Ma Durga In Mekhela

                                                





                                 
                                                        Courtesy Google Images


      

               It is that time of the year when the slant of the sun's rays goes down a few notches.The memories in the mellowing sunshine stir up images of celebrations from childhood. At this time we invariably fall back on the Durga Puja celebrations of the places we grew up in. The little  metallic pistols, the tiny paper cases with red ammunition roll coiled in; the tik tiki that made a clackety sound when pressed between the thumb and the forefinger; the plastic wrist watches where time literally stood still; the array of bangles and beaded necklaces...

                        Decades back, in the 70s, while going to Dibrugarh for the Durga Puja holidays,  we crossed many tea gardens by the highway. The towns and villages came alive with the local Puja fairs. The bright pin wheels, the balloons twisted into animals and flowers, the pretty girls of the tea tribes attired in bright sarees and frocks,  adorned with coloured ribbons giggling along the roads. They were such a delightful sight building up anticipation for what awaited  at the end of the journey. It gave a sense of homecoming to us, the three hour long weary travellers from Nazira. 

                       The moment we entered Khalihamari in Dibrugarh, we were infused with a renewed sense of vigour and pride. Although we tried not to make an ado of the many relatives who dropped in to see how much we had grown, secretly we delighted in the attention. Happy to be in the middle of his kith and kin, my father's dialect changed and took on the drawl characteristic of Khalihamari lingo. While the grown ups were busy exchanging notes and some robust camaraderie, we rushed out through the driveway to take the best possible place near  the gate. It also happened to be an advertisement of our arrival. Nobody was a stranger here. 

"Aren't you Dulu's daughter? When did you come? Let me go and say a hello to him." 

And in they walked. Our interest was, however, on the other side of the road.  Right across the gate was the Khalihamari Puja pandal. It wasn't exactly the grandest one in Dibrugarh but it was unique for many reasons which was revealed over the years. In our growing years, it was the perfect place to strut around since the members of the organizing committee were family. The excitement of the Devi's arrival and her pratishthan reverberated with the dhak beats and the grace of the arati with wafting smoke from  the dhunadani. The nip in the morning air fragrant with the little orange stalked white xewali flowers is synonymous with Durga Puja. Even now in Delhi, the fragrance of the xewali takes me back to Khalihamari. It was the many fashionable new clothes that Puja pandal hopping crowd attired in, that caught our attention. Sitting by the gate with morahs and folding chairs, we scrutinized the crowd turning out in locally tailored copies of their favourite Bollywood stars. If one year it was the Ashiqui style, the next year it was reminiscent of Tridev with the loud accompanying Bollywood music from the pandals adding to the feel. The girls limped braving the  bite from the new sandals chaperoned by the matrons in starched new saris. 

       

                        As I look back now, I notice a unique feature of the Khalihamari Puja. And on further query it is affirmed that I am not mistaken. Khalihamari Durga Puja that started in 1947, claims to have been  the only one, where Ma Durga was seen vanquishing Mahishasura, attired in either Muga mekhela and riha or muga mekhela sador. Flanking her were Ganesha and Kartik in dhuti and muga or paat (Assam silk) kurta with gamusas. Now of course, there are many pandals where the Devi has shown a penchant for the Assamese mekhela sador in place of her usual  brightly coloured embellished sari. Nobody remembers who thought of it in the late 1950s but the tradition stayed on and also spread to other Puja pandals much later. At present I believe, there are atleast four to five such idols in Dibrugarh alone.  Back then it came as a surprise for the Bengali people of Dibrugarh drawing them to Khalihamari to pay their obeisance to the mekhela -pora -Ma ( mekhela attired Ma).  

                  You may ask what  is the big deal about it? It is the same as seeing Jesus Christ in a dhoti kurta and Lord Muruga in shalwar. The big deal is  when some festivals go beyond religion to embrace a community and share it's identity. Here in Khalihamari, the residents are mostly followers of Srimonto Sankardev who was a Vaishnavite saint. But when it came to celebrations, religious leanings were not the yardstick. Or maybe it was the other way round. To accept and assimilate the 'different ', it was essential to lend it a familiarity. It could  have been an offshoot of the political turmoil simmering with the Language Agitation when most Assamese scoffed at Bengali affiliations. But then Devi Puja was not a novelty in the land of Kamakhya temple.  Only, the Brahmin stronghold had dwindled with Srimonto Sankardev's ideologies sweeping the state veering off many from the exploitative  clutches of the priest class.

       Or maybe I read too much between the lines. In this case, reading too much between the folds of the garment.  The reason behind mekhela-pora-Ma  of Khalihamari could also have been a bright spark of a brain storming session to figure out a way to hold the Puja innovatively.  Through the generations now, the ladies of Khalihamari, clad in mekhela sadors seek 'their' Ma's blessings. That we have a mekhela wearing Durga shouldn't come as a surprise when the Sikhs of Morigaon celebrate Bihu with pithas and the Guru Parav with equal élan. After all, don't they say, that happiness doubles when you share it? On this day of Shashthi, as I key in my musings, Ma Durga takes her place on the pedestal in Khalihamari,  resplendent in her mekhela sador while Ganesha and Kartik look on with gamusas adorning their shoulder.

                     

By The Window

                                                                                                                  

          The  afternoon sun filtered through  the neem tree  that grew by the window and sidled into her room. Little particles floated in the beam tossing about in the warm space. I often saw her sitting on the chair in front of the  brand new mirror that was pushed against the wall next to the window. The dancing leaves flitted across her face.  I caught her many a times looking forlornly out of the  window. Despair seeking a sliver of hope. Everyday reflected the same story. No changes. Except maybe, the intensity. There were days when she looked drained out. Spent with pain. I watched her helplessly  from the other side.  And then again there were days, when I thought she would end it all one day. Release herself from the drudgery.

          There were days also when she did not come by the window. And when she did after the absence, it might as well have been the dark moonless, starless night. But it was always at this time that she came. Late in the afternoon, when the rest of the house retired for a siesta. This was her only time. It was funny how one lay claim to something as elusive as time. Milch time, dung cake time, cooking time, cleaning time, vomit cleaning time, in-laws time, beating time, untouchable time, lying silently time while the job was being done... savagely...

          Every day was the same. Only the earth continued to move as people went about their daily lives. Nights changed to days and back to nights in a never ending cycle. Relentless summers changed to the mild autumn, cool winters and the colourful boisterous spring. And one day,  she sat in her place by the window, in the tell- tale white sari with a blank ebony forehead. Like a blank slate. The despair had given way to a calm. A calm that descends when the storm has passed. And this was where I saw the changes that take place in a life. Little printed floral patterns took up the white canvas of her sari. The patterns became bolder with passing days. Colours crept in to fill up the gaps within the patterns. A hint of a smile now lurked around her lips. The dark eyes shone with a zeal.

          One morning she sat on her chair, looking out at the chirping birds and rustling leaves. Suddenly a voice called out," Arrey! You are not late? The school bell will ring in five minutes! "
"Coming, Maji!" she jolted out of her reverie casting one last glance at the mirror before grabbing her bag. I smiled  at the happy stranger that beamed back.




This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

         

          

Game Of Blogs - Part 14- Unfolding

Team Name: Story Weavers
Read the first part of the story here.

Read the previous part here

                                                  

             The events did not quite unfold as planned. Or did it? Jennifer kept close to Tara for more than one reason. The attack at the New Delhi railway station was foiled. Thankfully. Ever since she could remember, all of Jennifer's actions were propelled by her staking her claim for survival. Even if it meant selling her soul to Ibrahim Rehman. Being beautiful and alone in the world attracted all the wolves. Even those in the sheep's skin. By the time she had the world figured out, Jennifer had none less than Ibrahim Rehman as her mentor. It was in the orphanage that she had met him first. It was the feeder for all the jihadis in the making. There were many such centers from where the terrorist organisations recruited. Only the brightest and the most lonely were marked for training. Jennifer was then sent to a college to live a dual life. They were to lie low till the clarion call came to prove their worth. 

         She had been a part  of the outfit ever since. And Ibrahim Rehman was her abba. For that matter, he was every orphan's abba. It was strange that this abba managed to keep the identities of his children to himself. For how could one explain that Jennifer never had an inkling of Kareem being a full fledged terrorist! To think that she was so close to him! She thought she knew him like the back of her hand. Technically, she was also one. But at least she didn't go around spraying people with bullets. Being trained as one and actually being one, there was a difference. The difference was in the   first  pull of the trigger. Coming  face to face with Kareem by that yanked door was a shock to her. And Tara. Could she make Tara her sacrificial lamb for the assured ticket to heaven? Tara had introduced her to a world, she never knew existed. A world where people bonded, loved and lived without Machiavellian designs. Despite her indoctrination, she was drawn to this warmth. She remembered the couple of diwalis and christmas celebrated with her family.  She had almost forgotten what it was like to be in a family. It was like the butterfly in her tattoo had come alive drinking in from the colours around. Tara had literally dragged her for these occassions, during their college days, refusing to let her stay alone in the hostel. 

    She was torn between the two worlds, a world of ruthless allegiance where the price was death and the other, a world that beckoned with life. And so Ahana, with the pen drive tucked in her pocket sought out Inspector Arjun. There were too many amendments to be made. Just then her phone vibrated. She recognized the number.

           “Ji huzoor. Agar yahaan par kuch gad bad hui toh aap ke pass toh Rani hai. You have the main chess piece in the game, Ahana. Usko apne muththi main jakkad ke rakhiyega. We both know that hamare shattir dost Shekhar koh sabse zyaada dard kaise pahunchaya jaa sakta hai.”

"Who is it, Jenny? Is it your fiance checking on you?" asked Tara without turning her head  from the hotel in her vision line.

"Yeah..." nodded Jennifer thoughtfully keeping her camera trained on the scene in front.  

"You know, you were lucky with Roohi. I still can't get over it that it was her...You should be home with her. She must be shaken..."said Jennifer cautiously. 

"I know how  you feel, Jenny, but she will be fine with my parents. She's safer  there" assured  Tara. 

  Just then a shot rang out.

It was like someone had frozen the entire scenario and captured it in a frame for a second. All hell broke loose. And then there was a volley of bullets from both directions for what seemed like ages.  Glasses erupted in splinters sending out showers of  shards. Columns of the NSG were closing in taking advantage of the confusion. It stopped as suddenly as it had started. There was a sepulchral silence. Tara peeped out from behind their crew van. Inch by inch. They were at a safe distance behind the men in uniform taking position. But the scene in front looked like it was hit by a cyclone. She thought she was dreaming. She heard it again.

    “Mummy. MUMMY!!!Red Riding Hood! RED RIDING HOOD!” 

"What the f...!"  she wheeled around to see two pigtails bobbing over a flurry of a frock running towards the barricaded area. 

Read  the next part here.

“Me and my team are participating in the ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com.#CelebrateBlogging with us.”

Game of Blogs : Story Weavers (Part 8) - Zeroing In

This post is part of #GameOfBlogs team name 'Story Weavers'. 

You can read the first part of the story here

And the previous part here

                                               

    Tara was besides herself in a frenzied madness. It was like an entire building had collapsed on her head and she lived to witness the destruction and desolation. For all her cool, no-nonsense and crisp facade of a professional, the call from Shekhar, undid the years of building up this image of hers, crumbling down the masks she donned. It was the school that informed Shekhar. His worst fears had come true. And she had been so blaise!  She could afford that luxury despite being a mother of a nine year old, taking comfort in the arrangement that Shekhar worked from home. She could pack and move at a minute's notice because Shekhar was there to look after their precious. But for how long could they insulate Roohi from the harsh world outside? And now... Roohi was thrown into an abyss straight from the cradle...Her little baby... Suddenly Tara found herself drowning in a deluge of mayhem none of which made sense to her. They were no longer detached news to be covered now and walk out with the plumes. This was real. Her Roohi was in the railway station. And she was going to be the sacrificial lamb now. Her Roohi. She rushed to their media van parked outside to catch the footage. The terrorists were intent on making this into a horrific spectacle for all to see. To drive home their terrible potency in pursuit of jihad. 

    Through blurred vision, Tara could see the masked man with a gun pointed at a child out side the station. Roohi, little Roohi. He must have dragged her out to catch the media's attention. After all what was the point of execution if there was no audience to gasp at the terror. He made her the human shield from all the shooters and the snipers. Tara slumped to the floor of the van. From somewhere deep within, a force made it's way up through all the grief and disillusionment, pushing all of them into the periphery. There was not a second to lose now. She tucked the flying strands of her short hair behind her ears and  called up her boss. She asked for a switch explaining the twist in the situation that affected  her. After patiently listening to her forced coherency, he said,

    " Right, Tara! I suggest you reach the station without the paraphernalia, immediately. The crew in the van will handle till Rahul replaces you. And you say your friend Jennifer is inside ...God knows how you managed that... but move now! Flash your card wherever they stop you and call me if you are stuck!"

 " Yessir..."

"... and Tara, take care. Have faith..."

*

Shekhar was hunched over a blueprint of the station in a van outside, refusing to look at the screen that flashed Roohi's scared face. He would never forgive them. Even if he had to hunt each of them to the last corner of the earth. He marked on the blueprint  barking out orders to those around him. This had to have the laser precision of a surgeon. Not an inch here nor another there. He could concentrate on the station now having appraised his superiors  about the two other terrorist attacks on the hotel and the BARC. Other RAW and NSG teams would tackle that. He would not budge from the station. As of now. Suddenly  the officer at the monitor motioned to him,

." Sir, there is a slight movement..."

Shekhar craned into the monitor.

"...there...can you see?...just behind that shutter at the entrance..." he pointed towards the screen at a dark body.

Shekhar noticed it. It was there. Definitely a movement. Someone was trying to inch towards the lunatic. A rush of hope flooded every cell of his being. He spoke into the walkie- talkie, alerting all the men positioned.

" Alpha calling all vectors. A movement  behind the 'bull's eye'. At the slightest hint of surprise he will turn for a fraction of a second. You have only a fraction of a second. Vector 10, you are closest. Move as close as you can and pull the child out. You will have only a few seconds before the others join in. Do not miss!" He kept the walkie - talkie on and prayed Roohi would remember to duck and run behind the lunatic. That was the safest spot. All other directions she would be a sitting duck. He was glued to the screen waiting to bark the minute that angel acted. And then he remembered. He switched the channel of his walkie talkie.

" Black out all media. Now!" 

 And across the country, the horrifying unfolding of events at the New Delhi railway station went blank. 

*

   Jennifer removed her shoes as she went into the hotel. It was such a pity, all those extravagant interiors were reduced to shambles. And to think that the rich always believed themselves to be immune to such carnage. At the end of it all everyone was at the same level. When death stared squarely at you, it didn't matter what your bank balance was or the number of countries you had travelled to or the number of strings you could pull or where the next meal was going to come from. Death was a great level player. Absolutely impartial. Didn't she know? Losing her father before she saw this world and watching her mother give away to cancer, she had toughened up from her childhood. She crawled into adulthood in an orphanage learning the vagaries of the adult world when she should have been playing with barbies. She had learnt the greatest skill of all in there. Like a trained doberman she could smell the routes to survival. 

   She tip toed into the kitchen kissing her butterfly tattoo. Her lucky mascot. It was a replica of a locket her mother wore once. She had to be extremely careful here. This was the first place those fanatics would ransack to refuel. She picked up a paring knife from the counter and tucked it under her belt. It would be difficult to hide a bigger one. Not when she was in her shorts. She could have kicked herself for not wearing her jeans. 

    She moved stealthily towards the door ducking behind the counters. She peeped out  of the glass door. No one was out there. Where had everyone gone? She didn't know the layout of the building. Climbing that spiralling grand staircase would be a dead giveaway with nowhere to hide. There should be a service elevator somewhere. Elevators were a no no. She finally zeroed down to the fire escape. She could hear some one talking now although it was not clear. It was coming from the floor above. Sidling up the iron stairs which took ages for her to reach the first floor, Jennifer stopped at the door. She strained her ears to listen for footsteps or voices. All seemed quiet. She turned the handle down little by little and made a small opening. She peeped in through the sliver of the opening. The coast was clear. Were all those fanatics stupid enough to be in one place? Feeling like the Lord himself over the helpless, whimpering hostages? She moved to the second floor now taking the emergency exit. And here she saw all the hostages pooled into the centre of what looked like a lounge. And around them were six armed masked butchers. Jennifer didn't know how many of them were in the building. Were all the hostages here or was anyone out in one of those rooms without these buggers realising. It was a chance she would have to take. She couldn't tackle these bastards on her own, a la Jhansi ki Rani style. Get your facts right, she reminded herself. You are here to cover this not dive into a major rescue operation and commit harakiri. Thank God, this hotel had just three floors sprawled across a mammoth area. She steadily crept up the stairs amazed at  having survived so far. And just as she reached the door to the third floor it opened leaving her exposed.

     Read the next part here.

“Me and my team are participating in ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com. #CelebrateBlogging with us.”

The exams, the clouds and the blue sky

                                                                                    

                                         

                                                              

           Looking wistfully  out of the window at the floating clouds gathering in the blue sky, the Whatsapp ping brought me back gently to the room. Just as I cajoled my nine year old's wandering mind back to her Hindi matras and it's quirky grammar. The joke that was doing the rounds, was for all the mothers whose children were taking the exams for the year. Especially the ones, who were appearing for the first time. 

                    The after effects of exams on a mother. 

                     A woman goes into a restaurant and for the life of her cannot remember  the word                           'menu'.

                     So, she calls the waiter and tells him

                     "Please get me the syllabus of this place..."

                     I had decided earlier on that I would not lose my 'cool' mother status to the frets of an over zealous one. I thought it was made amply clear to both my school going girls that their studies was their responsibility and not mine. That I would not be the one to pounce on their notebooks the moment they arrived from school to check for incomplete and unchecked work. If they were stuck in their understanding of the concepts, they would be helped but not to complete their homework and other such things. That the number of  hours they studied and when they studied,  was their business. If they brought in less  grades it was theirs to face and if they brought in good ones, they would take the credit. 

                    Having drummed my Commandments into their heads on numerous occasions,  I thought I was relatively free from the travails assailing other proxy- student - mothers. I had no intentions of waking up at ungodly hours so they could benefit from the 'freshness' of the divine hour. Nor was the the idea of revisiting the mensuration, algebraic expressions, the golgi bodies in a terrific combo with  the Northern Plains, photosynthesis and four digit multiplication, a particularly alluring situation. That lasted till the exam schedule arrived. Curling up with a novel, my ears strained for the sounds of two reading voices. And if one of them stopped, the third one would pitch in shrilly

        "What are you doing there? Are you finished with the lesson?"

         "No, I went to the washroom."

         "You seem to be doing that a lot more ever since  that schedule arrived..."

         "Arey! What can I do if it comes?"

         Glare. Glares back. Glare again till she slinks back into the study hole. 

Now I plonk myself in their room. With the novel whose protagonist is facing a dire situation compounded by a bleak past.  The  pages of which I am reading repeatedly.  From the corner of my eye, I can see them escaping into their  imaginary world, conversing and smiling at imaginary characters. I let them for a while. And then, they are brought back.

             "Are you done? Can I take a test now?"

         The exams are on. I catch myself looking out of the window more often now. There is a request to wake them up at 4.30 in the morning for a particular exam. So I set the alarm for 4.15 knowing that there would be pleas for 'two minutes more', 'five minutes more'... So dutifully I get up even before the alarm goes off and coax them out of their slumber. They refuse point blank. 

         "I thought you had to study!"

         "No, I want to sleep now..." she slurred and went back to snoring. 

And I walked around the silent house, wide awake, having lost the ability to sleep anytime anywhere with age. The next time the request came in, I gave her the alarm and a piece of my mind with a rejoinder

   "Do not wake me up!"

Why is sleep such a precious commodity especially when the exams are on? I drifted back to my own days when I was caught napping having slid down from a sitting position with a book on my chest. Thank God for the book! My father peeped into the silent room.

"So, you are sleeping, eh?"

Without losing a second from my light sleep and with my eyes still closed, I replied to the distant voice,

"No, I am thinking..."

Taken in by the instant reply without turning a hair (that had even me flummoxed), I was spared from a dressing down. The next time he found me in the same position, he posed,

"So, you thinking again?"

"No. I am sleeping now..." 

This was also around the time when I discovered that I had this ability to sleep with my eyes open. This was also the time when the tufts of clouds bewitched me with their tantalising ever changing shapes, freely floating in the blue sky.

How enigmatic and sweet that elusive sleep was! Especially during the winters when the warm quilt seduced with the promise of a snug siesta as the  gentle afternoon sun streamed in through the window. And those bobbing leaves and the drifting clouds ( yes, those damn clouds again!) lulled one into drowsiness. I could almost write an ode to it!

     "What's there to eat now, Ma? I am hungry."

     And with that I come back to balancing the chemical equations wondering from where those extra molecules appeared on the other side.

       "You just had breakfast an hour back!"

       "So, I am hungry now. And don't give me those oats!"

     From the equations, I go to the kitchen to rummage through the shelves trying to remember hard if I could rustle up something that would not take more than ten minutes. Lesser, if I could help it. That's another added hassle during exams. Dishing out something 'nice' to eat  every one hour that would appeal to the two different sets of taste buds.  

     So, here we are. The three of us looking at the red circled 'last exam date' on the calender, striking off the ones we are done with, with a vengeance. Till then two pairs of eyes look out longingly through the window. And without their knowledge a third pair looks out over their heads, at those drifting clouds across the blue sky... 

           

     

                     

          

My Award

                    Every time I upload a post, it takes a mammoth effort to resist the temptation of checking the traffic feed  by the minute. No,  that's an exaggeration. Make that by the hour. When the votes on the indiblogger surge, I swell directly proportionate to it. And well! when the tide is low so do I wane much as I would like to say otherwise. Over a period of time, I have made many friends in the blogosphere and come across some incredibly composed posts. And today when a fellow blogger nominates me for the Leibster Award, I can only thank you for showing me so much love. To be honest, I was nominated once before by Preethi but somehow never managed to honour it. Thank you Shweta Dave of   www.sunshineandzephyr.com  for this award. 

Liebster blog award

Now for the rules

1. Thank the person who nominated you, and post a link to their blog on your blog. 

2. Display the award on your blog — by including it in your post and/or displaying it using a “widget” or a “gadget”. (Note that the best way to do this is to save the image to your own computer and then upload it to your blog post)

3. Answer 11 questions about yourself, which will be provided to you by the person who nominated you.

4. Nominate 11 blogs that you feel deserve the award, who have a less than 1000 followers. (Note that you can always ask the blog owner this since not all blogs display a widget that lets the readers know this information!)

5. Create a new list of questions for the blogger to answer.

6. List these rules in your post. Once you have written and published it, you then have to:

7. Inform the people/blogs that you nominated that they have been nominated for the Liebster award and provide a link for them to your post so that they can learn about it (they might not have ever heard of it!)

Questions that came from Shweta   -

1. Tell us something unique about your blog?

For each of us our thoughts and ideas are unique to us and also how best we express them. So in that context my blog is unique as it comes with my experiences and the way I look at the world.

1. What time do you best write on your blog and why?

During school timings. Being a mother of two, it's the only time when they are in school that I have my mind to myself. 

1. What if you had a super power what would that be?

Travel to all the nooks, corners, crevices, mountain fold, every place.

1. What is the most adventurous thing you have done in life?

Living in a tin shed for a year in Leh.

1. Are you an impulsive shopper?

I don't think so... my husband will have another opinion of course..

1. What makes you angry?

Politicians

1. What do you mean by the word freedom?

To live the way you want to.

1. What is your favourite cartoon character?

Does Suppandi count?

1. What is that one object you can’t live without?

Books

1. Do you believe in destiny?

Yes, I do. There have been many instances

1. What is your biggest learning of life so far?

In our race for survival we forget to live.

My nominees are

Choki Gyeltshen  http://chokigyeltshen.blogspot.in/

Mahesh Semwal   http://maheshndivya.blogspot.in/

Kokila Gupta       http://sunshineandblueclouds.blogspot.in/

Deepa Gopal Sunil    http://deepazworld.blogspot.com/

Amrita Sabat         http://amritababat.blogspot.in/

Ranu       http://mypinkcloud-ranu.blogspot.in/

Chaitali Bose Bhattacharjee    http://chaitalibhattacharjee7.wordpress.com/

Jyotsna Bhatia   http://jyotsnabhatia.blogspot.in/

Ayushee Ghoshal     http://ayusheeghoshal.blogspot.in/

Renu Vyas        http://www.renuvyas.com/

Alok Vats          http://www.inewsindia.com/ 




Now my questions for the nominees are

Which part of the year do you enjoy the most?

What inspires you to write?

How does blogging help you?

Which genre of books do you like the most?

One of your most joyful moments.

Your best childhood memory.

The one place you would love to visit once in your lifetime.

Which is the best time for you to write?

Is social media making or breaking writers?

How do you look at life?

What's your idea of a vacation?



Pssst...I really don't know what happened to my text and have tried and pulled my hair apart to set it right, the technology challenged that I am. Finally, I've let it go. Please do bear with me.