Saturday, January 30, 2010


A hostel-mate of long ago. Every weekend, when she returned home, her father would always be eagerly waiting for her in the verandah, without fail. And she would sit down right there, bags and all, and start telling him stories of the week, what happened at the university, what each of her friends did, said, what they ate at the hostel, the places she went to, the labwork she did, the weather changes on the campus and what it brought with it.

And her father would be smiling, listening to every word, like it was the word of God, for it was his only child, and her entire world that he was witnessing. He would wait the entire week for this one moment on Saturday morning, when he knew her bus would arrive. This moment when his little story teller would come home with her bagful of stories.

You have only heard about this. But that verandah, you have been there so often.

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