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I always crack my knuckles and think of Pablo Neruda when people want to know about me.

It reminds me of what Neruda had to say about the Earth:

Earth remains silent, it will never
divulge all its names, or its gamut
of languages; receiving
conceiving, it toils and says nothing.

I was born with a lock of white hair, but friends tell me that the gods confiscated the wisdom that should have come with it. Funny! I have witty friends.

I have worked as journalist in India and the US, starting as a cub reporter for The Times of India and much later working for a newspaper and a literary portal in the USA. In between - and even now - I freelance for several publications in India and abroad.

When I am not stringing words or hopping around with my valise and camera in sandy terrains or snowy mountains, you will catch me peeling potatoes for a lavish meal. Or, stitching a dress and knitting a scarf.

If only God had asked me what I wanted - I would have been a farmer who was also a writer; my hands stained with wet earth and deep blue ink.