I have this memory of my grandfather scribbling away on his 30-year-old overstuffed teak wood desk in his old address in Visakhapatnam, India. It was only when the desk gave up on him, that my grandmother put her foot down, insisting that it had to go. Probably that beautiful image of him, sitting by his table, dipping his waterman ink pen into an ink bottle sowed the first seeds of writing in me. He had the best stationary, the best encyclopedias. Around the time of our first birthday, my grandfather gifted my cousin and I a one year subscription of the Nat Geo magazine. We were a fortunate lot; to have a connoisseur like him.
He hoarded a massive collection of cassettes, from the oldest numbers to the newest, my Nana would have them all. His children were no less, each had their own collection. From swanky cars and fancy kites to a massive volume of comic books such as Tin Tin and Calvin and Hobbes, to books by first time authors and authors of repute, my mother and her brothers dabbled in all.
Often my mother would relay tales of her uncle, my Nana’s elder sibling, who was just like him, if not more. She would say, “One day when I was in Calcutta, Saleh Kaka (uncle) gifted me the entire Sherlock Holmes collection. The first page of the book had a note for me: To Mumtaz, the finest steel must go through the hottest fire. the quote said." That quote has ever since stayed with me, resting in the recesses of my memory. Only to find itself parading the surface of my mind in the darkest of times.
My writing journey must have commenced then and probably my fantasy of possessing a desk just like my grandfather, a writing desk which exudes character and familial history.
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