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 ...
My call was gladly received by my sister, who was in the midst of a monotonous job of setting a question paper for her students. She needed a distraction, and I willingly obliged. These days, we enjoy our telephone conversations more than usual. The reason is that we dwell upon the stories from the past that have been handed down to us from our previous generations. They are not stories of valor passed down the generations in musical forms to infuse courage. They seem like tall stories stretched by imagination, not only to us but also to innocent bystanders. These have become so believable to us by being repeated many times during our family reunions. The stomach-churning laughter they induce keeps those anecdotes so lively until today. Tippan Chacha (uncle) was a guest who came from far away to take a departmental examination for promotion in the city where my grandparents lived. Our grandparents were glad to have him visit them. As for one of their broods, my mother, younger th...