Nostalgic...

Absolutely nostalgic. My mom truly believes that I write well. And she tells me I write well because of her. It is strange because I have not seen her write. I remember her talking about writing when I was a 10 year old. She and I used to discuss the skeleton of my essays, in both Telugu and English. Actually, language does not matter. We were discussing thoughts. Debated. Argued. She never used to read my essays. She said she may find something she does not like and that would hurt me. That the essay was mine and she has faith that I would write well. Strange.

Years later, she started reading my essays. She started enjoying them. So much that she said whenever I write something, I should tell her. That she finds them most interesting and she loves reading them. That she does not look for mistakes anymore because I dont make them. :)

She has kept some of my essays with her still. The tattered, battered, stained paper which now smells is still at home. They are not my best. But she says they are handwritten and hence good for her. She says they were more honest. The writing made it real. That I dint strike anywhere told her I had clarity of thought. But I fooled her. That I dint strike anywhere meant I cheated by changing the train of thought. The essays and my writing was never real. It was fiction.

Fiction when intertwined with truth is reality.