She was 65 and vibrant when she left what I grudgingly call the world. Why grudgingly? Because the drowning of migrants as we talk about keeping them away as if they were locusts, the disappearance of towns as we keep working on our comfort levels, the abuse of children and women on a daily basis as we perennially keep talking about plans for their welfare and, of course, deaths due to lack of food and potable water tempts me to call the planet not world, but a place where a large number of us are continuously given a taste of hell.  

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…A place where a large number of us are continuously given a taste of hell. 

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Coming back to her. I really miss her. Because she was my listener. We all need listeners. Why? Because our lives are full of stories, which need to be told. Inability to tell them will leave us insane.

We want to tell them when we are in love, when we are being hated; we want to tell them when we are happy, when we are ripped by grief; we want to tell them when we are day dreaming, when we are shattered by shattered dreams; we want to tell them when we are relishing a triumph, when we are left defeated; we want to tell them when we are being snugged by passion, when we are being given the painful ignore.

The scripting begins the day we enter school. We come back home every day with a million tales. They are invariably incoherent, but unending. Some of the tales, written in school, are recollected and reshaped during our journey through adulthood and when we are at peace with ourselves.

Well, I am very sad that my greatest listener is gone because the scripting is on. Who will listen to my stories? She was my greatest listener because I didn’t have to edit my stories. She displayed a rare sense of tolerance. She used to say that censored reality is fiction. "Therefore, give me the uncensored version," she used to repeat. And I merrily exploited that position.