Let me start with a cliché - Let me tell you a story.

I was 3. I was sad. I was born into Indian aristocracy on one side and old money on the other - or so it seemed to the outside world. To the friends outside, I had it all - everybody in town knew that my grandfathers and ancestors were some of the richest people during their own grandfathers’ times. My younger brother and I had a chauffeur driven car and my parents were know to be heirs of hundreds, if not thousands of acres of agricultural land and plantations. That would be all you could have seen from the outside had you known us then. That’s it. 

So what, you say? I’m not here to tell you how rich my family is supposed to be, because obviously there are now thousands of families that are doing incredibly well for themselves monetarily in post-independance India. I am just letting you into my bubble from the outside. I am just giving you a tiny picture of my complicated world. To know where my thoughts come from, I have to paint my life to create pictures in your mind. Hopefully, you can walk in my coloured shoes as I sketch the memories of my emotions from when I was a little girl through to being a young woman. Some of them pretty. Some bitter-sweet. Some lonely. Some utterly deplorable. I am not great at writing. I have an average vocabulary and English is not my forte. So you will not be gaining literary intellect from my posts - that’s the only thing I can promise. I am only writing this to record my emotions while they are still fresh and before they fade away. I am also writing this so that one day, if and when I have children of my own, I can learn from my past. Because every story has a moral, I believe.

Now, you have seen me from outside my home as a 3 year old. Let me let you into my world as we walk this together.