Writing is never easy. The words we weave are the emotions we want to express… and of course, be understood. Little thoughts have been dancing around in a corner of the brain, bouncing off it walls, yet not getting together to form coherent feelings. That’s how I’ve felt, in front of the laptop, for the past two weeks, trying to spank those thoughts into action. For what is felt, I feel, must be said.

The pink envelope contains a beautiful handwritten letter – a string of memories of the past five years – of friendships coming into its own – a celebration of life. And lessons from someone 11 years younger. Friend, kid sister – tags do not define relationships. It also contains subtle advice, the kind that I need to read every day.

That it’s easy to be an asshole but it takes a lot of courage and strength to be kind and compassionate.

Yes, she said this about me. For, in my weakest moments, and the many whirlpools I have skimmed the edge of and gasped for air, she has and continues to listen.

The book of course is ‘Love in The Time of Cholera’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez – not her book that lies somewhere in the recesses of my overflowing bookcase but one which was bought and not given (don’t ask, it’s complicated) but one which was read at this unusually vintage stage of my reading life (complete with nerd glasses). And I fell in love with the book and the thought behind it.

Is there a connection between the two? I don’t know! But I feel there is an ‘eerie’ connect between sentient souls.

To Gulu (that I emphatically declare derives itself from Gilehari (Hindi for squirrel), here’s to The Dork Life and hitchhiking your way towards the galaxy!

Thank you, for being you!

P.S. (I cannot let go without an anti-joke 😀 You know what makes me smile? Face muscles :P)



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