Snoooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!

24 January, 2007, Wednesday.

It snowed. It SNOWED!!!!!!!

For the first ever time in my life I saw snow up close at hand.... and it was everything that beautiful language ever described it as. Pure white... cold to touch, hardned up into a nice little blob in my hand, coated my glove with a fine layer of cold damp... and looked so beautiful!!!!

I woke up and tore my curtains aside when a friend told me it had snowed during the night... my window only gives me a view of the streets below and a scant corner of the park opposite our building... but even so.. I could see how everything had been transformed by a layer of white powdery snow. The trees looked like they should have at Christmas... people had left enough snow on their cars to get a feel of it while brushing off what hampered their driving. My housemate awoke all horrified and came running out only to have me tell her it snowed... it looked so awesome!!!!

Snow is weird actually.... it settles on vegetation like someone threw stuff in a food fight... but on the building roofs and other flat surfaces, it's like someone's very carefully and lovingly put it there flattening it with a spatula.. like decorating a christmas cake.

I saw a very funny and endearing sight at the bus stop... a couple was walking by with their chubby toddler strapped into his stroller... and I noticed there was a nice blob of snow on the blanket on his lap.... I was about to comment when I noticed how he was entranced by it... curiosity with rapt attention... floored me totally!!!! Made me wish rather wistfully I could've been a toddler... what a memory to have of snow :) of course, assuming that one was capable of having memories at that age.

I wish I could've played in the snow... had a snow fight, chucked snow balls and made someone shriek with cold and laughter.... be paid back.... sigh. It hasn't snowed since... but am still waiting :) Hopefully the next time I wil not be rushing to a class to spend an entire day cooped in while the snow slowly melts away... I shall be free enough to go roll about in the snow in the park... maybe with a dog to make things crazier :)

A magpie's habit and an elephant's memory

I've just been cleaning my room... yeah I know, no big deal... but it was so damn difficult!!!! I'm pretty neat and organised... the problem lies elsewhere. Observations from my round of cleaning up:

1] I'm a pro-recycling person. I used to think this was some kind of phase... but I realise it's actually a habit.. one that can be irritating at times. Not only did I put away papers that had one side blank in a separate folder, I actually hoarded envelopes, put them in a big manila envelope that I stuck a post it onto (so I could use the big one too :P) and marked the Post-it. Knowing me, I'll even keep the post-it in my purse at a later date to scribble a number or address. Obsessive!!!!

2] I'm a bloody magpie. I hoard so much!!!! Among other things, I have receipts, bus tickets, train tickets, notes scrawled in class, various odd pieces of paper I just don't have the heart to throw away. Why???? They remind me of the day it was and seem a much better, more vibrant way of storing my memories... I don't really write a diary so I guess this is a good way. I wanted to put them away in an envelope... but I took some and stuck them up on my notice board... when my folks visit they can have a good laugh seeing it all... but my first bus, train, movie tickets in London and an old railway ticket from Mumbai really do hold a lot of value to me.... the scars that a warrior collected and show how she lived... or some such metaphor :P

The problem is... I'll have to take so much more when I move out... sigh. Besides, if I really do stick to my original plan of destroying my tangible memories before I die, a la Jacqueline Kennedy.. I'll have a hell lot to get rid of.

Living may be easy, may not, Death may be fearsome, may not... the difficulty or ease come from the memories that you gather and leave behind. These are my memories... I wonder what memories of me shall be like

When the Reaper Comes Calling

Having vowed to write more and write anew, this is hardly the subject that I should be pursuing… perhaps. Then again, I might as well, as good as not… this time being as good as any other.

If I am allowed to say this and not sound opprobrious, I have been fortunate enough to not lose anyone very dear to me yet. Long may this continue. It isn’t to say however, that I haven’t met death at all at close quarters. Not-so-distant relations have been my closest experience in losing family members. The one person I can readily bring to mind when I think of having lost is my former neighbour N.

A lad of only 19. A rather jovial, much loved, popular, rebellious-teen who we all wished would get over his ways and grow up. Almost a year and half after his demise, I still cannot completely believe he’s gone. On the face of it, I am bale to say “Before he passed away…” or “It’s been rather awful since he’s gone…” but very very deep within, I still cannot fathom it.

It wasn’t that N and I were specially close.. It isn’t even like he was a brother sort to me. I occasionally used to be irked by his ways too… but having been next door neighbours, we did share much and the better part of my six years in that place ensured I saw quite a bit of him… at some point, we did the things neighbours do… have dinners, play silly games, discuss things, go out, tease each other… he even used to come over for help with his academics to me… I shall never forget telling him he had good grasping powers. Things didn’t stay that good though… N went through the same teenage angst everyone does and somehow changed a lot… I used to feel rather sad about it but somewhere, like people tend to, I got on with my life just as he did and our neighbourliness reduced to leaving keys with each other and the occasional chat when we happened to find the other on our way in or out. Quite often, I used to wish for his sake and that of his family that things would get better… he seemed to be going wrong and hurting everyone. But having never been especially close and having gotten used to not being around each other… we never did get to really talk.

I saw him a month before he passed away. That was what life had come to be… people who saw each other everyday now met once a month. A month.

I still don’t know what I should term my reaction to that piece of news. I only remember my mum saying I was shocked. I remember not being able to say anything about it for the next few days… not even enough to share the news or react.

The return home and that meeting with N’s folks was very hard. I spent a lot of time there when I could hoping to distract his mother (who I fondly address as ‘Ma’) … I remember being told “You’re really brave Anu, to be able to be around them” … I never did figure what bravery that was… not when it was the least I could do for them, not when the people going through that misery were being braver.. like only they could.

N has been gone for what seems an eternity now… I don’t miss N like I might have if we had been closer… but I still find it very hard to believe he isn’t around, creating a racket in the house, arguing in the spirit every teenager does, spending hours grooming himself, worrying over girl problems, experimenting with things… It still feels like he’s around… pity he’ll only ever be 19.

In the time since he’s been gone, I’ve heard people praise him to almost saintly heights… the very same people who used to bitch about how he was being a brat and should grow up and stuff… It’s pathetic how hypocritical people can get after someone’s death. I will not say N was the finest, best person I met… he had his flaws and for what it’s worth, I did wish a lot that his bad phase would be over soon….I wish he had that chance, I wish fervently he had bothered with safety rules, I wish he had been a staid, boring rule-adhering person if that was what it took to save his life… I wish N was around.

It is said death comes second after public speaking as the thing people fear the most. Me, I have a rather skewed view of death. I fear losing my dear ones…but I don’t fear dying.

Not so very long ago, in discussing Kashmir, I exclaimed that Id love to go there to which my classmate M retorted “Are you crazy??? It’s so dangerous… you could die!!!”. I’m yet to understand why the rest of them laughed and why M blanched (weird word… blanched, coz there’s a gal called Blanche I know… so if we all blanche at something, does Blanche ‘Anu’ or whoever/whatever else when she’s taken aback???) Anyway, I don’t get why M blanched when I said “So?? I’d be dead!” What I meant was that, I don’t really give two hoots about dying.. I happen to be very happy with my life and have absolutely no regrets up to this point.. I’ve lived pretty well and wouldn’t feel sorry for not having done something so far… suffice to say, I’m at peace with my existence. I’d feel bad for my loved ones for they’d have a bad time after my death.. but I cannot feel sorry for myself. Why then, should I fear death???

A Dewdrop of Newness

Nearly a year after I started writing my blog, I have but 11 (12 counting this one) to show for my enthusiasm for writing, efforts and wealth of things to express.

11 posts.

I cannot think of anything more pathetic… specially since I’ve been bandying myself as a writer of sorts to whichever poor unassuming victim I can corner. So much for the writer then….

My options therefore are

a) Continue this blog with the pretentious ‘writer’ image I like to put forth and only put up posts which are good reads. OR
b) Write more often, even if it is only to report the kitchen being cleaned everyday by the appointed cleaner

The idea, of course, being that I do a crash course in ‘getting in touch with my inner being’ by examining them in this up-for-show manner… the essence of writing is but obviously that which comes from within. And who knows, my efforts might actually benefit me… like they helped Sam Bell in Ben Elton’s Inconcievable.

Here’s to a whole new beginning then… Here’s to the new sparkling Dewdrop.

Faded Memory

I hadn't actually thought this would happen... heck, I hadn't thought about it at all... but... after nearly three months in London and two months of vacation at home before that... I've totally forgotten how to make Maggi Noodles..I've forgotten all about what was the mainstay of my life not so very long ago... wonder what else has been affected like this

I'm in love..... all over again :)

Squire & Co

The board over the shop simply said ‘Squire & Co’ in black and white. Tucked away between several other shops boasting of sports equipment and the like, the landmark used to identify it was a historical, city’s-pride cinema hall.

It was kind of hard to make out the establishment, but the guitars, violins, drums, harmonicas and cymbals in the window on one side, as well as the hand-lettered board announcing the same, on the other side sufficed to give an idea of their business.

Squire & Co. It was a business that had stood there for over four decades now. Passed on from one generation to another, the reason behind the name had faded into oblivion with time. The business had survived though, intact in the same place. It was Solomon and his mother Philomena who handled the business now.

The shop interior was fair-sized with three back to back showcases serving to keep customers confined to the front of the shop. Shelves lined with guitars, violins and other instruments lined its three walls. Even the floor was covered with plastic-encased instruments.

Five ‘o’ clock one evening.

Three youngsters entered the shop – two boys and a girl. Young, eager and vivacious as youngsters are wont to be. The girl smiled at Solomon and requested to see guitars while one boy looked on and the other continued a conversation on his cell-phone. Inquiring about their needs, Solomon proceeded to show them the merchandise – or rather, told Philomena to while he chipped in now and then.

They were there for half an hour. They left without buying anything, looking undecided saying polite thanks yous.

And it was another endurance test for Philomena. As every customers’ visit was. As every day was. As every day had been, the past few months.

Solomon’s irritated soliloquy was incessant. He continued to bark orders, impatient and curt. ‘They didn’t ask for that one,’ and ‘Move the stuff will you?’ as she struggled to find standing space to open the showcase, and ‘Chicken, mutton, beef, pork… eats everything. Where does it go, all that you eat?’ when she couldn’t carry the stuff across easily enough.


The last straw however came when he noticed the open pocket on a guitar case and hollered at her about a missing plectrum and leaving the pocket unzipped. The youngsters too were not too pleased at the scene as was apparent on their faces.

The rest of the evening was rather routine. Three more customers dropped in before closing time at 8:30 p.m - one wanted his Ukelele re-stringed, another looking for piano instruction manuals and yet another enquiring about guitars. Solomon’s behaviour too was routine. He was more mellow however, since the guitar-case incident.

The shop was shut and in the softly lit apartment behind Squire & Co, end of the day activities were in progress. Dinner over and the dishes cleared away, Solomon padded over to his stuffed arm-chair and switched on the TV for news. Philomena slowly took the stairs to her room to read a bit before she slept.

Television however failed to interest Solomon tonight. He drifted further and further away into thoughts while staring unseeingly at the TV.

He’d been feeling guilty - more so since the evening, when he’d yelled at her. The already overwhelming mix of guilt, worry, despair and helplessness seemed to brim over tonight, and something in him flickered and died. Who’s to say though? Solomon himself was a dying man.

The diagnosis had come after weeks of inexplicable physiological symptoms and a battery of tests that the doctor had ordered. That had been several months back. The doctor had pronounced Solomon terminally ill and given him two years more, at best. He’d been dealt a blow he was still reeling from. The guilt, anger, despair and helplessness had been his cancerous companions then on.

His first reaction was oh ‘what of mother?’ Ever since his father’s death several years ago, Solomon had comfortably taken over running the business and caring for his mother. He hadn’t married - he’d known he never would. And so, their world had come to mean the two of them. For her part, Philomena had always been a homebody - pottering around the house, contentedly so. The death sentence hurled Solomon’s peace of mind into shambles. He had always envisioned himself as his mother’s keeper to the end. The end had come - not hers though, his.

‘What will become of her?’ he constantly worried. How would she live? Where? Who would care for her? What about finances? And what about the business?

Many sleepless nights later, he had decided that he would have to inculcate her into the business – teach her the nuances. It was in the best interests of both. She would have friends to look after her but she needed something more to occupy her. It would do her good to have the business to look after - and the business needed her too. And it was a fairly easy thing, for the establishment wasn’t too large.

And so they had begun. Everyday he let her learn something new - abut customers, instruments, accounts – she needed to be thoroughly informed.

At first, he was quite soft with her. But days progressed and it became clearer that he’d have to be firmer if she could be expected to take over. Her total inexperience and age trebled the difficulty of the learning process. Thus he had taken the upper hand, though desiring it, wanting her to learn the ropes. Yet, her pathetically slow progress got to him. What would happen if she was unable to handle things?

The helplessness he felt about his fate, guilt about leaving her, despair at not being able to do much and anger at his helplessness grew and slowly it crept into his behaviour with Philomena. From being instructive he slowly turned to being curt. Philomena rarely showed she was hurt, although he knew she was. The evening’s incident had been uncalled for though - even if he’d only been trying to make her be careful and aware of everything handled.

‘Things have gone too far I guess’ he mused and got up from his arm-chair with new resolve.

He knocked before entering and found her propped on the bed, reading a book, a duvet half covering her. She looked up in surprise. ‘Why Sol, what’s the matter?’

‘I’ve something to say to you’ he said as he sat down on the bed facing her. Her eyes took on a slightly wary and afraid look.

‘ I just wanted to apologise. Not just for today but for all those days. I know I’ve hurt you very much. I’ve just been trying to have things go ok. I want you to be ok. I’m worried sick’ he let forth.
Philomena looked at him and reached across to squeeze his hand, smiling, saying nothing, understanding everything - as mothers always do.

Coloured vision?

So well, I am in this awesome job and everything’s going just great... interesting people, great colleagues, small department so no politics there and an extremely wonderful boss with the patience of a saint. The only time it gets stressful is when there’s a glitch here and there… man, I wouldn’t be anywhere else if I was gifted the world! But to continue…

Any given day has its moments... mainly hilarious ones given am working with a quirky person like R, her expressions, her statements, the jokes.. God you’re missing it coz you’re not me! The few tense moments arrive occasionally, to fade away like mist... coz well…it’s just that way.

My job is being the unofficial editorial co-ordinator for the magazine Hornbill. Basically means that I have to have an idea of every comma and full stop in the magazine, ensure everything looks spiffy when the magazine is finally out. So well, part of my job is to make sure the images look good after they’re worked on by the processor. Essentially, colour corrections to ensure picture perfect pictures.

Yesterday, I had been to the processor’s to oversee the colour corrections. Now well, given all range of pictures submitted, in print, TP and digital format, ultimately when they’re scanned, there’s bound to be a certain amount of distortion which has to be set right, adjusting the contrast, the proportion of cyan, magenta, yellow and black to get sharp images. And so there I was shooting what gyan of imagery I had ‘Too much cyan there, adjust the contrast, lessen the yellows…’ (It was part English, part Hindi and partly Marathi ..broken, beginner’s Marathi...but hell, we managed to understand each other, me and the old gentleman working on the images). I finished my work and caught a bus home.

Some point almost near to my place, I got the window seat, and obviously looked out. Now there’s a magnificent view before me... majestic mountains looming tall and a hazily pink sky floating above it...a simple breath-taking scenery all for my viewing pleasure. Before I could even fathom it, a thought popped up into my mind:

“There’s too much magenta in that” ??!!!

Train of thought

Life’s definitely changed since I started on my new job. It’s a great place to work, there’s much to learn, new, quirky, fun people to work with and I’m really happy.. but there’s also another part I have to contend with. Traveling.

I’d never thought I’d be a part of the train crowd. When in college, I was free enough to bunk lectures, attend the late ones or was lucky enough to have them scheduled late. Basically it meant there wasn’t ever one particular bus I took. Or, on the rare days I ended up taking a train, it was always a different one. When I did give a thought to people who took the train everyday, I always ended up thinking “I hope I’m never among the, taking the same train everyday, rushing about worrying about train timings.. having a life ruled by the local trains.” But then. The fella up there likes his joke. And so, I did end up becoming a part of this crowd.

As such, its ok. I happen to travel in the peak hours, so getting a seat or not is an occurrence… you simply get used to it. I especially look forward to the time when the train’s crossing the Vashi bridge… there’s nothing but knots and knots of water for as far you can see…. Sky and sea merge seamlessly into the horizon.. I could gaze at it forever. .. in fact, this part of the journey is refreshing as there’s always a nice breeze whipping across your face… specially in the morning, when the air’s fresh, like someone up there had put out their laundry in the sun.. ok not exactly, but… fresh.

There is an entire cultural system that’s manifested in train travelers. Mumbaites would be aware. But for non-mumbaites, there are a few things that are very much a part of this culture, peculiar to it and are kind of fascinating. One is that of having ‘train friends’.. people who just take the same train as you everyday. They may or may not get down at the same station as you, but they’re as much your friends as the ones elsewhere, just that you tend to talk of train timings and work whinings and chivalrously get up for a bit while they take your seat. I haven’t made any train friends yet, but I am familiar with a lot of faces.

Another peculiarity is that of the bhajan group. I’m not sure of other trains. But two trains that I’ve taken successively, there is this group of ladies in the compartment who have this select list of hymns they start when the train leaves Vashi. The entire ‘playlist’ takes about 20 mins and they sing the same songs, in the same order everyday. They’re marathi hymns. But…. On the 8:48 train, the ‘group’ of ladies starts singing, but in effect, there’s just one lady you can hear. She has a deep, loud voice and I find her singing irksome firstly coz its tuneless as such, and she ruins it by singing it like she doesn’t mean to really. Now that’s dumb… do it with your heart in it lady! But the train after that, 8:52, there’s a group there, they sing the same songs as the group in the earlier train. But such a difference!!! This group has really sweet voiced people who sing it like they mean it and it sounds so beautiful!!!

And of course, all the time, at every station people get in and they invariably ask the people seated where they’re getting down.. they ‘book’ a seat so that they can sit for part of the journey at least. Sure you hear brawls sometimes… but where don’t you???

Then there are the vendors. They’re regulars too. There’s a bhel-waali maushi who is there every evening at VT for the 5:47 Vashi local. Then the earrings and hair-clip vendors who are regulars from Nerul and Sanpada. The odd men who bring mirror sets, ear-buds, key chains and what nots… the handicapped/blind ones who sell railway pass covers or other knick-knacks or sing for alms..

The there are the Beauties. I wonder how many people it has struck that some of the most beautiful women in the country may be found in the local trains. Especially in the morning. These are not your glam-dolls like on TV but the simple, graceful, well-dressed women you see everyday. I don’t speak for others, but there’s something about their simplicity, and the way they carry themselves that makes them seem more beautiful to me than any star I can compare with. Maybe it’s the glow on their faces, the one that says they’ve lived, faced things…

Occasionally, I also see slightly older women who are nevertheless beautiful. I always think “She must’ve been really beautiful in her youth.” Old or young, there is something about them that makes me want to talk to them, ferret out their stories coz I think they’re interesting. They have had experiences worth listening to. I get these ideas of going and saying “Hey, I’m authoring a book on train-life. You look like you have an interesting story to tell, mind if we talk?” But no, I know the value of privacy, and I happen to be shy too, so the actual talking never happens, its only my imagination that can only take me so far. Today, I saw this young girl, extremely beautiful, with her hair cut suggesting something of a rebellious streak… I could almost imagine her not wanting to be thought feminine.. she had lovely features, really beautiful lips and eyes that held something in them. I wish I could’ve talked to her.

Its rare that I get the window seat, I usually end up watching people… but there have been days when I’ve looked put of the window and seen something interesting. Like, as you near Dockyard road station, look up and you’ll see this hilly place like it is in a hill-station, dotted with green bushes and flowers… it makes me want to take a walk there.

Then, as you near Vadala Road station, there are houses and colonies to be found near the tracks. Little tings, hardly any size… but they have yards… most of them. And the yards have jasmine shrubs, little trees.. just like the homes in the small towns. And there are boys playing in the compounds… an utter ambience of bon-homie.. I wistfully wish I could live in such happy places with the shrubs in the garden and pick the flowers every evening.

I don’t know how long I can continue traveling like this, but while it lasts, I shall enjoy the little moments of interesting sights while I’m blessed with them.

To The Lady Who Refined Me, Defined Me

Dear Ms Imelda,

I hope this finds you doing well. I am not sure that you would remember me, but I would like to think that you do. I hope you do.

I’m DDD. Or DD, as you knew me. It was in 1993 that we first became acquainted. You were my class teacher for two years from then, in my 4th and 5th standard. I vaguely remember thinking that you appeared a little strict. It was just one more year after all, and another new teacher to know for a year and then greet whenever I saw her again in school or out of it. But how things can be so different from what you imagine them to be!
I guess I must have been just another student in that entire class for you, at first at least. And it isn’t for me to say what changed and how, but gradually, in your own way, you started to mark me out.

I remember you berated me umpteen times for being lazy and not participating in any of the events. I always used to give some excuse or the other. But one fine day, you succeeded in making me participate in a painting competition. It wasn’t the greatest entry, not that I was much of an artist, but you thought I hadn’t tried enough and said so. But that was a beginning.

I used to think you were rather strict and wouldn’t let me be. But slowly, I also realized that you praised me when I did well, looked out for me and genuinely wanted to see me doing well. I’m afraid I took my time realizing that. I clearly remember how you scolded me for neglecting to answer an entire section in my mid-term math paper.

After that painting competition, school ended in a few months and I thought no more of things except to worry about the result.

When the next year commenced and we had you for a teacher again, I was half inclined to think ‘Oh dear!” but I was also relived at the thought of having to spend the year with someone who knew me well. I think that was the best thing that could have happened to me then.

You started right where you left, encouraging me to give everything my best. I remember how you put my name in the English story telling competition despite my protests. I also remember the pride in your eyes when I won the second place. You encouraged me to participate in everything, singing, dance, debates, elocutions, quiz, general knowledge…the works. And every time I won, you were the proudest. In fact, that was the year I won the most prizes.

You made me the group leader. You let me come to your table and hold conversations with you and the class toppers when I should’ve been working. You thought of me as belonging among them. You even insisted my parents buy me a choice Hero pen to improve my handwriting. I remember how happy you were the day I scored 94 n my math paper. I was still short of getting full marks, but for you, it was as if I had achieved full marks.

I also remember you used to call me ‘foreigner’ and ‘dictionary’ because I was good with spellings. It never failed to make me smile.
We had made class charts one year. With every student’s name on them and each got a star or black mark according to their performance. I remember not completing my notes on time, but you didn’t give me a black mark at all. Perhaps you sensed that doing so would’ve made me lose faith in myself again. You refrained at any rate. In fact, I’m sure you took a lot of trouble to ensure I sailed smoothly. I can never say at what cost, but I hope you’ll find that all the trouble you took for my sake was worth it.

I don’t know how much of this you would remember. I know I have missed mentioning many more things. But what I want to say is this. What I have mentioned is only what I saw you doing for me. I only saw you encouraging me to do well. I was glad of it and grateful to you always.

But it only after years have passed that I realize the true depth of your actions. I lacked confidence in myself. You changed that. Life was just a series of days after another. You showed me there’s more. You showed me that life needs to be lived fully; that you should use what gift you have to make life worth something. You made me realize that just because one isn’t good at something does not mean they’ll always be like that. You made me realize how much I was missing out on just because I did not try hard enough. You pushed me and made me push myself to achieve. You gently pointed out my faults and did your best to help me change them. You let me discover myself and realize that I could make something of myself. You inspired confidence in me and made me feel good about being me. You moulded me into what I was to become. I was a lost, confused and frightened little kid. It was you who changed me. If I improved in academics and other things after that, if I acquired a personality, it was because you were there for me.

My gratitude to you is beyond words. I wish I could express my thanks, but it’s only felt. I hope that at least that feeling is communicated to you.

Teachers come and go with every passing year. They are always respected. Some you like and they like you. Some you don’t. As you grow up, teachers also become objects you ridicule (I hope I’m never found guilty on that count). Some of them leave you with faint memories of good times. Some teachers you’d rather forget. Some leave you with the kind of learning you’ll never forget. You fall in love with a subject because of the way a teacher taught it. Years later, you can still recollect how wonderfully interesting a subject became thanks to the teacher, you even remember parts of what was taught. This is what every person inherits in their schooling culture.

But there are teachers who do more than just teach subjects, give homework, punishment, maybe share a few laughs and conversations and go home and forget about you till the next day. Teachers who realize the wealth of their profession; who are genuinely concerned about making worthy citizens of their wards. Teachers who devote themselves to bringing out the best in a child when they see the goodness buried within. Teachers who know that a bit of love and attention can do wonders for a child and provide it because they know what a difference it makes. Teachers who go that extra mile and give that extra chance because they have faith. Teachers that build the foundation for the person’s achievements in life. Teachers who change lives.

You are the teacher who did that for me. You changed my life completely. I never thought I could be a person worthy of notice. But you made me see myself differently. You told me in I mattered; in a manner that wasn’t overt, but more powerful than had you been more direct. All that you did then affected my decisions later on. Since the years you were there with me, I consciously did better, thought about what I could do to be a winner and strove to achieve that. You touched my life and inspired me like no one else could.

You’re the best teacher I ever had. Thanks to you, I am a confident, mature and ambitious young lady who wants to get the best out of life. How do you thank someone who has done so much for you? I don’t think I can ever do that satisfactorily. Its one of those paradoxes. I deal with words and am capable of shaping wonderful things with them, but to thank you is something I would fail at. But I hope you will know how grateful I feel to you.

I’ve known other teachers who mean a lot to me… but you’ll always be the first. After all, they only worked on what was already there… the foundation for that was laid by you.

I ought to tell you. I am now 21. I graduated last year, with a major in journalism. And I am now working for Bombay Natural History Society in Bombay. I am involved in the production of their magazine Hornbill. I really love my work and there’s nothing else I would rather be doing. All this has been possible because you guided me to reach for the sky all those years back. Thank you.

I am sorry it took me this long to write to you and convey my gratitude. But I waited till I could feel I was somebody. I hope that I shall be able to see you soon and thank you in person.

With warm regards and heartfelt gratitude,

Yours sincerely,
Anu.