Red slid open the glass and shouted, “That’s enough noise. Shoo!” The bird ruffled his beautiful blue feathers and flew to his flock. He said, “That man, Mr. Red, is so rude indeed.” Later in…
