It was September of 1977. This forty-five-year-old memory is as fresh in my mind as if it happened last month. Indeed, do I remember what happened last month in this cluttered age? Probably not, yet the memory of seeing the greatest of all time forty-five years ago is etched in gold in my heart, in many hearts of our time.
In a tryst with destiny, Ahladini Shakti was born on the dark tempestuous night to Yashoda and Nanda in Gokul, a hamlet on the banks of river Yamuna.
Humanity always wins. Pandemic changed all existing myths and game plans. Even the police are doing their best, breaking all mistaken notions about them.
We, the children, were blessed to have several story tellers. Of course not in toilets.
The demise of veteran actor, Christopher Plummer, took me back many years when I was a little girl growing up in the hill station of Darjeeling.
Amanda Gorman was here. She is here, and she will be here. She is the hope.
The lost glove, unpaired by destiny, always makes me sad. I, too, am looking to find the other piece of my immigrant life.
With the passing of Soumitra Chatterjee, the legendary actor, director, writer, poet, and most of all, an humanitarian, I can almost smell that time tonight.
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