Top 10 Authors I Really Want To Meet

A few weeks ago, a friend and I were having a discussion on the places we would visit if we ever have the money to time travel. The first entry on our list was USA and the main reason we wanted to go there was to meet Mr. Rick Riordan, the author of the best-selling Percy Jackson and Kane Chronicles. So when I saw this week’s prompt from The Broke and the Bookish I pulled my laptop close to me and started frenzied typing that scared my colleagues at the office I am interning.


  1. Enid Blyton: They didn’t specify if the author had to be alive and I grew up reading Enid Blyton’s mysteries and short stories. Meeting her has been a childhood dream.
  2. JK Rowling: A die-hard Potterhead like me had to include her in the list.
  3. Rick Riordan: Most of the Percy Jackson books have an ‘8+’ sign on the cover. I started reading them when I was 16, and still couldn’t get enough of them.
  4. Dan Brown: Technically speaking I have ‘met’ him, if you call attending a talk delivered by him to be a meeting, but so witty and eloquent was his speech then that I still wish to engage in a direct face-to-face conversation with him.
  5. Khaled Hosseini: I have read every one of his books at least three times and with each subsequent read my admiration for him has increased tenfold.
  6. Agatha Christie: Any lover of mystery has to have fallen in love with the Queen of Mystery Novels! And to think she started writing mystery novels only because a friend made a bet with her!
  7. Suzanne Collins: The exulted author of The Hunger Games, my all-time favourite dystopian novel. I have read the trilogy consecutively for three times once, and would have continued doing so if my mother hadn’t started fearing for my sanity 😛
  8. John Green: One reason I was often disdainful of teenage ‘coming of age’ novels is because they fail to effectively capture the contemporary teenage voice, till I read John Green. His novels capture teenage angst and triumphs beautifully. His novels have made me laugh and cry, and I really want to meet him.
  9. Oscar Wilde: I admire him for daring to write about the topics he did in the times he was born. I admire his courage, his wit and his literary style, and would be absolutely delighted to meet him.
  10. Louisa May Alcott: Last but not the least, I would really like to meet Louisa May Alcott, an authoress I have admired for quite some time now. I first picked up her book, ‘Little Women’ when I was in my adolescence and her poignant novel about the four March sisters was my guide. I used it as a self-help book, using Marmee’s words of advice to her daughters in my own life.

Taste of Home: A Flash Fiction

Prison Guard, Stockholm. Public domain photo.

Standing on the bridge, Gaurav cast a long look at the white expanse of deserted snow and the snow-capped mountains. There was no movement to be seen. Not even a stray leopard or a jumping goat met his eyes. It was like the terrain itself had frozen. Somewhere across the snow-white horizon was Pakistan, but all was quiet on the border today.

His breaths rose like hot mist in front of his eyes. Guard duty at the military outpost on Siachen Glacier was a lonely job.

He looked at his watch – five more minutes before his turn ended, and the next soldier took over. Right at six his reliever arrived. “They are making malpua in the kitchens”, he said.

Gaurav hurriedly took off. Malpua was his favourite dessert. As he ran towards the mess hall he remembered how as a kid he would pester his mother to make it for him.

The mess hall was warm with hearty food and cheerful company. The cook slid a brown malpua glistening with golden syrup on his plate.

Gaurav took a bite and smiled to himself. He patted his pocket where lay the last letter from home: “…when you come home, we’ll find a  good match for you. Come home soon, son“. 


malpuaMalpua is an Indian dessert, similar to pancakes, and is eaten with syrup. It is one of my personal favourites. You can find the recipe here

Siachen Glacier is located in the northern part of Kashmir, between India and Pakistan, and the no-man’s-land of Siachen is 20,000 feet (6,000 metres) above sea level. Military experts say the inhospitable climate and avalanche-prone terrain have claimed more lives than gunfire. Both countries agree on a need to demilitarise the glacier, but neither side wants to take the first step.(Source:


Changing Times, Changing Dolls


Before I loved writing, I loved playing with dolls. The thrill I got from weaving tales around my dolls and imbibing traits and virtues into their personalities, I later translated to my characters in my stories. But most of my stories involved princesses not because I was especially fond of them but because the dolls available in stores, when I was young, would invariably be dressed in flowing, lacy gowns or printed summer frocks. Indeed the fact used to irk me sometimes. I remember wanting to buy denims and tee shirts for my dolls but even the size XXS would fit them! The last doll father gifted me when I was 13 or 14 wore a pair of cloth trousers. Though I was nearing the stage when I would soon set aside my dolls for real life dramas, that doll was the apple of my eye, and the envy of all my playmates. When enacting fashion shows, that pair of trousers was the most coveted item, because the fashion magazines we had just started browsing told us that real life fashion models did not wear floral gowns.
Yesterday when I went to the department store I was hard pressed to find those flowing gowns I so fondly remember from my own childhood. All dolls I saw were dressed in practical denims and crop tops or short cocktail dresses. Even the Disney Princesses dresses had undergone a modern makeover. They had become more practical, and the gowns less restrictive.
On the surface, I was happy to see my childhood dreams finally translating to reality 6 years later. Feminists who argue that dolls propagate patriarchy as they teach young girls that their role in life is only to cook food, manage the house and look after children will be happy with the change. When I was young, the slogans behind the dolls boxes were different variations of the generic theme: “I want to be a princess”. Yesterday I spotted dolls with different slogans – I want to be a reporter, I want to be a rock star, I want to be a doctor and so on. Kelly too I observed had left her girly frocks and was now driving a red sports car.
Maybe on some level this indicates a slight shift in how our society perceives women. She is no longer a simpering beauty meant to be pampered like a princess but an independent, career-driven lady who can kick ass. Being a woman myself, I can only celebrate this change.
Someone, like my mother’s cousin’s 100-year old aunt, would undoubtedly click her tongue disapprovingly, and rant about the rising immorality among girls nowadays. Maybe the short skirts and plunging necklines also indicate a downward shift of our moral values. Some of the dolls were dressed in flashy revealing dresses and maybe we are teaching the children to be insecure about their body image. It cannot be argued that Barbie wears make-up, which has only grown more prominent over time. Her stomach is totally flat, her legs and waist trimmed. She wears high heels, straightens her hair and short dresses. Why don’t we have normal sized dolls? I recently read that before releasing the doll version of their infamous villain, Ursula, Disney reduced her curves. Insecurities over body size and body image are plaguing girls as young as six years old! Here is a poetry performance by Melissa May, titled ‘Dear Ursula’ on the topic. I find the poem to be really good and hard hitting and couldn’t resist not sharing it:

(You can check out my previous article, published on Campus Diaries, on ‘Is Disney Propogating The Ideal Body Image Myth?’ here).
I don’t know what impact the dolls will have on children’s psyche for certain. Probably the makers do not either. But there was a small part of me that felt a slight twinge at the thought that young girls would no longer dream of becoming princesses. Practical, calculating reality barges in on childish dreams too soon.
I wish I could preserve my princess dreams, when anything was possible with just a bit of hard work and pixie dust. They weren’t so bad….


“Anything Else, ma’am?”

I was on my way home from college, when my mother texted me and asked me to pick up some groceries from the local kirana store.

I listed out all that I needed to the shopkeeper, more interested to the songs on my mp3 player, tapping my fingers in rhythm and impatience.  It had been a long day, and I wanted to go home. After fetching the items, he asked courteously, “Anything else, ma’am?”

I froze.

Ever since we moved to this neighbourhood ten years ago, this is the shop we visited most often for grocery shopping. I have tagged here along with my mother, peering excitedly at the glass bottles of candy, displayed prominently to entice kids like me. I have come here, a warm coin curled up in my fist – that week’s pocket money – and spent a long time wrestling with the conundrum of which chocolate to buy.

I have visited this shop often during the summer vacations to buy zillions of ice-creams and at Christmas, dragged my father here, to buy chocolates and plum cakes. I have come here with my playmates, when some magnanimous parent or other had handed one of us a currency note and said, “Go buy some sweets and share them with your friends”. I have stood behind, giggling and prodding each other, daring them to go talk to the shopkeeper. It was a daunting task back then.

I have heard the same shopkeeper (minus the silver streaks in his hair) tease me and address me, while I shyly hid behind my mother’s pallu. When I couldn’t reach a packet of crisps, he has many-a-time come to my aid.

I don’t know when I transcended into this new category of customers — customers who were not to be teased, but spoken to courteously. I don’t know if it is a welcome change.


I was sitting at my desk, next to the window, studying for my upcoming psychology exams. Now and then excited giggles and laughter from the kids playing below would reach my ears.

Suddenly someone shouted — “Priyanka Didi!

I recognized both the person being called and the caller. Priyanka was the youngest girl in our group of playmates. The one we never took seriously, the one to be picked last since she was always thought of as a liability to the team than an asset. I was the eldest, and animously called by all those in our neighborhood playgroup, Didi. To think that someday my title would pass on to Priyanka was surreal, but it had, and somehow till that afternoon I had never realized it.

As for the caller, I was already a teenager by the time she was born. I have seen her take her first steps, played ‘peek-a-boo’ with her and pulled her cheeks.

She had grown up in front of my eyes, but somehow I never realized that so had I.


Jolly Didi was my grandmother’s aide and companion. She had always been there, as far as my childhood memory stretches back to, and whenever we visited my grandmother, she would play with me and my sister. She would tell us jokes, teach us new games and narrate funny anecdotes from her village. My sister and I would follow her all around the house while she did her chores, constantly chatting.

She was a constant at my grandmother’s house for most of my early childhood, until she left to get married. Soon after that we moved to Mumbai, and all she became was the vestige of a childhood memory.

I never spared her much thought, until last year when we were visiting my grandmother, and she came for a visit with her son.

I don’t really know what I expected would happen. Maybe I wanted to relive the camaraderie we had shared when I was a child. I would love it if she became her previous self, tell us jokes and play hide-and-seek with us in the garden. But it was not to be.

Clad in a simple orange cotton sari, her head bowed and eyes downcast, she was not the playmate I remembered. Her behaviour towards me was courteous, bordering on reverence. I vaguely remembered her treating my mother and aunts with similar politesse, but I couldn’t fathom why she would treat me in the same way.

A particularly disconcerting moment was when she tried to sit down on the floor, near my feet. I jumped up, shocked, and asked her to sit next to me on the bed. She obeyed me but with a timidness in her behaviour that frustrated me and left me bemused. I wanted to but didn’t know how to dissipate the awkwardness in our relationship.

When her son poked me in jest, she immediately chided him, and begged my pardon. I wanted to scream that I had behaved similarly with her, when I was a child. She instructed her son to touch my feet and when he ran away shyly, she repeatedly begged pardon for his discourteous behaviour. I told her it didn’t matter, that he was just a child, and I didn’t mind – but the words sounded hollow and patronizing, even to my ears.

I was dying to relive, for even one moment, our earlier companionship and comfortable ease. But it was a thing of the past, and I didn’t know how to bring it back it back to life.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “All Grown Up.”


Growth Pangs: Flash Fiction


Meg looked around the apparel store in dismay. Her mother tapped her foot impatiently, “Are you done deciding what you want?”

Yes that frilly pink dress from the kids section that is a size too small for me, and the light blue shirt from the ladies section that reaches my knee.

Her mother made a clicking noise and noticeably checked her watch. “Nothing here is to my style” Meg said, and marched out of the shop. Her mother followed her with a bewildered silence.


“Touching a boy can get your pregnant”, Elsa said confidentially.

“Nonsense”. Helen rolled her eyes.  Her confident proclamation followed: “It only happens when you kiss!”


In the family function Meg sat in a corner listening to the grown-ups talk. “Come play with us”, her cousins begged.

“You go. I will come in a minute” she shooed them away.

Her parents were talking about the war. “Why don’t the two presidents just shake hands and apologize?” Meg asked. It seemed like a sensible question.

The ladies tittered. “Why don’t you go out and play with your cousins?” her mother suggested.

Meg felt her cheeks redden. A surge of fury and humiliation coursed through her veins — “You never understand me!”

“Young lady, is that the way you talk to your elders?” her father’s voice was taut. “Go up to your room”.

As she stormed out, she heard her mother mutter to Aunt Rosa, “I really don’t know what’s come into her nowadays…”

She slammed the door of her room. Her eyes burning with unshed tears, she looked out from the window into the twilight yard where her young cousins played the childish games that no longer afforded her any joy.



My Dream World


There was this little world I had made,

In my childhood days.

I had woven it with care.

Nurtured it with love, and to me it was dear.

Small and bright,

Clean and white.

Located in a fairy castle on a hilltop highimages (2)

Up amongst the clouds, in the sky

Full of fairies, kings and queens

A child’s dream, a child’s fantasy

Many a playtime I spent here;

Many adventures I had there;

All my dreams came true here;

My wishes were fulfilled there;

It was a child’s dream, a child’s fantasy. images (3)

But one day, I heard this shout,

Calling me to the world out

I poked my head out and saw,

And, Oh!  How lovely the things seemed to be,

“Come out, and play”, they called to me.

I left my little world and came

But, Alas! Everything was not the same,

As they had before seemed to be

Oh, how true the old sayings are,

Grass always looks greener from far.

This world is full of deceit and lies.

Betrayals, broken promises and painful cries

Terrorism, Corruption, Pollution

Is there an end or a solution?

My little world was still there,

Free from such worldly affairs.

Unpolluted from all these worldly pains

Unaffected by the troubles of men

But I couldn’t enter it again

Not now, never again.

It was a child’s dream, a child’s fantasy

And I had grown up.

I wrote this poem, nearly six or seven years ago, when I was 13 years old. It lay forgotten in some dusty folder on my computer, stored along with other childish scribbles. I hadn’t thought about it in all these years, till I saw the weekly prompt by Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie. 

This poem was, according to me, my best work in verse when I was thirteen, and probably for quite some time afterwards. And hence, I had never shown it to anybody, lest, somebody make fun of me, or the poem. It was a little too close to my heart back then. More than half a decade later, I am willing to unveil it to the eyes of the world. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated 🙂 


Passing On a Reading Legacy

Ever since I can remember, I was fascinated by the bookcase. It stood in our family drawing room, filled with fat volumes of books that had no pictures. I knew they were my father and uncle’s books, and my childhood dream was to read all those books one day.
I would spend hours in front of the glass case, gazing enraptured at the dusty volumes within; craning my neck to gaze up at those books my short stature kept me away from. Like all kids I wanted to grow up quickly, and to my mind, hidden within those books that I could barely lift was the knowledge of a lifetime, that my parents and uncle had, and that I desired.
That one sunday a year when my parents would take all the books out to air them and dust them was probably my favorite day of the year, right next to the first day of summer vacations. I would sit next to the huge pile of books, and try to read them….or at least find one with pictures.
I was around 5 or 6 when I discovered the ‘Mystery of the Spiteful Letters’ by Enid Blyton within that pile. I was thrilled. I had already read Noddy and a few other of Blyton’s classics for children, but was yet to move on to reading her mysteries. This at least was an author I knew, and the book cover was a colourful orange with the picture of 5 kids. I wasn’t, yet, old enough to read on my own…not a novel at least, and my dad read out aloud to me. It was like a tradition. Every night before dinner he would read out to me, and together we would traverse through the written world of dreams and adventures, and I would fall asleep with the images still resonating within my mind.
That night I carried the book with me, and requested my father to read it out to me. He laughed and told me I was still too young for that book. I bristled at the suggestion, and insisted that he read it. He complied, and truthfully I did get a few nightmares for the first few nights, but I never told my parents about it, and this book started my lifelong romance with all kinds of mystery thrillers.
A few years ago, I rummaged the self-same bookcase for my first Agatha Christies.
Also I have made a few new additions to the shelves – JK Rowling, Rick Riordan, Dan Brown and Meg Cabot are just a few of the authors I have added to the rows already filled with tomes written by Rabindranath Tagore, Satyajit Ray, Arthur Conan Doyle, William Shakespeare and other great literary giants.
This is my family’s reading legacy that has been passed down through generations to me…and yes, I am yet to finish reading ALL the books on the shelf. 


Talking about the Future on the School Bus

10320348_757120340986332_8630196627970622781_nHave you ever wondered why we only remember snippets of our memories? Like one precious moment in time we managed to catch just before it slipped away, and stored it in the treasure chest of our minds. It might be a little dusty with time, but the essence remains pure.

This is one such memory carefully preserved in my memory box – the details are a little dusty, but it is still cherished.

What do you want to be when you grow up? – the favourite question of every adult whom you met. Today we had just written a paragraph in class on what we wanted to be when we grew up, and the topic was still fresh in our minds. By we, I mean me and my two best friends – who for the sake of anonymity, I am calling S and M. 

“So” I asked, looking out of the school bus window, at the receding building, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” 

“You tell, first”, M demands, testing the waters, testing if it is a trick question.  We were only 4 years old. 

“I wanna be a doctor” I replied proudly. “Like my uncle. He stays in London”. I never knew which held more fascination for me – the profession or the distant land, synonymous with all the magical places I read about in books (maybe that is why when I finally visited the city, a few years ago I was vaguely a little disappointed). Whatever the case, that was the only career path I knew of and deemed fitting back then. 

Now, S followed, a little tentatively, “I wanna be a teacher”. We turn up our noses. Being a teacher is the worst thing you could want to be at that age. A teacher was a wooden ruler wielding monster back then, who mercilessly gave homework to students. “Not any teacher”, she is quick to defend. “A good one, like Rina Miss. I will help students. I will be kind and never shout at them”. This was, still understandable. Rina Miss was all of our favourite teacher. She was kind, and always took extra interest in the underdogs – those who were bullied in the playground, those who didn’t seem to have friends, those who had problems at home. She would call them and talk to them at length. Sometimes she would give us chocolates and small gifts like pencils or ball-point pens (a rare privilege allowed to kids). She would take interest in what books we read and what films we saw, and when another teacher scolded us, it was to she who wiped our tears. 

Now it was M’s turn. She proudly puffed up her chest – “I want to be a wife!” We broke into peals of laughter. Marriage only had two meanings for us – 

  1. A game to play with when we were playing with our dolls.
  2. An occasion where we had to go dressed up and would be served tasty food, and would have our cheeks pulled by a dozen people we never remembered meeting. 

Once we managed to resume seriousness, we gave some serious thought to the question. “You will have to leave your parents”, I said gravely. As a girl, that was the biggest obstacle to marriage, in my opinion.

“I won’t”, M said, confidently. “I will make my husband leave his house, and come to live with my parents. My mother said that long ago that is how it happened. Men left their houses after marriage to come, stay with their wives”. (I have thought of this strange piece of knowledge for long. I guess my friend had misunderstood, or maybe her mother was talking about matriarchal societies)

“That is such a nice tradition!” I said. “Why did they change it? Why did our mothers shift residence after marriage?” 

For a moment we ponder this incomprehensible question. This ridiculousness of our mothers. “My father has a nice house” S said, almost defensively. We all were quiet. We couldn’t really debate this topic, without debasing either one of our parents, so we left it.

“When we get married, we won’t be like our mothers” I decide. “We will bring our husbands to our home. I will never leave my family!” images (1)

More than fifteen years has passed since this conversation took place. None of us are married….yet. I am pursuing a journalism career. M is pursuing English majors, and S just cleared high school. Very little remains of that ignorance and confidence now. Back then, all insurmountable problems had a simple solution. Sometimes I wish I could view life as simplistically now too.

(This post is in response to today’s Daily Prompt: Futures Past)





Everything I have ever been

Today’s Daily Prompt: If you were one part human, two parts something else — another animal, a plant, an inanimate object — what would the other two parts be?

A lot of images run through my mind when I read this prompt:

  1. I am 10-years old, and standing on the boundary wall of the playground. The earth seems so far away. I shake my head, and tell my friends, I can’t jump. One of them shouts, Chicken! You are Chicken!
  2. I am 12 years old, and my mother is telling me: A Woman should be like Water. She should fit in whatever bowl or situation she is poured into, perfectly moulding herself to the requirement. I remember her words vividly till day. It is some of the best advice I have ever received.
  3. I am 13 years old, and my mother is screaming at me – You are a Locked Chest. You never tell me anything anymore. This was the age when I first started keeping secrets from my parents.
  4. I am in ninth-grade. I am 14-years old. This was the time when my biology teacher devised a nickname for me: Dictionary. I was a voracious reader, and thus had built up a vocabulary better than the average 14-year old student. I don’t remember which word it was whose meaning I was able to correctly tell her, but soon she affectionately started to call me Her Dictionary. Whenever while reading out a chapter in class any student would ask her the meaning of a word, she would turn to me. When I couldn’t answer, she would be so disappointed, that I soon started making it a point to read up lessons before class, and learn all the difficult words I didn’t know the meaning of. In a way, I guess, I did become the class dictionary then.
  5. I am 16 years old. I have recently joined high school. The teacher asks something and I know the answer. I raise my hand, recite the answer, and become my friend’s Encyclopedia. That was my nickname in high-school, sometimes inter-changed with ‘Wiki’ (from Wikipedia).
  6. I am 17 years, and my article has been published in a magazine. My friends look at me with awe. One of them say, You write so well. You are like a Pen. Words flow easily from your mind.
  7. I am 19, and taking an online test What Animal Are You? The answer comes – Beaver (Really, I have never even seen one in my life! But apparently, I am like one). 

If you ask my opinion, I am one part human, one part chameleon and one part of a budding flower. 

I am a chameleon. You will never be able to categorize me in one pigeon-hole. I am made up of many colours: red for assertiveness, blue for desire for peace, black for recklessness, yellow for cheerfulness, dark blue for sadness, gold for joy, green for imagination and pink for femininity…..and white to absorb all these colours into one. 

I am a budding flower. I blossom a little more everyday. Everyday as I learn something new, I open my petals a little further, and look at the world with a new perspective – see something that I never knew existed before.



My First Love: 1st May 2014

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds” – William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

Today afternoon I happened to be watching the movie ‘Little Manhattan’, a romantic comedy about the pleasure and pain associated with first love, and this got me thinking about my own first love. I was in Fourth Grade when I first fell in love, or had my first crush. He was the son of my teacher, and also my classmate. He was a very quiet boy, and I don’t think I would have ever really noticed him, if it wasn’t for one fateful music class. Our music teacher was teaching us the song ‘Edelweiss’. I recognized the song to be from the movie ‘The Sound of Music’, which was then and still continues to be one of my favourite movies. I said so, aloud in class – and was presented with a whole bunch of bemused stares. No one in my class had seen the movie….except Him. He backed up my claim, and the smile we exchanged then laid the foundation of our friendship. That day during recess, we spent a long time talking about our favourite movies, especially from among Hollywood classics – ‘Roman Holiday’, ‘My Fair Lady’, and especially ‘The Sound of Music’. This is the day I remember most vividly; and every time I think of him, an image rises unbidden in my mind. The image of a ten-year old boy and a nine-year old girl in pigtails talking and laughing under an ancient banyan tree in a school yard.

After ten years, I only remember bits and fragments of our relationship, but I suppose I remember all the good parts. I remember sitting next to him, cross-legged on the floor, while our seniors performed during the Teacher’s Day celebrations, and I remember him saying he found Bollywood item numbers trashy. I hail from a strictly conservative family, and item numbers were a strict no-no in our house. I had to listen them on the sly, and memorize them, to avoid being teased by my peers. I wasn’t particularly fond of them, but I could never muster up the courage to say so, because they were so popular. I thus greatly admired him for having the courage to make such a statement. We slipped out of the venue, and sat chatting outside.
Once our school declared a half-day on account of some reason that fails me now. I purposefully did not tell my mother about it, since I knew he would be waiting back in school for his mother, and I wanted to spend some time with him. My plan unfortunately backfired a little. What I hadn’t counted on was another of our classmates accidentally failing to tell his mother about the half-day, and thus instead of the two of us, there were three of us stuck together, but it still was a pleasant day. I remember the day our teacher asked us what we wanted to be in future, and he was the only boy in the class who said he wanted to be an Air Force Pilot, and we all had clapped for him – and I remember feeling so proud. I remember the two of us being chosen to act in the Christmas skit, and remember being immensely delighted about it, since now I could spend even more time with him after-school hours. I remember the day in the last week of the term, when the rest of our classmates had filed out to the playground for ‘Physical Education’ lecture, I remember him swiftly and clumsily kissing me on the cheek in the dark and empty classroom. He then gave me a sheepish grin, and ran out. I remember standing there paralyzed by shock for quite some time.

Soon after that term ended and vacations began. That summer my father was transferred to another city. I never saw that boy again. I don’t even remember his last name! When I joined Facebook, a few years back, I tried finding him in the hopeless labyrinth of a social networking site – in vain. I scanned the school page and the friend lists’ of those few classmates I had managed to find, but I never even saw his name mentioned anywhere.

I have had many crushes since then, but every time I watch ‘The Sound of Music’ or listen to ‘Edelweiss’, I briefly wonder about the first boy who gave me butterflies in my stomach. I wonder if he remembers me too, a girl he had clumsily kissed in primary school. Sometimes in a crowd I wonder whether he is actually quite near me, and whether someday we will both pass by each other on the streets, and never be able to recognize the other. Maybe we will pause for half-a-second, struck by a sense of deja-vu, and wonder where we have seen those eyes before.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. This post later won a WOW badge from BlogAdda.