I started writing at age five. My first poem was predictably on my doll. Writing ‘progressed’ from there to my collections of shells, to friends, to school days, then to college, marriage, son… until one fine day it came right back to me.

The years dedicated to the task of writing have been few and far between. Life very clearly revolved around the family. They were always the priority. But even so, deep down in my heart, the joy of writing lived. Actually it palpitated and came to leaping, jumping life at the remotest nudge…

Years of being a daughter, a wife, a mother, a couple of jobs in between and a few freelance assignments and some publications later, I find that the blood has blended with the ink in my veins but it is still there…I am whole because I have these various parts.

Now, as if twilight had suddenly acquired the power of a million torches, I find the beautiful gift of time on my hands. Time is the soil in which the seeds of inspiration are germinating. Once out, they will be lovingly nourished by a writer’s soul now set free.
It was never in chains, but some exiles are self imposed…

For all those who are in my life, no words of thanks are enough to acknowledge their presence, but for those souls who are no longer with me I must say this -

This is all for you mother, Ironically, in losing you, I lost a part of myself and yet you live wholly in me.

And for our dog - dear dear Dino who taught me what love is in the true sense of the word.