Its party time for the worms in Bangalore, the book kind that is, all thanks to the Strand Book Festival – one of the few things that rock our home’s otherwise carefully managed financial boat..:)
Last weekend was no exception, as Sherlock Holmes, Calvin, Asimov, Mughals and assorted other stars came into our living room, a slightly different kind of printed paper went out, and like always, there’s not even an iota of guilt..hehe
Since D preferred to do eyebrows while I browsed through rows and rows of storytellers, it gave me time to send a little note of thanks heavenwards, to the first storyteller i ever knew, and the best – to my grandmother, who used to tell me a story every night before I slept, who used to make sure i got my ‘Poompatta‘ every month, and insisted that my dad bought me ‘Amar Chitra Katha’ regularly. The storyteller whose stories were only for me, whose characters always seemed to be my age, or the kind that i liked, whose stories were imaginative, inspiring, heartwarming and everything else that stories should be, who made sure that i would love stories for the rest of my life.
And since i know i can never be that good a storyteller, the books I buy are perhaps my way of passing on my favourite stories to those who come after me, for I understand that only the very fortunate ones end up getting a great storyteller as a granny.
until next time, live happily ever after…
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