Tag Archives: prince

There's something very Indian about an evening with a Maharaja!

Posted on by under All about me...

I started writing this post sitting at the parlor last evening. Strange? Yes, indeed –  but I did not know what else to do while the green gooey sticky liquid that reminds me of the “plastic wall paint” we once painted our house with, and now termed as “wax” is being heated. The girls around me are being sweet enough, offering me my usual cuppa of green tea as I wait, but I have been off nicotine for about 6 hours now and hell I want to scream!

The girl inspects my leg and gives me a “Tell me this doesn’t belong to you” look. She’s used to my timely appointments and ever since I missed out the last one owing to my “big bad fall” I have been too lazy to make up for it. I want to tell her that I wouldn’t even be sitting her waiting for the torture to begin had I not been aware of the fact that the Maharaja of Udaipur with whom I was to dine with later at night wouldn’t be too pleased if I told him that my refusal to wax my legs emerged out of my deep respect for feminism?

I pinged BFF on What’sApp and asked a detail or two especially about if I could be seen as a “tom boy” still. She, still fresh off the Indian shores dismissed my fears as being “Indian” and went on to tell me that there’s indeed something Indian about the entire ordeal of waxing and sticky mess. I wouldn’t disagree with her totally, but it did make me wonder why I didn’t bring home an epilator friend or simply resort to shaving like my sister does. Oh no! For I realized I have been fed in with theories of double hair growth, wrong directional growth and yes misaligned hair, ever since I knew to pick up the stench of ethanol to know that there’s a salon nearby. Is there really the belief at play – that you have to suffer for anything that is deemed nice, err even for a smooth skin like a baby’s bottom?

Why do we think we have to enact “Desperate Housewives” when life is nothing but straight out of “Sex and the City“! Nobody gives a f&^%k to your method to smoothness, yet I am conditioned to be wary!

I decided to spare the maharaja of the debate.

I would have dressed in a saree, I love the feeling of the drape around me. It is another story that there’s a different twinkle in my man’s eyes where I adorn the rare piece of cloth and it makes my heart flutter and love the drape all the more. However, I did not wear a saree. I wished I did not even own a BB then.

A friend pinged and asked me if I were to get married this year. The world seems more concerned about my marriage these days, than Greece’s fate in the world economy. I asked her what made her ask me that? My FB pics with my guy – oh gosh why didn’t I see that coming? So while I use ‘lists’ on FB primarily for “such friends” I don’t know how she landed up seeing this particular picture, in which according to her we were “close enough to get married”. Fair enough point taken and mental note in place – either pull down all pics like the Mistah often reminds me to do, or better next time describe pictures by the worth of their closeness. Imagine a conversation like this -

XYZ:  ‘Oh you know what S in that picture you look so nice and happy’

Me: ‘Oh, why thank you G! Aren’t you kind? Pardon me but, which one ‘the close enough to steal each other’s oxygen’ or the ‘close enough to make babies’?

I don’t understand why dating in the society I live in comes in with the presumption of marriage. Yes I have been with him for quite some time now, we have had our highs and lows to realize that no matter what we can handle the worst(s) as well as the bests(s), but marriage? Isn’t there a difference between viewing a person as your boyfriend/ girlfriend and seeing them as the future father/mother of your kids?

We have definitely picked up jargons of dating, coupling blah blah blah, but when it comes to racing to the Big O we definitely don’t mind being Indian and assume marriage. Oh yes, if I told you that the very person told me that she didn’t see much sense in my dating my guy if we were not sure of marriage would you then do an eye roll for me? Or would you then say it’s very Indian?

If you think this had nothing to do with my wearing a saree, kindly go up and read the part which says I regret having a phone with me in such situations!

Speaking of babies, I think I am scarred for life and it would really take me an iron heart to again approach an adoption agency. I am shy of the Big O and thought it would be good if I set up the base with an adoption agency so that I know I am sure of my move. I had already told Mistah that I signed up for the Single Mother’s Association in Mumbai and was sorted at that end. The mater has a hint but let’s not even get in to her threats.

I interacted with this one agency that did not even give me credit for the fact that I knew the adoption guidelines on my tips and wanted to be associated to know if I am ready. All they wanted to know was the color of my passport, whether I owned a car and if I planned to relocate to the western shores soon? I would have accepted all the above if they even asked me about my financial security – the most legit question according to me. However, instead I was snickered at when I expressed my ignorance to the fact that there are different waiting queues for Indians and ‘foreign parties’. I think I should now start planning for my grandchild, for the wait is indeed long! Reminds me of Premchand’s line from Akbar ka Lota – “Mishra ji ke haath se gir kar lota wahin ja gira, jahan har Hindustani ka sar kabhi kabhi gira hai. Goron ke pair ke saamne!” (The little barrel of water slipped from Mishra ji’s hand and strangely landed at the exact position where for years Indians have bowed their heads to – before the feet of the “White” – literal interpretation) 

Anyway, where was I when it came to last evening? Oh yes, I did not wear a saree, made sure the BBM was not deactivated for the evening and then went ahead all chirping to meet the Maharaja and gorge on Mewar food when I realized that I have yet again landed in “Oh so Indian” puddle.

Is it imperative for a Maharaja who’s had British education and roamed about the world to speak in an anglicized manner, despite there being nobody who wouldn’t have understood the official language of India? Am I wrong to be put off by a Punjabi chef who is explaining Indian cuisine in a fake American accent ignoring the fact that the people around him know methi over fenugreek?!!?

Ah Indian did you say? Well my case rests, with a simple pointing out to the fact that we enjoyed Indian food over glasses of French wine (it shocked me that people barely knew that Rajasthan has a home bred section of spiced wine!), over silverware (mental note ask Ma not to pack one in your trousseau, like she’s planning to, I CANNOT clean such heavy plates), being served portions which would even put Bheem to shame (and yes trying to act that it is indeed very upper class to waste food!) and applauding comments by Bollywood stars who had no connection to the event. Or maybe they had – no party in India is complete without them!

I do live in a very Indian society.

Of Summer and Melons and being the "Author of the Month"

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Ohhh I am so confused! Indeed I am! I am. I am. It’s spring, a lovely spring says the Mistah! I smile and nod. Wondering wish he knew the heat in Hyderabad and could listen to me screaming in my head “Bleh! What Spring it’s summer – get the beer from the chiller!” .

Oh yes for me Summer is here, but then why do am I indulging in spring mush now, you ask? Guess, it’s because it’s spring where the heart lives and summer where the mind is, and you see there’s an ardent desire for both to be appeased! :P

Summer means melons, the cool juice with loads of ice. Ma taking the pain to ensure no seeds choke the throat, while we kids run, play an gloat – an old memory afloat! :)

But guess Writer’s Melon read my mind and announced on a lovely summer day that I am the “Author of the Month” for March and “A Calendar too Crowded” has been selected by them as the “Book of the Month” , yaaayyyy! :) :)

And thus, began a journey when Men are not allowed, Saturdays are made silly and then when Mistah calls indulging in love and a season rainy ;)

So all month they go on to feature my writings and muse, oh do step by there and don’t refuse…

A nice little portal with my scribbles and notes, yes I am indeed counting for your votes …

Thank you Writer’s Melon, it’s a pleasure and honor to be featured by you, and needless to say you have charged me up with a passion for writing, anew! :) <3 :)

I guess am on a heavy dosage of Rilke these days, thus the award-winning poetry (LOL!)  .. blame the Spring and Summer confusion please! ;)

(Re)Introducing the Mistah :P

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*Mush alert, the hooting girl gang kindly excuse* :P

It’s been ages since I wrote here. I mean the actual “write-write” posts and not review updates. All of a sudden today I had the craving for my space. Well, the craving has been there for the past few days but I just did not know how to pen things down. I did not want to rant, for I am bored of my own rants (yes yes no matter how ROFL you go over them, they are all my poor brain has to endure these days!) and yes the fact that BFF’s thunder cannot be stolen till her highness updates her blog. So I was left with nothing, well nothing but to count my blessings for once ;) … and thus this ….

I decide to introduce the “Mistah”! Yup, Y as you all know him is being re-christened and re-introduced. Nah, this is not a re-entry of the look alike as in the Bollywood flicks for he never disappeared and secondly thank you, but no thank you I think one of his genre is enough! (ohhhh that’s a compliment in case you are reading this my man! ;P ). Why now? Why this? Mainly because I get random pings these days by people who are discovering my blog *gloats and floats that her bog is not lost after all* that who is Y and why this particular consonant to refer him on the blog?

Well Y is perhaps the most constant variable in my life. I never really liked X for the mystery factor it brings in and then when I met Y, nothing but the said consonant suited him. Also, as I tell people I always felt that he holds the answers to all my question’s in life. Those days of childhood when your dad is your hero, suddenly seemed to have competition when I asked him the toughest question I faced and he answered it without looking up from the laptop which sometimes I doubt is the biggest threat to my existence! (No asking me what was the question please! :P )

However, all said and done after the random pings I decided I had to change the name – mainly coz the consonant has come to become the only constant factor that keeps me counting my blessings in life. There are days when I give up on myself and find him waiting for me to come around. There are other days when I am mad at him for not goofing around or playing along and instead being the workaholic self, but then a few days where I am in my worst self make me realize that the “Mistah” is actually the best answer to life’s problems.

I love the way he stands by everything I do, and though he might not agree with all my passions in life guess I respect him for the respect he shows for my wishes. The way he lets me pursue my heart, fall and learn for he knows am too stubborn for own self awes me. That’s why perhaps that day when someone asked me why do you love him so much I couldn’t help but tell her that -

“because he takes me in an his princess, trains me as a warrior and then sets me free to fight my own battles in life. All the while standing by being my knight in shining armor but never hurting my ego or my respect.”

He survives the worst of me at his best thus needless to say he makes the best of me look like a cake walk – guess that’s the beauty of inter-twined fingers and squeezing of hands. It’s just been 3 strides in this journey of life and walking towards that horizon, but the best is that my Mistah, you make the sunset storms too look pretty after they have passed, like gasping over a perfectly captured photograph that doesn’t highlight blemishes of fury, but the strength of nature :) … I owe a lot to you, to those talks in my head when my own voice is drowned in self doubt, for ignoring those stupid mails which I am too ashamed to even look at the sent items folder (ohhh I’ll even write him a mail, if he’s sleeping next to me and I am upset over something – yea weird but me!), or those silent strength vibes you pass when I am too low to even say what’s wrong. And yes for the highs there are the M&M fights, the goofy long drives, the nonsensical arguments over youtube songs and yes the way you turn the tables around after each goof! (You do. you do, you do! :P )

Thus, this is for you Mistah – for you with whom I am sure I’ll discover all answers that life has in store for me and in my favor, for you have this uncanny knack of turning things around for me whenever I pout with a “Why me?” :)

And just so that you come back and ask me what the lyrics of the song mean, I post this. Have I ever told you I choose all my dedications to you in Hindi because I love interpreting them to you over a common language adding a bit of how I feel for you – yes I cheat, but bleh, what’s life without a bit of those add ons :)

*touchwood*

Tum Ho Toh …

Dunno why, you surface again and again …

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Dear Tamanna,

It feels like ages now that I am typing a post on you. Dunno why today of all days I chose you write this. It was a restless night the last one – you constantly peeking into my thoughts and asking me yet another set of questions, which made me curse Y and made M roll her eyes.

I am sure you remember me – yes I am confident on that, for I think nobody else has been so strict on you. Do you still visit A didi my baby? I think not, but I don’t blame A too, for I know how you have a way to get out of the things you don’t like.

Why this after so many months? Have I not missed you at all in these past 9 months? 

Though it might seem that I haven’t, the truth lies deeper. In fact to be blatant I tried to forget you, cut off all ties, for somewhere while leaving I knew that I will not be able to do justice to you, for I wasn’t the formally adopted mother you see.

Then, why does life over and over again and again make you surface before me. Each talk of mentorship makes me go back to my struggle, to see a little girl scribble takes me back to your stubby fingers.

And you know the worst, when Y says he wants both of us to go to Mumbai and meet you, I freeze. Out of fear that he might just discover that I truly haven’t been the mother I promised to be!

The book, I say is my first born, does that mean that you were not my own? I wish I could make you read those pages, which you inspired me to write. The little girl whom I discovered through her drawings or the interpretation of the various ones lying strewn around. Remember that is how we broke the ice, playing the game of what the drawing says?

Today is Saraswati Puja, last year I craved to introduce this day to you, but then GM needed me more and this year you seem too far away to be a part of my stories.

But somewhere in the corner of the hearts, as the chants fill the air and I put my book at her feet, I also put an old school course book beside it, and mentally say your name.

Tammy, I may not have been all that I promised myself and Y to be, but I know that I had tried. Dunno why the questions and your face surfaces today, but the fact that you are always there whenever I discuss my highs and my lows shows how much you have touched my life.

Rants of a helpless confused and caught in between mentor-who-never-was-a-mother this is!

Bhalo Theko aar Sukhe Theko*,

Love

S

* – Be good and be happy

P.S: Uma need I say more? 

When the rains kissed the wind…

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An old story, but a much-loved one by my friends – and love of friends is what has got me here. So it’s a tribute to my girl gang!

_______________________________________________________

She stood by the sea-shore, the salty water traces kissing her tear-stained face. She didn’t know which stung her eyes bad, the salt content which her body produced or the salty traces of the vast water body that lay before her.

She contemplated a walk in – yet again, but the feet remained frozen to the ground. The clouds hovered in more and darkness promised to engulf the remaining traces of the sunlight soon. Very soon. She stood there bare footed shivering without any attempt to search for a shelter. She heard a voice from far away, a few murmurs, but only a shoulder pat brought her back to reality from the state of trance she was in.

She didn’t know him and was startled by his touch. She detested physical contacts right since childhood. Hugs make her claustrophobic, and just as her friends never understood her affinity to sarcasm and hatred towards sweet talk, they found this attribute also weird. But just as always she never cared for their thoughts.

But then there was no sweetness in the face before her. He was stoic, his jaw line prominent as he stared right ahead at the sea, with a sudden complete disregard to her presence. She looked at him with bafflement till she was too tired to make his eyes meet hers. She sighed and opened her mouth to talk – to ask as to what exactly gave him the right to jolt her away from her thoughts, when he spoke. But then again, he spoke more than words, a mere indication by his lowered eyes and the arch of his mono-brow made her look towards her feet. And there lay her bag with half of its contents dripping wet and the other half long washed away.

“Holy Jesus!”, was all she managed.

“Aah! Well He isn’t exactly there to save an unmindful you from lashing waves”, came the reply in a deep voice.

She shot him a dirty look through her blood-shot eyes. But then again the fury in them missed him as he continued to stare ahead. She didn’t know what to do. Lost as a child whose precious castle had been swept away by deluding waves, she hunted for the remains of the bag which held her treasure.

“It’s all gone, there I can see your umbrella and a few colored pieces of cloth swimming”, he replied with a dramatic placement of his hands over the eyes.

She could have killed him, had she not contemplated killing her own self for such callousness. “Those are my socks – I need them in this weather to save my skin. I don’t know what I’ll do now”, she whispered more to herself than to him.

“You need socks more than umbrella in this weather?”, the arched mono-brow was now directed towards her.

“Yes, because I am the rain which no umbrella can withstand”, she replied.

“So you are the rain? Interesting! But don’t you feel you over-estimate your power?” A stoic question – nonchalant and dry.

“You wouldn’t have asked me this if you would have been caught in the Bombay rains ever. An outsider you seem.”

“Nah! Am no outsider. I know the rains you are talking about, for I am the wind that accompanies the rain and blows away the umbrellas. You pour. I drift.”

And that is how Varsha met Sameer.

Varsha stood there that day by the beach, contemplating whether she should finally give in to her fears, her darkness and end her life for once and all. A person drowning in the sea was after all not uncommon in the Bombay monsoons.

Sameer visited the sea like each day to engulf the salty moisture laden air, to feel the sense of optimism which the sea imparted to him. After all to feel released and liberated was the sense which the Bombay monsoons brought about.

Days later they spoke, less through spoken words and more through those little black printed letters that flashed on their mobile screens. He made her wise and she made the stoic him smile. They weren’t ever spotted together for their interests and their lifestyle made them the twain that could never meet.

She was the fleeting butterfly who hoped out from one local to attend a dance recital only to hop onto another one a little later to rush for a drink at the local pub and strum her guitar and perpetually fail to meet office deadlines the next day. He was the disciplined one who would analyze, contemplate and then plan the day, time his schedules and made sure each day was productive. She lived like a manic, going without sleep for days and then hibernating for a few days to catch up on all the lost sleep with vigor as if she will not be able to sleep again ever. He lived by the watch and with his streaming mailbox showing him the way.

He asked her to slow down. She asked him to loosen up. They decided to come to a mutual consensus. After what seemed like barely six weeks, six months into their meeting, her colleagues at work fainted when she was punctual at a meeting impeccably dressed. In contrast he woke up with a bad hangover and called in sick to miss an important meeting, leaving his boss to wonder whether something was seriously wrong.

Their dinner sessions were speckled with sarcasm; their drive home was filled with crazy tuneless songs. There was warmth in his face that made her glow. There was a spark in her eyes that made the world around lit up. There was a bond between them that spelled companionship and comfort.

There are moments in life which sweep you away and then there are moments which make you stand more grounded than before. The irony is people around you often remember, contemplate and interpret the former, with little attention to the later.

There wasn’t anything that was romantic, yet there was a faith that imparted life. She loved him in the way she had come to embrace life. He loved her in a way he had come to embrace laughter.

She thought this would go on forever, which each day beginning with a smile and ending with a comfort sleep. He didn’t know how far this love would take them in a relationship that could never be named.

Sometimes we are wise enough to know at the outset that some endings are never to happen in the fairy tale fame, yet when endings loom near it seems easier to end it abruptly rather than seeing through it. Sometimes being wise is not enough. Sometimes love is not enough.

She depended on him and was scared to lose. He never had anything so was scared to depend.

She felt she needed to talk. He felt he needed to talk.

The dinner was at their favorite Italian restaurant. She was edgy. He was edgy too. But still they were comfortable, for there were looking into mirrors before themselves and not “another person”.
They drank champagne till the French vineyards threatened to run dry and then they decided to walk down the beach. The cold wind and rumbling clouds made her shiver. Angry skies had always scared her.

It was then that the lightning struck.

He held her and looked straight into her eyes and told her that he was going away to a different land. She just stood there numb. She said he couldn’t leave her. He said he made no promise to stay ever. She reasoned that he never said he would leave.

He said they had found enough within themselves to sustain.

The rains splashed around her and the lightning struck again. She closed her eyes and felt she would be dead that night. He forced her to open the eyes and face the rain.

“It’s out to kill me!”, she screamed.

“It’s out to save you!”, he shot back as he left her there stranded and walked towards the car.

To look on as an outsider, a guy walked away from a scared girl on a rainy night leaving her stranded on the beach. To both of them he left her in the boxing ring with her fears, leaving her with the option to learn to fight back on her own and emerge victorious or to accept defeat. But yes with him waiting in the car for the victorious or defeated her.

It was her first morning without him. But strangely she was not unperturbed. It seemed as bright as yesterday when the phone buzzed to greet her. She smiled into the mirror which still whispered to her she was pretty, like it had been for the last year. She did not settle for grey instead picked up her favorite purple scarf. Lavender was his favorite.

She wasn’t late for office and there was the same amount of positivism throughout the day. Yes she did check her phone for that non-existent missed call or message but smiled at the blank screen instead of feeling sad.

The rumbling clouds and a terrible rough weather made her colleagues advise her to go home early. She smiled and acceded, but didn’t drive home. She knew where she had to go.

She stood by the sea-shore, the salty water traces kissing her smiling face. She didn’t mind the salty traces of the vast water body that lay before her stinging her eyes.

She had left her umbrella and socks in the car. She didn’t need them anymore. She now knew how to face her worst fears without bowing down to them. She looked at the sky and thanked the angel who had entered her life to change it forever.

There are a few people who enter your lives to teach you to walk following the footprints they leave on the sand. There are others who teach you to fly like the migratory bird that shows you the way, but leaves no traces of the path followed – leaving it up to you to decipher your own way.

He was the bird who helped her to un-clip her wings and spread them wide. She now knew how to fly and was deciding on the course to take – confident and courageous she stood there. there was no bitterness for she knew that he had not stranded her but had taught her to live and lead a strong and contended life.

Strangely she still talks to herself in his voice in her head…

Safely tucked away …

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Just when I thought the ‘story’ was over, the book tumbled out of my hands. An old pressed flower intact – as if the life I sought to deny was still there in it’s wilted form. I picked it up and stared hard, the printed letters hazed in the background. Where was this picked from? What was it’s color (lavender of course!) ? And why today after so long, when I was just about to wrap the story and push in somewhere against the dark corners of the mind (the heart is long closed)?

 

Why are you confusing me again today by reminding me of the fragrance that no longer lingers in the air? Why are you luring me to preserve you a bit more, when I know that all that shall remain are bits and pieces of a lovely being that once was? Life cannot be infused in again right? No matter, how much I try to smell, all that fills up the nostrils is dry whiffs of dust!

 

I don’t want to erase you off, I don’t want to crumple you away – I want wilted memories to stay – securely tucked away within the pages of our unfinished story. I wish I could pick up again the last page sometime, where the pressed flower lay, but somewhere I guess the fear is that a wind might even break the reminiscent of what remains.

 

Some relationships are best defined in novels – guess I should leave ours too there. It’s better to have a memory with a hope, than to live a life of despair!

 

Stay good, tucked away within the pages of “Love Stories from Mahabharata”! 



Tuesdays with Tamanna!

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 The irony is Tamanna and I, never met on Tuesdays! Tuesdays and Thursdays used to be the most difficult days of the week for they were her counselling days. Tantrums, cajoling, temper shoots, love musings a mix of all was needed to see through these two days with A (her BMC counsellor) and today as I spend the last Tuesday here, I am suddenly gripped with a strange nostalgia, of whether I fared well in this test of mentorship, for remember I wasn’t a mother?

T’s mythophobia scared me beyond my wits. It wasn’t those sudden unearthing of  events that make me gape in wonder that unnerved me, it was the extent of damage they were causing to her psyche that was the major concern. While we struggled through our lives and the emotional baggage we both carried the most important thing that I sought to make her understand that there was a fine line of distinction between lies and imagination. And that while the latter was healthy the former was a strict NO!

To explain her the difference I introduced her to Calvin and Hobbes and tried to unearth before her the power of imagination and that how Calvin never really ‘lied’. I tried to tell her that lies meant her trying to show her own self as someone she’s not. I succeeded at times when she told me the truth about cheating in a ‘maths’ test one day to score the highest and then I failed when her teacher asked me if she really had a cousin in US who was seeking to sending a her Wii for her birthday?

When she once cooked up stories about her trip-in-dreams to Iggatpuri I asked her if she really did this to fit in to a group or whether she was really uncomfortable in being in the skin she was in? In her innocent defensive mechanism she said that she found it ‘fun’ to cook stories. And so as I indulged in pretend play of ‘Teacher Student’ with her somewhere I realised that her very back ground troubled her. She liked to remain in a dream world where everything was exactly opposite. Where people spoke differently, wore different kinds of clothes and had a different lifestyle. She wanted the world to see her as someone she was not. Only because she had this image in her head that that life was ‘fun’.

While this was her ‘imaginative’ mind, the problem lay in her incessant lying to her classmates about her social conditions, about her background and the type of lifestyle she indulged into. She once lied to her teacher that her Marathi marks were poor because everyone only spoke in English at home!

One year and T taught me patience, taught me how difficult it is to maintain a strict face when your child cries but you know you have to be strong to teach her right and wrong. And that though later you’ll crave to pick her in your arms and cajole her saying it’s ok, you will not, instead you’ll just wonder and wonder that how it is not ok!

I couldn’t cure her fully that I would ramble about it here, but suddenly I felt to note down these thoughts? Why today? Maybe because all of a sudden as I stand to leave T and go I am gripped with this sense of self analysis on whether I have been too strict at times? Whether I have lost out on the fun play aspect with her and taken her childish follies too seriously? Whether I have been a paranoid pseudo-mother who was too motivated to do things right?

It’s not that I never had fun, I remember spinning a ‘why butterflies don’t get wet’ tale for her in the most imaginative way while people around me either quit saying they have full faith in my power of imagination or Googled the scientific reason for me to spill out?

It’s just that I am indulging in a self critique today. As I sat in the bus I struggled with this analysis and spoke to the two people I always talk to in my head – GM and Y! But then something else comforted me too and that brought me to actually write this to be frank!

Packing and moving on you discover things which you think are long lost! I discovered my old tattered copy of kiddie Gita today, the one which is ear-marked with all of GM’s favourite teachings. As I smiled and ruffled the pages I stopped at where Krishna says that lies are ok if they are to save your skin, but the moment you lie and that hurts anyone emotionally or physically, even if it’s in your unknown being, know that you have sinned?

I just sought to save T from hurting others and in turn her own self in the long run, GM. So guess you wouldn’t be too disappointed with me, right? I just wanted to make her understand that it’s important that she turns out to be a person whom people accept and love for what she is and for not what she pretends to be, for then she would be lying about her own identity. What would be worse than a self identity crisis, right GM?

T, I hope when I am back from my ‘tour’ (yes she thinks I am off for another office tour, but yes a long one!), I find you as a person who’s happy and confident and loves her own reflection in the mirror!

Loads of Love and Wishes