As fallen leaves return to their roots, my hands traveled to distant and foreign lands, learning Canadian rules of hand etiquette, across the ocean to Tanzania, in the warm hold of strong-hearted wome
My Grandmother wrinkled hands made my life and my siblings bearable. I was born in a family of four children., I was the second born Girl child. The First born was a boy.
When I heard the words Holding Hands, there are a couple of stories and images of people which flashed through my mind, but one that of a special person, I would like to share is of my land lady at
I expected a knock on my door everyday when the clock ticked 6:30 am and like always there she was, Sushmita greeting me a bright day with a cup of tea and biscuits.
My dear reader if you hope that this novel will show you blood, love, sex or money, you can throw out this book. Please give me some minutes. This story comes from my mind.
When I visited China this spring, I remembered that signs of affection aren’t always obvious.
Hundreds of creases on her face cannot destroy the beauty of her smile. The white hair on her head cannot prove that she is old and losing the virtues.
My mother’s daughter was a son for my uncle and aunt. I……. I was their son until they gave birth to their own son about two years ago.
I recently had a leg injury which got me twenty four stitches and later, two secondary rounds of ten stitch each because of a problem with ‘skin approximation’.
14th of August. That very day changed our lives – it was a birth of Aristarh. When I was informed about it, I was at university.