I remember those places I visited as a child through words I do not know. I miss my first home in the flowers that I never learnt to name. Those white petals that had bright orange stems, resembled jasmines, were strewn about the road. I know the way they smelt, and I know how they left wet patches on the soil when crushed by our car tires leaving.

In Your World of Words


Dear Jane,

(Yes I chose the clichéd opening; please do not give me a hard time over this)

Let me start this beautifully:-

When girls and boys romantically held hands and snuggled on the last benches in class, we sat in one corner, newspapers in hand (which you nastily stole from young gullible juniors in school, each day without fail), eyes rummaging rows of the atypical Word Sleuth. We have come a long way from those days, sitting in the penthouse at the beach, playing Scrabble in the sun-baked veranda.

Over all those childish games I got to see the happy, patient and romantic soul behind the bold, admirable, busy and strong head girl everybody knew. The love for words is not the singular feeling you aroused in me. I am twitterpated by you – quite officially (yes, that’s from yesterday’s game, thank you for that). In a warm, fuzzy, enamouring yet cool way.  Alphabet by alphabet, these words had heedfully led me to the person you were and had allowed me to love this version with all my heart.

Despite the names of various Toms, populated cities and different boxers that I discovered through these riddles, and my consequently overgrown diction, I am at a loss of words today.

I guess what I am trying to say is that somewhere between “‘Tove’ is not even a word!” and “You cannot change the rules just whenever you want,” I fell for you. I love you Jane – your books, and all your parts summed up. And though I blacked out when you spelled “Let’s Run Away” on the board (I was too flattered I believe), internally I always happily agreed.

Packed my bags.

See you.

Yours Ever