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I'm back!

It's been a long, long time. For those of you that noticed, I apologise. I'm promising (acknowledging that I'm risking my credibility) that I will be more regular, and publish posts I'd promised. There will be pictures, and more of who I am, in what again I recognise too much of a rant about myself.

Stay tuned, I might just say something to capture your interest. :)

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Pearl

They adopted her. Found her on the roadside, shivering, cold and neglected. Her birth had caused her mother's death and she had no clue who or where her dad was. She had big, beautiful brown eyes and was a meek little thing. People often shot dirty looks at her when she pursued them in hope of some way to soothe the gnawing feeling at the sides of her tiny tummy and she often slept alone on the footpath. The playfulness and happiness she saw others who looked so much like her radiate often made her pine for more from her life. It was at the signal she inhabited that the Dsouzas saw her, and they took pity on her and took her home, as they were kind people. They named her Pearl. Over the next few weeks, she was thrown into a completely new and unfamiliar environment. She basked in the spotlight, as the mama, papa, the twenties-something son (John) and teenage daughter (Mary) showered her with curious yet kind attention. Gradually, she learned much from them and improved in appe...
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The torn blanket

I can barely breathe. As I feel the whoosh whoosh of my seemingly scarce breaths, I want to tell you a story. My story. I was born with 8 siblings, and our mom was a single mom. She didn't ever tell us about our dad, and we never pestered her, as she was good enough for both. She would give us all we needed, keep us warm and happy. She was the main focus in our lives, we would do whatever she asked, and she rarely, if ever, was wrong. Though she wasn't a very emotional woman, I knew she loved me a little better than my siblings. Maybe because I was a little weak at times, got a cold and fever too often. I still remember how once when we were kids, and others were ridiculing me for feeling cold all the time, she had bought a new blanket, a unique one, made by an old woman who was the only obstetrician and also a magic-worker in my mom's village. She had silently walked in while we tossed and turned in our sleep, and covered me with it, and I don't think I ever felt more...
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What do you wish to be?

They asked me a million times, the same thing over and over. "Who do you want to be when you grow up?", they said. Somehow this question has been a constant safe resort for all the distant or close uncles and aunts I (and most of you, I'm sure) have had. They always are interested in our future plans, though often forgetting our answers within the next blink of an eye. Somehow it has collectively become a part and parcel of the Indian (and now worldwide, it seems) psyche, that a person is worthy of notice only if he's working towards some end, passionately. Another thing is, this question that I fully dissected by gauging the motives behind, the tone of and the way of asking, has evolved into something that needs a 'materialistic' answer. I mean, there's this famous saying wherein a kid said "I wanna be happy" when asked this question, and was thought to be simple and innocent by the adults who most probably returned with the same question a few...
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