When you were busy....

Have you ever heard the dew drops falling on leaves?
A very rare sound to hear but if you get to hear it on a cold January night you’ll know why I’m writing this post.

You are busy with something…engrossed in some stupid work may be and you hear this first few drops and suddenly you feel like coming out of a trance and you’re relaxed. Your mind lets go of all the tiring thoughts, releases you of your duties and responsibilities and you just listen to that tip…tip…tip…feeling yourself as the dew, being lowered from leaf to leaf with every single drop and you feel as if you are back home---to the gentleness of your mother’s care, the depth of her love, the feeling of languor in her arms and the wetness of her kiss. The sound has an atonal melody to it which releases you of all the atavistic ways of life.

Your eyes gets closed by themselves but you can feel the surrounding with every breath you take---the chilly air, the calmness, the soft tip-tip through the penetrating silence and you can feel yourself glow with bliss. Through the velvety darkness you can almost visualize the sparkling drop of dew; soaking your senses and leaving a minty refreshment spreading like venom through every capillary, every nerve of your body making you burst out in bloom waking you up from your sleep like a new-born flower bud.

And somewhere inside, you know that the world is, after all, not such a bad place to live in.

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By the way Happy New Year readers…from you know…This and That and a few others may be :)

Christmas...as it was

"Baba...Baba..."


One deafening yell...then a crash...and I was on the floor,wrapped in a bundle...quilt,pillows, bedsheet n et al.


The whole house came running.
“What happened?” Baba asked, pulling me up through all that mess.
“He came. He actually came again this year. See I got my gifts. Cake, biscuit, a book and a letter.” I smiled.
Baba smiled too. So did Ma. We all smiled on the Christmas morning.


Christmas is there for that only, right? Its there to make you smile.

When you believe in the fairytale, you smile because your faith is true and when you don’t, then also you smile to the memories…and that faith stored up at some corner of your loyal heart which soon fills your entire mind and sets your imagination free…and ultimately brings a smile on your face.


Fortunately or unfortunately,I always used to get the same gifts from Santa every year…a cake, a packet of Britannia Good day, a book and a letter. The letter was the most fascinating part. Santa knew everything that I did year round and he wrote to me about that. He gave me innovative ideas about how to be all the more naughty…he asked me to be good…to love…believe and most of all he asked me to be happy. He also used to request a reply. I used to reply as well. And not knowing where to post it I ended up handing it over to Ma who always used to know where to find him.
Christmas was definitely a lot of fun...always.


It must have been class-III…the last time Santa ever wrote to me…and I never replied.



May be the child in me had started to doubt or the adult in me had started to grow up…what ever it might have been…I recognized Santa’s handwriting.

It was Baba. He had written the letter to me.
I was shocked, disappointed and hurt.

Hurt beyond imagination because not only was my Santa just fake but he also did not exist. He was simply not there. Not in my house…not in someone else’s house stuck up in a chimney…not in his factory at the North Pole. He just wasn’t there. Nowhere.The child in me lost its unadulterated faith and gained access to the world of doubts, disbelief and rationality.




It was hard to let Santa go... but as years passed…I realized that I don’t need to let go of him…rather I cant let go of him…because at some corner of my heart I’m still grateful to that bearded old man with his huge belly, red dress, reindeers, guffaws, elves and promises to return the next year, for making me imaginative and believing. For making me love, smile and happy. I am grateful to him because he actually taught me the lessons of life as I’d have preferred them. I love him because he kept his promise each year and came back to collect that piece of paper full of spelling mistakes and grammatically incorrect sentences or phrases..whatever you might call it...I love him because he never left me.

P.S:I never replied to him after that little discovery part…but however now…I really wish he would write to me one last time…I promise I'd reply.