Childhood stories are like the pages of a colorful sketchbook. Smudgy but beautiful. Incomplete but satisfying. The kind of art that doesn't make much sense but gives us enormous happiness. Let me show you a tiny glimpse of my sketchbook...

I turn the velvety thick papers of my old photo album and my mind goes back, picking up those memories once again. Amma, my mother, powdering my crying face, helping me to wear my uniform, combing my oily wet hair, fixing a white hair band, and tying up the laces of my black - polished shoes paired with the feathery white socks. My chechi, elder sister helped me, holding my hands, as i took the small lazy steps wearing the Mickey mouse and Donald duck imprinted heavy backpack!!! Oh... my hunched shoulders!

To be very honest, i never cared about my studies or even books!
I was never studious, no first bencher, careless with my pencils, i barely completed my notebooks or homework in time and was always under radar of my class teacher! My maths class teacher!

Ahem!!!

I was always excited to meet...