BONDS

Some bonds stay for long; some are destined to be broken the minute they are formed; 

Some connections are forged for a lifetime; and some take a lifetime to call it off; 

Loud raucous laughter of friendships can be heard booming outside a window;

Countless giggles and rummaging of thoughts taking place on a summery afternoon

There are times when you don’t seek bonds, nor wait for any connections to be formed, 

You are content in hiding inside the solitary warmth of your own being; 

Taking long walks on weathered paths; where the autumn leaves lie pale and yellow;

A canary singing in the woods; the mind in complete solitude

Certain friendships lead to an untimely death; due to reasons unknown; 

Maybe they were never meant to be; wilting away like an unstable tree; 

On the face of a thunderstorm’s fury

Long silences are drawn; a friendship once filled with the softness of marshmallows; 

Now lies supine awaiting the test of time

A gnawing boulder of snow stands in between, cold and unresponsive; 

The silence; building up like a chasm, tugging at your heartstrings

Maybe there will come joyous moments again; to be celebrated with much fanfare; 

Where the sunshine will return melting the snow away; 

Arms will then be outstretched; boundaries will be crossed; 

As we welcome each other back into our lives again.

Until then we wait; and we wait some more…

A SOIREE OF MEMORIES

The images are blurry now. But the moment I shut my eyes I am transported back in time when I was a little girl. Recollecting those days fill me with a certain kind of comfort. The most vivid part I remember was the path leading to school. Embedded with sprawling green trees on both sides, the mud filled road would let out a billow of smoke every time a rickety old car used to pass over it. At the far end of the lane there stood a lone majestic tree, which had flowers in muted colors of dull gold and pink. There was something so enchanting about those flowers that carried a wicked scent that if I was allowed time to sneak away from school, I would have merrily sat underneath the tree stringing at those scattered flowers.

At the same time what triggers my memory was an old wives tale doing the rounds then that the fragrance emitted from those flowers used to be so powerful that they would attract snakes in the middle of the night. And to add to it, if one made the ludicrous mistake of passing under the ill-fated tree during the dark hours, one could very well hear the hiss of the snakes coiled up in the hanging roots of that tree. (Shudder!)

Another place which distinctly sprouts happy memories in my head is spending summer holidays in the village. The house where I stayed was sturdily built and largely contained mammoth rooms but the place that was closest to my heart and still is, was being cooped up inside a tiny room which had a small wooden window, opening up to a patch of land that housed a variety of trees. Many a summer has passed in getting my petite form curled up in the secure branches of the mango trees reading a book or two without a care in the world.

For me the most memorable part of my day was when the sun used to crouch behind puffed up angry clouds, turning the sky into a somber grey, resulting in rain falling in straight thick sheets. It felt like witnessing a musical frenzy as shards of lightning would dazzle the sky followed with loud claps of thunder. The trees would shake vigorously in answer to the nature’s fury. The wooden window would rattle hard, maybe urging me to shut it so I didn’t have to witness the manic mood of the monsoon.  But all that I would do was stay transfixed at the very spot watching nature unfolding its magic.

Within a span of few minutes, the whole atmosphere would change and the situation would come under control. The entire place drenched, freshly washed used to look beautiful; the olive green leaves would shine as dew drops nestled on it, the birds would come out of their hiding joints, shaking their wings enthusiastically as though trying to get rid of the last droplets of water. The scent of freshly washed mound of earth would fill up the entire place, and in a far off corner, the wood would get piled in a stack to start a raging fire.

So how many of us take time out and travel the off beaten path to relive the memories which made everything feel so special when you were a child?

The sky that insists is going to fall over

Has one ever noticed the color of the sky on a pale early morning? As if, covered in a thin veil of misty haze just like a shy bride who is not yet ready to reveal herself.

The day slowly progresses with fluffed up clouds sailing together, knocking against each other like a bunch of giggly school girls making their way home. At that hour the sky is painted a mesmerizing blue. If one gets a chance to follow the trail of the boisterous snow colored clouds they will unwittingly lead you towards the hills. There, on top, in the midst of wilderness, as you gaze at the valleys and mountains that stand tall, the clouds will gently let go of their initial reluctance and shall make their way down towards you; in an attempt to kiss you. With your arms outstretched you embrace them one by one. The sight then gets locked in your mind forever.

There are days when the sky lets out a deep rumble and stares angrily at you from above. One wonders the cause of this thunderous outburst. The streaks of lightning followed with maddening claps of thunder remind you of a dragon serpent angrily emerging from the rough sea waters blowing venom filled fumes.  And the manner in which it does a frenzied dance by spinning it's tail and showing its fangs, the roaring clouds too clash against each other in a rage that is scary and overwhelming at the same time.

At that moment one truly gets the feeling that the sky is going split and fall over.

It could be days before the fury subsides. But, when it does, what follows is a trickling flow of serenity and calmness. The golden orange evening sun sheepishly makes its presence felt by peeping from behind the tired clouds. A pattern of multi-colored hues decorates the honey stained skies revealing a perfect rainbow. The colors are translucent, one blending with the other but vivid enough to paint a perfect arch in the sky.

Soon, nightfall descends, turning the sky into a deep purple blue. One looks up to find a thin trail of tiny sparkling stars etching the sky creating an effect of an embroidered quilt with shining hollows embedded within.

The sensation is simply overpowering. It’s then the moment I wish that the sky should indeed fall over so I could trudge on an unknown path and collect each one of those magical twinkling lights strewn along the way.

Living through fairy tales!

As the lights go dim I retire into my bed with visions of daily living running through my head. In a few moments, I am transported into the world of dreams. Dreams where I see cackling witches sitting on dusty brooms and speeding off into misty skies, of pretty princesses locked up in high towers and ugly toads turning into handsome princes the minute they get released from their wicked spells. As the morning sunlight slides through the thick window blinds with a slight twinge I realize that my fairy tale dream has come to an end. These dreams have filled me with warmth as soft and gooey as marshmallows. They say dreams are the mirror to your soul and I cling on to them, because they stir something deep within me making me believe that my soul belongs someplace else; from a long forgotten era, wrapped up in fantasies of enchanting stories from faraway lands.

For instance I find the tale of “The Pied Piper” fascinating and bewildering at the same time. With his red pointed shiny hat, a tiny beard twitching at his chin and a cape loosely thrown over his shoulders he makes a very queer picture. But he has immense prowess stacked up inside him as he succeeds in banishing an entire colony of rats from the city of Hamelin. Hypnotized, rats from all nooks and corner; big fat ones, skinny ones, some having their tails standing erect all jump and scuttle to the strain of Pied Piper’s flute. He finally leads them to the sea, where they all perish. But poor Pied Piper gets a raw deal when the people of Hamelin do not stick to their end of the bargain. As part of revenge he leads all the kids from the city; golden haired girls with rosy cheeks and boys with pearly white teeth and shiny shoes to a merry trail of dance and music. The whole fairy tale has this unreal fantasy woven around it as the children flounder behind Pied Piper following him in a trance. In my many childish fantasies I had come to think of myself as one of the kids clambering on to the hill top, happily rambling behind Pied Piper as he takes us to the mouth of a huge dark cave. Beautiful visions are assured that once we enter the cave, we shall all topple to the other side of life which promises blissful joys, colourful candies, a forest where honeybees have lost their stings and where horses wore eagle’s wings and finally a garden which is a paradise blazing with sweet scented roses.

And then there is my eternal favourite fairy tale character “Rapunzel” seated atop a lonely chamber, all by herself, ensconced in a fortress so tall, which is impossible for any man to scale it. In this story, I do not envision myself as Rapunzel for her beauty is one which no living mortal can surpass, but I could be a mere bystander maybe a tiny mouse living between the ruined walls of the tall tower, playing hide and seek with day and light, watching Rapunzel’s love story unravel before me. In my fantasy, my face is plastered to a tiny hole as I literally stay there morning, noon and night watching her every move with my beady eyes. I am mesmerised with her beauty. Her skin is so pale and translucent; it glows when the flames from the firewood embers casts its gleaming specs, her quivering mouth has the deepest set of red lips and finally her hair. Beautiful long tresses falling like a golden sheet of finely spun gossamer yarn, casting a shadow of glittering yellow all around. She has a voice so divine, that even the birds outside the fort stop chirping just to listen to her melodious singing. It is filled with melancholy and pain of being trapped inside the tower, but it is this very soulful singing that one day entraps a handsome royal prince riding in the woods, making him stop by and fall in love with her. As the days go by, every evening, Rapunzel lets down her golden braid so that her lover can use it as a rope to climb up and visit her. There is something so clandestine and charming about the whole romance from that era that it takes my breath away. Maybe there is a tragic ending out there but I shut my mind towards it.

And who can forget little Thumbelina. No taller than the size of a little thumb, she portrays a picture of a delicate elusive little maiden. Her bed is cushioned with soft blue leaves, enclosed in a walnut shell and rose petals aid as her blanket. Her perilous journey begins when one day she is whisked from her comforts by a large ugly toad who insists she marries his equally ugly son. She manages to escape only to land up at a mouse’s house who introduces her to his friend a dark, shortsighted mole. The mole falls in love with Thumbelina and wants her to become his wedded wife. Thumbelina’s life is in doldrums and this is the part where I envision myself coming to her rescue in the form of a friendly swallow. With my wings outstretched I let her nestle at the croon of my neck and together we manage our escape from the dark tunnel. Soaring over snowcapped mountains and beautiful hilltops we finally reach a warmer place where I drop her into a little blossoming flower. Here, she finally finds her man of dreams the King of the Angel Fairies who is as tiny as her. 

In all the above tales, I do not see myself as the main protagonist. At times, I am only a mere onlooker in the back run watching the sequence of events unfold around me. These fairy tales will always be surrounded with an age old beauty that shall never get dull with the passage of time. There will be stories told of ogres and the fiery dragons being run over and trampled by handsome princes, magical goblins hidden in beautiful scented flowers, tiny dwarfs acting as soldiers and protecting pretty princesses, fairy angels springing up and spreading their special charms. So the good will always triumph over the evil and as long as these tales continue to stir magic into my soul and fantasies are spun around them, every minute of living becomes worth it.

So dream on; tell me who your favourite fairy tale character is?

The Mosquito Trap

Those days, in the mid-eighties the nights used to get really hot and sticky. The fan would be whirring at top speed but would prove ineffective in its attempt in cooling the room. Air conditioners were a thing completely unheard of then. And to add further misery to my plight every night I would indulge in a bitter fight with the mosquitoes. Come morning and I would be left with red, blob like blisters all over my face, my hands and legs which obviously declared who had won the battle the previous night. My poor Dad would unfailingly spray from the can of Bagon Spray every night and it would leave me with a joy so profound to see the sight of them dropping dead one by one, once the poisonous fumes were inhaled. But the wretchedness of the whole situation was that the wrath of those fumes would escape a certain breed of mosquitoes that were expert in hiding in every nook and cranny available, and who made their presence felt only once the rooms would get engulfed in darkness.

With limited access to television watching those days and ground rules observed on playtime deadlines in the evenings, I would often be left with a lot of spare time to indulge in. So, one of my favorite quirky pastimes would be killing those low life brutes. It used to happen before leaving for school, in the evenings after I came back from play, while having a bath and so on and so forth. Thump, thump, boom, bam the noises were heard around all the time. There was a day when I touched a record of killing 434 mosquitoes. Okay! I just made that up. But the fact of the matter is that I had taken upon myself as a mean challenge to kill as many of those blood sucking creatures and every single day for a week or so I used to diligently maintain a count of the mosquitoes I had killed.

Most of the houses then had thin pale blue nets covering the window sills. In the evenings when the sky would turn azure and dusk would settle in there would be a shimmering dotted layer of grey which would cloud the blue nets. On closer inspection it would turn out to be the mosquitoes that would be clinging on to the nets as though their life depended on it, flapping their tiny wings with all gusto. They seemed to be a talkative bunch with their non-stop incessant buzzing.

I would immediately get on to the task of shooing those little monsters with whatever little I could lay my hands on. Some occasions it would be mother’s red duster lying around, on other days Dad’s morning newspaper and there were times when my plain hands would do justice of killing the pests.

One fine morning I had woken up earlier than usual and was standing at the balcony enjoying the sight outside my window. The birds had engaged themselves in some mindless chatter and the squirrels were busy scampering up and down the tree tops chasing each other while playing a game of peek-a-boo, displaying a devilish grin once they reached on top of the highest branch, proudly flashing their bushy tails.

My morning reverie was instantly shattered when all of a sudden I heard a grrrrring noise coming from the far end of the building which sounded like an ancient car in its last stages moaning itself to a slow death. The deafening noise made the birds flap their wings vigorously and the squirrels ran to seek shelter within the narrow alcoves formed in the trunks of the trees.

To my surprise, I caught sight of this lanky, young man announcing his arrival with all pomp and glory by carrying a fog machine that resembled a mini cannon.  .

He wasted no time in aiming the nozzle of the fog machine at every possible direction; it was aimed at the mangy growth of shrubs nearby, in and around the drains, underneath the cars parked one besides the other, the watchman’s cabin; he even managed to point the nozzle inside the deep crevices of the moss covered walls. With slow easy movements, he approached the backside of our building and within minutes a gush of white smoke made way into my living room, the bedroom and I could even see a thin film of smoke slyly seeping through the closed door of the bathroom.

I darted out of the house with a spring in my step, my joy knowing no bounds and followed my so called “Savior.” The thick foggy milky white fumes came spilling out of the machine in full roar making me drench in a complete mist of haze. For several seconds I simply stood there with a smile on my face, letting the whole blanket of fog and mist envelope my mind and senses.

For a moment I pitied his job. Imagine roaming around with a heavy weight and lugging it all day long in the trapped heat of the summer. Also notwithstanding the fact was the constant drone of noise that accompanied him.  I would have happily traded his job with mine, although at that point I didn’t hold any. My only job was to study, and if that meant skipping the boring logarithms and geometry theorems, I wouldn’t have minded trading it with the noise and slaving in the hot sun; keeping only one goal in mind which was to put an end to the incorrigible pests.

Later, the rest of the day passed without the sight of a single mosquito around but I out of sheer habit kept looking behind my shoulder every now and then trying to catch the familiar sight of the mosquitoes buzzing around me.

So that was the end of my mosquito saga and that night in particular I drifted into my first ever soundless sleep.

Leaving you all with a quote from the great Dalai Lama which makes absolute sense

So all you wonderful people out there, do you have a mosquito story tucked in some corner of your memory? I would love to hear it.

Sweet Fortune

The dark grey clouds were raging mad in the sky. Two days ago a blazing sandstorm had destructed a cluster of small islands; the aftermath of which was felt in a lot of places. The storm had subsided exactly forty eight hours later leaving a trail of wreckage behind. Somewhere deep down people could still hear the earth bellowing. The villagers from the adjoining island were even more ill-fated. The mad fury of Mother Nature had ripped away every last bit of their belongings as the sea swept almost everything that came her way.

Arjun could see the boat approaching from far. The entire village had gathered near the jetty, awaiting the arrival of the rescue boat that was carrying people from the neighboring island. Finally it reached ashore. Men, women and children of all sizes started clambering down from the boat in one go. The babies wept as they clung desperately to their mothers. Few walked around with a stoned look, as if they were just hit by a tornado. And indeed they were. The raging blizzard had destroyed these people’s lives overnight. All was ruined and yet they could barely manage to gather their wounded spirits to make way home here.

In the midst of all this chaos Arjun’s eyes fell on her. Something about her struck him so intensely that it was impossible for him to draw his attention away. She was no ravishing beauty but her striking silhouette made everyone around look pale in comparison. Wearing a skirt and a choli that barely covered her tiny frame; she stood alone in one corner of the boat awaiting her turn to alight. She seemed completely unfazed by the hysterical frenzy that was taking place. And then he noticed a slight movement. Her one free arm was holding at a pale blue pole while the other nestled a makeshift bundle that was tied in a sling fashion against her bosom. It shook him to the core to realize that there was a baby moving inside that bundle that she had been carrying all along.

The chilly winds had forced few tendrils of her hair to come undone from the bun. When she lifted her face to put them back in place, their eyes locked. Bright and luminous they said it all. Emotions ranging from the pain of losing someone dear to the hardships borne, clearly reflected in those honey dew eyes. But on watching closely Arjun could also see a faint flicker of hope there. Maybe to outlive all that life had bestowed on her.

Was it love at first sight for him?  Impossible for a level headed man like me, Arjun thought to himself. But at the same time, drawn by some unseen force he found himself scurrying ahead, battling the crowd, never losing sight of her. Once he reached the edge of the boat, he simply extended his hand towards her and waited with bated breath. And then something dramatic happened. The thundering clouds clashed against one another in a final roar and then miraculously the sky started clearing up. She paused for a moment, took his hand as he gently led her down. Sealing of destinies had happened somewhere. Fate had strange ways of getting people together. It could be the first step towards a new beginning, both of them completely unaware of what the future held in store for them.

The water was serene again. 

Pain seldom seems real

Pain seldom seems so real
when it is buried deep within, under layers and layers of mirthless emotions or it could be a faint flicker felt, however carefully concealed under bouts of resounding laughter.

There are days when one notices the telltale signs of pain, the manner in which the handcart puller moves along with his wares; his pain masked underneath the grime and sweat, toiling away, as the blazing sun sears at his back; unsure, whether the daily wages earned at the end of the day will be enough to feed the hungry mouths waiting back home.

Or it could be those special moments when the dazzling bride, resplendent in all her radiance and beauty steps into the threshold of a new life.

But on a closer view, one might see a lone tear sliding down from the corner of her eye which says it all; volumes of anguish and uncertainty as she closes old familiar doors behind and unlocks new territories.
Pain seldom seems so real

And then there are the ballerinas; so effortlessly spinning on their toes, gliding across like a flock of seagulls in the sky, singular motion, so much poise so much perfection but it’s only when one looks down at their toes there is pain carefully packaged in tiny doses ready to shoot its thousand needle-like splinters with every graceful step they take.
Pain seldom seems so real

And finally there is the lone soldier, taut and strong willed, guarding the border, fighting many a battle  with bravery and gusto but as he nears his end, lying there with his wounds naked and open to people's eye, the pain then might seem glorified; but in reality is superficial, as the real pain barred from everyone's view, lies in the images floating past his eyes that of family and loved ones whom he could albeit never wish the final goodbye, as he waits all alone, wounded; the bereaved soul taking his last breath away and moving out.
Pain seldom seems so real

Precious Jewels

On a wintry gray morning as I am walking down the thatched cobblestone path, I suddenly felt my arm being gripped from behind. Turning around I see FEAR staring back with a cold look plastered on its face. I try my best to wriggle free from its grasp but it only slithers further into my heart like a coiled snake moving dangerously. Huge boulders of dull ache have started pounding on my chest as I am shrouded with uncertainties of the future looming ahead. Twiddling my thumbs, I make my way towards the giant oak tree hoping to find solace under its warm shades.

Suddenly, I hear a whisper and turn around to see a pair of large eyes peering shyly at me.

“Who are you?" I ask out loud.

I am HOPE it says gingerly stepping into the open. Almost at the same time I hear some rustling of leaves from the nearby shrubs and I roll my eyes at the sight of someone doing a dozen cartwheels and managing a perfect landing near my feet.

Ahoy! I raise my hand startled. And what may I ask is your name?

Fanning feather kisses and crooning near my neck, I catch the faintest of sound slipping from its mouth, which says “I am FAITH."

Before I could gather my wits, I realize FEAR is fast intervening and enveloping my entire senses making me lower my head further down as I sink into my misery pot. I am forced to keep HOPE and FAITH at a distance.

But they both refuse to give up as it is not in their habit to do so. They prance around, jiggle their bottoms and start marching ahead in a straight line making clown-like faces. Finally they wager a contest with each other on who can let out the loudest burps.

Watching their antics, a tiny smile leaves the corner of my mouth and I slowly sink into the warm bed of dried leaves and fuchsia pink flowers.

“So what do you all do?” I ask them both as I feel the thumping of my heart lower a little.

Eyes twinkling and shining with laughter, Hope points upwards towards the sky and says “Can you manage to see the sun beyond these tall pine trees?” The colors of nature have woven interesting hues around each other forming a thick blanket overhead.

“It’s difficult to notice anything,” I say warily.

FAITH eggs me to look closer, and indeed, there amidst the green canopy above, I could not help but notice a tiny ray of light spearing thru the mesh forming a small halo over the spot that I was sitting.

Instantly, the golden sun looking resplendent comes shining down in all its glittering finery and spreads its warmth. I could indeed feel the pall of gloom getting lifted.

“So etch this in your heart forever,” says FAITH in an old wise tone, “Whenever FEAR pulls you down and builds an iceberg of despair and sorrow caging you inside, remember that a ray of HOPE and an ounce of FAITH will always be around to cut through the dark bleak hours and to bring along that spurt of sunshine.”

Wide eyed I marvel at their wisdom and feel the heaviness in my heart evaporating as I shed the baggage of FEAR and leave it behind.

FEAR, realising it was fighting a lost battle furiously starts digging into the soft mound of earth beneath and makes a hasty exit diving straight into the 'Pit of Shame' hopefully never to rise up again.

And then…. Swoosh like a fairy's wand both HOPE and FAITH magically disappear leaving me behind with a warm fuzzy feeling making my insides glow.

I leave the place with a spring in my step and a song in my head swaying to the lilting music of the wind.

I have discovered my two lifetime cronies. Have you seen them anywhere around you?

A memory through an Attic

So there used to be an attic in our old house, enclosed just above the roof of our passageway. As a child I was thoroughly fascinated by it, maybe since it was out of reach and also because it was deemed as forbidden territory by my mum.  I would often sit and wonder about all the interesting booty and the exciting paraphernalia that would be stored in there.

Then came along one fine Sunday morning when my Dad announced that he was going to get down to cleaning the attic with my help. My brother, I guess was not around then as he must have been busy playing cricket outside and in the bargain knocking off a few window panes, displaying his mischievous bent.

The announcement was followed by a minor disagreement between Dad and my Mum, whether it was safe to thrust me inside the attic as God only knew what ancient aliens from the insect fraternity resided in there ready to pounce. But my Dad being Dad had already sensed the excitement that was tipping at my feet and went ahead declaring with an air of finality that the decision had been taken and I would be entering the infamous attic. My Mum just like the way usually most mothers were in those days resigned to the fact that it was pointless arguing and succumbed to the choice made. Swiftly, within minutes she produced a broom and a mop lest my Dad decided to change his mind. A tall stool was dragged from the balcony or maybe it was borrowed from one of the neighbors, I am not so sure of that. All of this led to much excitement in my head that I was willing to break into a small jig with the intent of discovering the contents inside the attic.

As far as I was concerned it felt like getting ready for some dare-devilry feat and my enthusiasm knew no bounds. 

Watching my steps, I carefully climbed the stool with Dad right behind me. Once I reached on top, he gave me a slight push and I landed inside. An onslaught of a strong musty smell hit my nostril which rendered a coughing bout. The attic had a low ceiling and I could barely manage to sit up without my head touching the roof. The pitch darkness around me felt as if I was part of a dark cave. It was exhilarating and scary at the same time. Suddenly, a light shone from behind, and I turned around to see Dad holding a torch. At the corners, I noticed the cobwebs stirring slowly. Big and small gunny bags tied together with a rope were lying scattered across. Then began the meandering task of passing the various sundry items stored inside the attic to my Dad which was further handed over to my Mum who was waiting at the landing below; a sack full of books, copper vessels of different sizes and shapes, a bent wooden stool all made their way down. Owing to the attic’s low ceiling, Dad had to crouch really low, once he entered inside. The small space was then dusted and mopped clean. At the far end of the attic I noticed a tiny enclosure which led to a small window opening that allowed a ray of light to filter inside. I discovered that the latch had come off making the window rattle due to the wind. I decided to shut it once and for all when my eyes fell on a mother pigeon who was nesting on her eggs. Seeing me, caused a tiny flutter and she began shifting uncomfortably. Both of us turned out to be unexpected visitors for each other in a domain which we claimed as our own. I left the window open and came back without mentioning to Dad what I had just witnessed.

Maybe Dad would have shooed the pigeon away or maybe the eggs would have got dismantled or just like the way I left the whole scene undisturbed, Dad would have done the same and moved away, I wouldn't have known.

So finally we both managed to come down and the netted door of the attic was firmly shut behind. I looked at it longingly knowing that my next visit to the attic was not going to happen in a very long time. I won't say the place was left sparkling clean, as the paint from the shallow walls was crumbling at a few places and the attic still carried a damp musty smell, but the contents were rightly stored back in their respective places and the cobwebs and creepy crawlies were dusted off clean.

Those few hours inside the attic that day along with my Dad, still carries some charming memories in my head. For a moment then, I had a tantalizing thought as what fun it would be to sometimes sneak inside the attic and lie on a makeshift bed looking outside from that tiny window with the pigeon and her eggs resting beside me. My parents along with my brother would have searched for me high and low, questioning each and every one about my whereabouts while all along I would be hunched up in my own private den, a place I would have liked to call a home away from home. But good sense prevailed in me, that certain thoughts were best left only for the imagination, because if I had dared mention it to my Mum then, she would have done some hundred back-flips in her head on listening to my vague plans and at the end of it I would have received a good dressing down.

So this was the attic story and tomorrow incidentally as the day shall dawn nice and bright I shall be remembering my Dad even more thinking about all the happy memories he and I once shared, because it will exactly be a decade since he passed away leaving a gaping hole behind.

He was a gentle and kind soul, who would mean no harm to anyone but at the same time would turn the world upside down just so he could bring a smile to my face.

My Dad was not an ordinary man. For me he was simply extraordinary.

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P.S. The above handiwork is created by my beloved cat Sasha while I was away for the briefest of moments. I gave her a questioning look which was returned with a cool stare from her end, the golden flecks of her eyes changing into different shades of brown. 

In retrospect, I think she has read my mind and has poured her own comforting thoughts on this page which I have left as it is without erasing. And although my Dad and my cat have never met before, I am sure they would have got along famously well while touching each other's lives.