Dear Ved,
You appeared in my life when anybody’s appearance was not a thing. I remember not watching you, seeing you, or knowing you for so many years after you appeared to the world. But, I guess, like every other thing in this world has a perfect time, you appeared right when I needed you the most. The time I loosened my hope to count on things in my life. The time when every other door led to uncertainty or strings of uncertainties. You taught me that there is a world beyond these desks and tables and cubicles. A world where you have a platform to do anything, to be anything. You ignited that spark of following that whisper inside, that was long defused. It is because of you I came to realize that the purpose of life is not printed on some sheet of paper but reliving the thing you loved doing in your childhood. Just like you loved hearing and telling stories after recess, I realized that even I was made for telling stories that were buried down under pavements people stepping over them. Even I stepped and ignorantly walked on these stories, hoping that they would never pop out of the surface. Stories that were pushing it hard to confront the world and speak for themselves, just like you spoke for yourself. But one fine day, they did. Just like you did. They had to speak for themselves or there wouldn’t be a story like you, like me. Because you see, you were a story that helped my buried stories surface up, to make my story worth reading, worth performing, worth telling. Stories worth telling to a world that itself is a gregarious part of these small stories called ‘Tamasha’.