Sweet Sixteen

I have looked forward to Ponnu’s 16th birthday ever since she turned 15. To me 16 is a milestone. A coming of age. A time to acknowledge that my child is an adult.

For months before her 16th birthday, I spent the gaps in a day when I could just be, wondering how I could make this day special.

I wanted to give her 16 bouquets, one for each year of her life. Accompanying each bouquet was a card, signed by her father and me, and a toy associated with that age. It was an arduous process getting cards for every birthday. I had no idea that most greeting card companies have special cards for just some birthdays like one, two, three, five, et al and not for every birthday that a child celebrates. After scouring many card shops, I decided to do it my way. So I began, what seems laughable now, counting out the pictures on the cards. For the fourth birthday card for instance, I went looking amongst the pile of cards in shops for pictures associated with children of that age. Either four balloons or four red coloured balls and did that for each age that did not have a birthday card to celebrate it. I got some quizzical, some funny glances from the sales guys at the shops as I went about counting pictures on birthday cards!

The next trip was to the florist to tell him how to deliver the bouquets. “You take just one bouquet at a time. After the first bouquet, wait for five minutes and then go upstairs and give the next one.” Luckily for me, the florist caught on to my idea and smiled a lot as I went about giving the instructions.

I ordered for a big cake that pronounced her age. I can still see myself walk down that road a few years ago, visiting many card shops, going about buying gifts and talking to the florist. It was so much fun.

Ponnu’s father could not contain his amusement at my enthusiasm. “Why are you making me sign so many cards,” he asked. A 16th birthday is momentous, I said, and we must make it memorable. He sat down to sign each of the 16 cards.

Ponnu was delighted with the many bouquets. When the first one arrived, she was surprised to read the card with it that said, Now You Are One Year Old. When the next bouquet arrived after five minutes, she realized the game plan. By the fourth bouquet, she decided to leave the door open and smiled at the florist come up the stairs and go down back again to get another bouquet.

Ponnu called me up and said the living room was transformed into a florist shop. I can recall the incredulous laughter in her voice, as I think back to that day. Her face splitting smile when I walked in, hugging her father, and showing off the various bouquets to her grandparents is vividly etched in memory. When the cake was being cut, I looked at my precious child, who was now a young lady.

With all the happiness, my mind threw a shadow. My daughter would soon be leaving home for studies, getting a job and then eventually get married. Ah, life!

You Are Your Own Person

There are many tests, some difficult and some very excruciating, that a parent has to pass through so often in the relationship with her child. I think, it is necessary to do certain things, even if the parent is hurt in the process. In a child’s interest, it is worth crushing the parent’s ego.

As an adult, I have my share of folks I get along with very well and some that I don’t. When the latter comprises of relatives, it is a tough call as one cannot wish them away or walk away from them for keeps. They are there, just as I am.

I decided to keep these personal prejudices (they are just that most often) to myself and not let them colour my child’s view of people and the world around her. After all, I was given this opportunity to nurture her. I did not want to slip up knowingly.

It was not a pleasant task for me to tell Ponnu that this uncle or aunt of yours is nice, when I was not on talking terms with them. Of course, they are, never mind my perceptions. So I encouraged Ponnu to call them up and wish them on festivals, birthdays and whenever she felt like. If she expressed a desire to visit them, I could not accompany her there; but she was to accompany her father or cousins and drop in. Believe me, it was a tough call for me to do that.

I reasoned with myself, I do that because my experiences cannot be that of Ponnu’s. She has to form her own opinions, independent thoughts and act upon them. Of course, it wasn’t that there was any danger looming that I was foolhardy to send her anywhere. I think I also did that, knowing fully well, Ponnu would not be influenced by anything that folks told her. It was that which made it imperative on my part, to not sow thoughts in her tender mind that would fracture her behaviour and perceptions.

When Ponnu asked me questions with regard to my behaviour to a few I did not get along with, I had to learn to think and spell out my reasons without prejudicing her about others and me as well. It was a razor's edge, for sure. To be honest and ask her to respect my views. It is a bit funny and a bit interesting as well for me to know, how differently my child and I view people that we both know. It also puts my behaviour in perspective and I observe curiously her interactions with others.

I always wonder what makes me behave so differently with Ponnu. I don’t think I should think, analyse it too much. As long as I realize I have been given this gift in the form of a child, which reveals so many facets about her and me daily, that is enough.

PTA Meetings

I think there are several personalities within oneself. The best amongst these come out when we love another deeply. I think my best self is that of the mother for it brings about a lightheartedness in me. The time I spend with my child, reveals a little interesting thing about myself and surprises me as well.

Patience is not my strong point. Yet, I can answer for a considerable time most of Ponnu's queries. In return, as Ponnu grew up, she answered most of mine. It was much fun to attend the PTA meetings in school, when Ponnu's results were out and parents were asked to accompany their children. Now, if a parent has been in daily conversation with the child, then he/she knows her friends, teachers, bus driver, conductor to even the vendor selling guavas outside the school gate. So for me attending a PTA meet was to get to know the faces behind the names I knew intimately.

PTA meetings have never been a serious issue with me. I have told Ponnu, studying is her only priority. I encourage her by saying; you are a bright student and can do well for yourself. The stress has been to see she did her school work regularly and realized the importance of studying. Once the results were out, there have not been any reprimands, for that to me is a pointless exercise. You stress yourself and your child by getting angry if the results are not good or not to your expectations.

On every occasion that I have visited Ponnu's school for PTA meets, I have had nothing to ask of the teacher. I scan the answer sheets and since Ponnu is a good student, there is nothing much to discuss there. When the teacher calls out Ponnu's name, I go up front with Ponnu and the teacher goes, she could have done even better, and I nod. Within two minutes, it is all over and we both walk out.

I have wondered why PTA meetings are such solemn occasions. I have had the most fun conversations on the back benches of Ponnu's classroom discussing softly the various silly and fun elements of her student life that academic year and Ponnu pointing out her many friends in there. When it was our turn to meet the teacher, I have had to summon a solemn expression on my face with much difficulty.

In my memory of PTA days, one occasion stands out. When her English teacher told me and Ponnu, "She is a student who can turn any situation into a success." That is all a child needs. Encouragement from people she respects. I was blessed to have met with some fine teachers who helped my child along and made my job as a parent so much easier.

Eh, you are the best!

It is silly to compare your child with anyone else. Well, I realised it was only a thought and I was not practising it really.

I've told Ponnu that no matter who gets what to class by way of a better eraser or pencil, she was not to come home and ask for it. "You don't compare yourself with others. There are some things that I can afford to buy and some that I won't buy just because you want to have it, when there is no need for it." So the message was clear: No comparisons.

Yet, when the exam results were out, I'd ask, so how much did X or Y score? The answer would come pat. "Don't compare, Ma. You only said so." To compare is a habit that gets callused over the years, difficult to get off.

I believe it is most easy to infuse confidence in one's child and get her to do what she fears by simply encouraging her to believe she is the best. Ponnu's class had many toppers and though Ponnu was not a topper, she was among the best students in class.

In the final year in school, it was time for the Head Girl to be chosen. Ponnu wondered whether she should join the race. I said, go for it. "But I am not among the toppers who stand a better chance," she said. I said, "Don't let that bother you. Just go for it."

Then began preparations at home with mock sessions where I alternated from being the Principal to the Science teacher or the English teacher, all of them would be on the panel, and fire questions at Ponnu. I coached her from how to knock and enter the Principal's room (though she knew it, but no harm in repeating it again, I reckoned) to maintaining eye contact with the panel while answering, to be confident and say why Ponnu thought she was eligible for the post; the drill was on. The initial apprehensions of there being `toppers' in there vying for the post petered down as the days went by and I asked her to block it all off. On the day of the `interview', I was expectedly more nervous.

I waited anxiously for Ponnu's arrival back from school. Even with all the coaching, the result was a surprise to me. When Ponnu called up and said, "the results are out," I was quiet and said, ok. Then she said softly, "I have been chosen to be the head girl." Hearing that, I could not stop myself from shouting into the phone, "What?"

When I came home from work, Ponnu and I had a hearty laugh when I heard about the interview. Ponnu is an avid reader. Harry Potter is one of her favorite books. When the school panel asked her questions ranging from her ambition in life to what she wanted to do as a Head Girl, the best queston came last from the English teacher. "Do you read," she asked at which Ponnu said yes. The funniest question to us was, "Have you read Harry Potter?" To that Ponnu was able to talk without pause about the book and its author.

To be chosen the Head Girl was an interesting lesson for Ponnu. No matter who was in the ring, Ponnu had every chance of winning when she believed in herself. To me that was important. Every step that my child took and succeeded in going further, I was able to let go of my anxieties about her.

It's Christmas!

The nicest thing about being a parent is that one can do all the fun things one had imagined as one grew up. To me, as a child growing up, Christmas was richly decorated shop windows and the stars hanging out in people’s homes. I wanted to be part of those festivities and looked forward to going to friends homes. What I wanted to see there was the Christmas tree, crib and the decorations on the walls and ceilings. There is something about Christmas I can’t explain. I just love the festival.

Though we are not Christians, when Ponnu was born, I decided to celebrate Christmas. Our first Christmas was when she was two years old. I had told Ponnu the story of Christmas and since most of our waking hours were spent in reading out from story books, she knew what to expect.

With a photographer friend of mine from office, I went to Crawford market and had much fun choosing decorations and buying a small artificial tree. I love giving gifts and surprising folks a lot. So I bought a huge teddy bear (I am partial to soft toys), picture books, colour pencils and missed a few local trains so that I could get an empty local to go home in the evening. I was very, very excited. I called up home and had Ponnu busy at some task till I hid the presents. Later, with her in tow, I did up the house. Ponnu’s father, the sport that he is, also pitched in.

Ponnu wondered how Santa Claus could come to our house since it did not have a chimney. So I said, he would come through the window. At that, her father piped up. “Let him come through the living room window for I don’t want him creating a ruckus at midnight, when I am asleep!” Promptly I put a bed for both of us in the living room. I left the windows ajar, and she was too excited to sleep. At 11.45 pm, I said, `Ponnu, you go to sleep or Santa may go off seeing you awake.’ She shut her eyes and in a little while was asleep.

I went and got her presents from where I had hid them and placed them next to her pillow. A few minutes after midnight, I softly tapped her and said, `See, what Santa has left you”. With much squeals and ripping of satin bows, cellophane and coloured papers; the teddy bear and the other presents were held up with much delight. Since both of us were very excited and happy, we decided to wake up Achchan. Ponnu showed off her gifts while her father looked at me with much amusement when she said, ‘Santa gave this to me’.

On one occasion I bought a gift without giving it much thought. Ponnu was just 4 years old. I saw this cane-woven pram at Crawford market and decided to buy it. I also bought story books that I wanted Ponnu to read and colouring books as well. I decided to buy a doll to put in the pram, and got it gift wrapped. It was quite a big parcel and I had to miss even the usual late trains to go home. When I reached home, I locked the room after hiding the parcel in there.

The huge gift when seen lying down from the child’s pillow was a bit terrifying in the dark. Ponnu woke up, when I tapped her awake, and she went, 'ooh' for a split second. Then the ruckus we created tearing off the coloured paper from the pram that year still remains unmatched in my memory.

In the morning, when Ponnu’s father saw the gift I had got, he remarked , “I have yet to see a grown up woman lying in a pram”. It was then that I realized what I had done. I had got a Barbie and placed her in the pram!

Christmas continues to be our Big day. By the first week of December, we get down to tracking the Catholic lady who makes Christmas sweets, tick off from her list the delicacies we want to buy and then go and fetch it just before Christmas Day. Now we have a big tree which we bring out by Dec 20. Then both of us do it up with the many many decorations that we have collected over the years. Of course, now Ponnu does the major part and I help her out with the decorations. The only thing we haven’t done yet is attend Mass. One day soon, I am sure we will do that as well.

Ponnu wants me to find out about other religious festivals to celebrate next year. Her enthusiasm makes every day a joyous celebration. The miracles a child can infuse into an adult’s life!

A Lesson for Mama

The first time I received a mail from Ponnu was when she was six years old or about that age. She was learning to write Malayalam. I was lying down and reading a book when the little girl came running into the room, dropped a note near my feet and shouted, Post and ran off. I was a bit surprised as I picked up the note.

It was a page torn off a notebook and on every line were the words, Amma (written in Malayalam) followed with I Love You in English. I was very happy. I read it and shouted out Thank You. A little later, I saw the little one peering through the doorway and I said, Thank You again. She grinned and ran off, a bit shy. Every time she felt very happy or was thrilled about something, I got these notes. Once I left my diary filled with my contact numbers on the table at home, and later picked it up and zipped it shut in my bag. When I reached office and opened the diary, I saw below my name these words, `Mom, I love you’. At 7 am, on an early morning shift, it cheered me up for the day.

I have since then received a number of notes from Ponnu. Like the time she was taught to scrunch bits of coloured paper and stick them up inside objects she drew on her drawing book. That idea translated into a hand made card for my birthday, which had an orange made of scrunched up bits of paper and when the card was opened, it said, `Happy Birthday Mom. Love you’ and signed Ponnu. Or one written on a Barbie notepad, which said, `I love you very much, Mom' and signed her given name instead of Ponnu. I carry this note with me and have opened it innumerable times to read it, though it has been some years since I got it.

If there is something I take much pride in is that I have helped Ponnu see that there are folks who are different from the way we live and conduct ourselves and that we are not called upon to judge them. Some lessons I have passed on without really putting them in place in my life, though. Then these lessons are delivered home to me by the child, who has grasped it. So if I did something that offended her, I was told, You are badly behaved. To Ponnu and to me, that is the worst that one can say. So if I raised my voice and spoke with her, or insisted that I wanted the remote to the TV though she was already watching a programme, I was told, `You are badly behaved’.

The one time that was memorable and a bit sad as well was when she went to spend time with a close relative, who remarked that I had forgotten to drop something to her house I had said I would. “Why is your mom so forgetful,” she had asked Ponnu. The next time the relative came home and called Ponnu over, she just smiled without saying a yes or a no. After she left, I asked her would she like to be dropped to their home and she said, No. On being asked why, she said, `She is badly behaved’. No amount of coaxing revealed what that relative had said. I decided to ask the relative itself. After jogging her memory, she said that the only thing that could rankle, if at all, was this comment she had made. To me that comment hardly mattered. I learnt from Ponnu then, you don’t need to elaborate bad things at all. `Badly Behaved’ would do nicely.

Ask and say why

I can never spank Ponnu. But the flip side to it is that it is easy to make Ponnu grasp what I expect of her. So the three year old Ponnu, whom I never let go unsupervised to play in the building compound until then, was allowed to go ‘cos she `spoke’ to me about it. “Why can’t I go alone?” I cloaked the answer by saying that I was away at work and she would have to go with the maid. “But why can’t I go alone?” she persisted. I could not have let her in on my fears that I worried she’d be lost away from my sight or anyone I considered responsible to take care of her. So, I began what I have since then done. Told her what I expected of her and gave her the reasons why I do what I do. “You can go down to play, but the moment you decide to move off from this ground from where I or the maid can see you, to the back of the building where the swings are, you must come and let me know. For, I don’t want to go and ask anyone, where are you.” She nodded her head and that is what she did. Always. Kept me in the know of what she is doing.

There has always been this abhorrence of asking anyone about Ponnu. She is my child. If she has something to say and do, she will let me know. I haven’t really sat the little Ponnu down and spoken with her. But the talks in my interactions with her have been of what I thought she ought to do. I have held that dream close to my heart – of my child and me and the fun that it is. I have followed just that through. So, there are no talks of `Don’t do this'. Why bring in the negatives at all. Just say, do this. If she was not convinced, considering that she was just three or four years old then, I have still given her the reasons nevertheless. I think I did that for I wanted to have complete openness in our relationship.

It was funny when I told Ponnu, `Never take anything that does not belong to you, without asking for permission’, and she interpreted it the way she wanted to, at first. So the three year old would go running to her father’s work table and pick up what she fancied, either paperweights or rulers or pencils, and ask, “Can I take this, achcha?” and without waiting for his reply would give herself the permission, “Ok” and run off. By the time achchan looked up from his paper work, she’d be gone and he’d go, Ponnu bring it here and she’d run back and show him what she had taken. Of course, I had to then tell her, it was not on. She laughed, knowing fully well what she had done.

I think, it is important to give our reasons for what we ask of our children, just like we do with adults. Not just that, but let the child argue if she has not understood the reasons why. Like I tell Ponnu always, I don’t know the answers to all your queries. I cannot. But if you think you know, and as you grow up and know more through books, the Net, your friends, and feel what I have said is not right, argue. I said, if I am very angry when I speak and say, Of course not, just do as I say to you; just stand your ground, if you are right. Don’t shout or go away in a huff. Or best, just be calm. When I am calm, come back and talk to me about it. It works. It has for me.

Was I Right?

Most things in hindsight seem a bit foolish. Like one’s obsessive behaviour or fears. All these seem irrational much later. There are of course no absolute rights or wrongs. Each mother goes by her instinct.

It has been, to me, much fun to flow with my instincts and do what I feel for Ponnu. To let her react to me, and take it on from there. So, meal times were never tiresome times. `You don’t want to eat anymore, Ponnu?’, to which the answer is to blow baby food out by whirring the tongue to the palate, or to turn the face away when the spoon reaches her mouth, and that to me signalled the end of the meal. Perhaps, it would have been nice to coax her to eat a spoonful more. Perhaps. I honestly don’t know even now. When friends have told me of their concern for their children’s eating habits and how they got them to finish a meal, I’ve wondered whether I was right or wrong.

Irrational fears gripped me. Like when I went to the pediatrician and told him, “I think the child’s legs are uneven”. It took hours to get the doc’s appointment and even when one got it, one had to wait in the reception, amongst bawling babies and worried mothers before one’s turn came. When Ponnu’s name was called out, I walked in and said what I thought was the problem with her. The doc looked at me, and asked if I was a first time mother. I nodded. He took the six month old baby from my arms, and asked me how I had come to the conclusion her legs were uneven. I said, “See doc, if you hold her feet together, one appears a bit short than the other.” That was when Ponnu lay on her back and her feet was in the air. The doc looked on patiently, then held the baby upright and she put her feet down on the table and they were not askew as I thought. The doc looked at me and I went, hmmm. I came away feeling guilty for having taken his time, when there were babies in the clinic that needed the doctor’s attention even more.

School time was my `crying’ time. I had spoken with and prepared Ponnu about where she was going and what she would be doing there. The four year old Ponnu was calm and looked around with much curiosity. I was the one unprepared here. How does any parent leave a child in a school, filled with strangers and move away? When I went to leave Ponnu in her Junior KG class, I scanned the room and found it had two doors through which, it seemed to me, the child could walk off when the teacher’s attention was on the black board. So I went to the teacher on the first day of school, and spoke as calmly as I could (never mind my heart’s massive thumping), “Please see to it that the child does not walk out of the door,” to which she looked at me and shook her head and said there were ayahs around. The next worry was the school bus. “I am a working mother. I can’t fetch my child back from school. Her bus badge is pinned on her uniform, but I hope she will be put on the right school bus home.” Saying this, I found I could not stop my eyes from welling up. The teacher just looked at me and then squeezed my shoulder.

A child is so dependent on the adult accompanying it or in whose care it is left. I know the prayers I have said to keep mine in the safest hands. And before one knows, Ponnu holds my hand and shows me her friends. From my constant, `this is my daughter’, to Ponnu’s showing me `my friend’ while still clutching my hand, was the start of another exciting journey.

Baby Mine

I had read a lot about raising babies in several books and magazines. I was never worried about doing anything wrong. The only thing that I was a bit obsessive about was keeping the child washed, bathed and smelling nice of baby powder and cream. So, if anyone picked Ponnu up, I hovered close, lest they kiss her. The moment they held her cheeks to theirs, I’d go, `Oh, please don’t do that. Her skin is tender. Don’t kiss her. We adults move around in so many places and it is so easy for a child to pick up germs’. No, I wasn’t worried about anyone’s reactions.

Bath time was such fun. I would tell her about water, splash it around, sing funny rhymes and tell her what I was doing. `Now amma is putting soap’ or `this is warm water’. It is incredible what an adult can create and say to a child, to make the most mundane tasks seem such a pleasure. To talk to a child, behave silly and then turn around and talk calmly to an adult, as if the former behaviour was just an aberration. Indeed it is. Only that this springs up every time you are with your child!

The fears of a working mother leaving her infant with a maid or a relative is a lot imaginary and a little worrisome as well. Ponnu with a maid and a family elder too, cannot be `looked after’ as well as I can. And as one reads about child abuse, infant deaths in cribs; one’s mind struggles to hold on to sanity. Then the half-hourly phone call back home just speeds up to an even shorter interval, and a seemingly calm question asked, What is Ponnu doing?

The first word a child utters is the most melodious. 'Amma'. And I go, say it again, Ponnu. While the father watches half smilingly and hopes for the time she will call out to him. Funny it is when the father gently tells Ponnu, say achchan and she looks, smiles and reaches out to touch his face only to end up holding his nose. And he takes the tiny hand in his and still persists, achchan Ponnu. Ach-chan. Ponnu by then has found the hair on achchan’s head more fascinating and is holding on to it dearly.

In life, I have come to believe, we react most positively to that we love unconditionally. Where there are no expectations. And then the magic begins. It is there as long as we are willing to nurture it with love, with care and it reverberates in our hearts and minds and our homes with laughter.

A child is a gift given to every parent. Accept it with gratitude and treat it with respect, love and understanding. Each day with a child is a new day. And when you love your child with an intensity that is bewildering, a love that fills you up that it can’t be translated in words; it is only then that you ache with surprising ease when you see any child crying or is left alone with a little sibling or is shouted upon by its miserable mother.

I have often asked of God - when I see a child bundled in dirty rags or is denied a feed and instead given a pacifier to suck on – why would You let the child be born there? It is surprising to know that the same local trains you traveled in, the same roads you walked on and did not notice anything out of the ordinary until yesterday, have suddenly changed in a way after you became a parent. After I became a mother, I noticed every child left alone in all these places. My ears even picked up a child’s cry in crowded compartments and hoped its mother was around to comfort it.

A child in my life made me realize I was blessed. I could have been denied this gift and perhaps I would not have made a huge fuss about the lack of it, career driven as I am. But, Ponnu opened my eyes and ears and my heart to sights, sounds and silences I never gave a thought to.

I believed

I have always thought in depth about life. How easy it is for some folks to get what they want in life. And how much more struggle I had to put in to get what I wanted. This thought persisted for a major part of my life. Until I realized, of course after loads of self pity and comfort in tears, that what I lacked was self belief. I did not believe I was good enough for anything. And fuelled it with sad thoughts and imagined hurts.

The first time I really believed good about myself and sustained it, it turned out to be true. I believed I would have a daughter and that I would raise her well. I saw the life with my child much before she was born and not once did the picture waver.

I started `talking' with Ponnu even as she was in my womb. Of course you don't know for sure the gender of the baby. But it does not matter. You have a baby within you and you connect. I would walk down a road and tell the baby in my mind, of course, now amma is seeing this or doing that. The best was when I would dash quickly to cross the road or run to get into the local train. Baby, here goes. Now run. Phew! We made it, baby.

When Ponnu was born, I was happy to talk with her, hold her close and see her as I talked. And what did I tell her? Stories of The Wise Crow, Fox and the Grapes, Hare and the Tortoise and several such which came readily to my mind. All these were accompanied with sounds of the birds, animals – in short, the works. And everyone around smiled. An uncle looked surprised. `You are talking to the week old baby in English? Will she understand? And what are you telling her stories like this for?’ I wanted her to know my voice. Know this was amma. Now, who really is worried about what anyone thinks about me talking nonstop? Well, that was the first revelation for me. I was confident about myself as a mother.

A child needs just love, trust and loads of respect. So simple. Just as we adults do. It is so easy really being patient with a child. You don’t call names to the one who is yours. You get angry at times. But it is so easy to say, I am very angry with you now. Just as one responds to a good gesture with -- I appreciate what you have done or go on and on with thank-yous; similarly, say you are angry when you are. Don't call a child names.

To be able to show the infant Ponnu the world outside our window, the first thing in the morning and say, "Hey princess.. look at the world". Point out the leaves on trees, the birds. To ask, "Can you see the sun?" And the baby just looks on.. To make everything from feeds to baths to combing hair a BIG activity. It just is for a new mother.

Of course I got angry and impatient many times. Once even thought, hey, what possessed me to have a baby when I did not understand what she was crying for and nothing pacified her. God, what do I really know about children except for those times I have seen them in their mothers' arms and all I did was tickle them under their chin and watch them gurgle. But this was my baby 24x7. She cried, she smiled. I did not have the answers to it all, though she was mine.

Hey, I just realized, perhaps this blog will be about Ponnu. Well, why not? A child is indeed god’s whisper calling out loud. Hug her, kiss her and keep her close.

Here I Go

All my friends have left. And I am alone in this work space. No one to talk my thoughts with. So best I thought, talk to oneself on a blog.

A friend has been saying for a long time, "You talk so much. Better use that energy and write". I said, "Will, will". Of course, I never did. Words are so much easy to exchange face to face; one notices emotions on mobile faces, see subtle changes in body language and there is always animated laughter over a joke and the usual pssst.. over gossip. But when folks one is comfortable with, leave for `better prospects’, what does a wordsmith do? Hmm.. write a blog.

Good enough reason, I suppose. Talk to oneself and see what words describe one’s thoughts.