A message to all my readers When I first began writing down my stories in this quiet space, it was nothing more than an open diary. A place to put memories that needed somewhere to rest, reflections gathered over a lifetime, and thoughts that felt too personal—or perhaps simply too ordinary—to share in conversation. Conventional wisdom often suggests that personal musings rarely accomplish much on the wider internet. There are no frameworks here, no quick advice, and no polished agendas. Just the raw textures of life as I have experienced it: the sudden turns, the quiet routines, the moments of doubt, and the steady work of beginning again. Recently, as a small corner quietly crossed 30,000 reads, I paused to look more closely at the numbers. What moved me was not just the milestone itself, but where those visits were coming from. While some readers join from home here in India, so many of you are reading from entirely different corners of the earth—from Singapore across the seas ...
I developed a taste for words a little late. That happened only after faring poorly in the language and working on myself that I became an avid reader. We had preferences, so we amassed volumes in our homes. Some were those we had borrowed, the ones we forgot to return, others were second-hand or the new edition we either purchased or were gifted, and a few were even our professional textbooks. The pages had begun to crack, and a distinct moldy smell emanated. The once treasured books now occupied only space, and their regular maintenance was a menace. After my father passed away, my mother offloaded our home from the clutter, and first in line of fire were the books. Those prized possessions came down from the first-floor balcony onto the floor. An unassuming raddiwallah collected our priceless belongings of years in his sack for a paltry amount. My friend shared, advertising on Facebook, the free sale of her Encyclopedia Britannica after she became an empty nester. The story was...