“What are you writing?” An ochre robed middle-aged woman asked me. I was writing on a paper while sitting with her in a shared taxi. Unlike other ochre robe people, she was too talkative and was only silent when she was munching something.
The local villagers had blocked the road to Gangotri as some young person died because of landslide. The government officials were searching the dead body but the fall of stones, mud was too heavy, and the flow of river was speedy as well. Above all, it was raining making the land slippery and searching a difficult mission. They were also trying to convince the villagers not to block the road. All this was taking time and I was feeling bored so decided to pen down my experiences. On searching my purse, I found a piece of paper. On that, I had to jot down my memories of 30 days living with people of different cultures, living away from home for the first time, studying in an ashram and funny situations that happened. I did not want to miss out a single such situation. The space was less, words were more, and to manage them I was writing extremely small.
“Why are you writing so small?” She inquired again. “I can’t read.”
“I was jotting the points so that later on I can create a blog post out of each point. And I do not want them to be read by anyone till they appear on my blog after mixing a little fiction and some more humour to it.” I thought, “A piece of paper was journal of my 30 days memories!”