I recently started sharing my thoughts on LinkedIn, wouldn’t it be a shame if I don’t share them here as well. No preachy monologues or boring rants, I promise. Consider this more of a blog than an article or a newsletter, as I’ll be sharing snippets from my childhood, the books that captured my heart, the movies that left an impact, and much more. Today, I wish to tell the story of a little girl whose love for stories took her on magical journeys to faraway realms, all beginning with a simple sketch pen.

Both my parents were bankers from a generation that stayed in the same career until retirement. They left for work at the crack of dawn and returned by dusk, so as an only child until the age of nine, I spent much time alone. In our quaint town of Pulpally in Wayanad, life unfolded like a scene from a Padmarajan film, with even the smallest moments sparkling with promises. Mornings, however, were far from cinematic, as most days began with humble but warm bowls of Maggi noodles, Bullseye eggs or Upmas served by my mother (Amma), who never had time or inclination for elaborate meals. Even in that unassuming routine, I was as happy as a kid who adored her bowl of Maggi, relishing life’s simplest pleasures.

We were always surrounded by local tribal communities, one of whom was Meenippanichi and her family, who featured prominently in many of my father’s (Abba’s) paintings. They helped around the house and tended the small plot of land by our unique Laurie Becker-style home, which resembled three brick cylinders put together to form a Lego-like structure. The recycled multicoloured bottles affixed to the ceilings lent natural yet vibrant light to the interiors. The three of us even had small circular extensions outside the house for gardening, where we nurtured roses, dahlias, shoe flowers and four o’clock flowers (yes, they bloom exactly at 4 p.m., hence the name). As a child, I saw our home as a whimsical trio of circles, each one a miniature world brimming with its own charm. Air conditioning and even fans were alien to us in Wayanad, as the temperature was always pleasant, never rising above 18 degrees. But that was, of course, in the past. Later, when we moved to Thiruvananthapuram when I was eight years old, we sold that house for a meagre sum.

It was when I was three and still clutching my thumb, a habit that lingered until my father (Abba), the creative genius that he is, devised a clever trick to break it. In those days, every small packet of Maggi came with a free sketch pen. He promised the sketch pen and a story each day if I kept my thumb out of my mouth, and that is when it all began. It was not merely the pen itself that enchanted me, but the fact that it came from Abba, an artist whose creativity shone through in every gesture and brushstroke, and whose stories were far more exciting than my old habit. I never became the next Picasso or even a small-time Frida, but those pens and stories struck a chord, inspiring and encouraging me to try sketching or possibly writing.

Every night, Abba, who honestly should have had his own Netflix special for storytelling, would regale me with tales from the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the Arabian Nights and even the Bible, sprinkled with anecdotes from his favourite books, his personal adventures, and even his imaginative spin-offs. As I drifted off, I was transported into a world of stories, and the thought of getting a new sketch pen the next day was enough to keep my thumb away. It worked like magic, as I eventually collected all twelve colours, each bringing a fresh, captivating memory. When I began reading on my own, he thoughtfully presented me with abridged, child-friendly versions of these stories.

Even now, when someone asks, “How do you know these rare, almost-extinct stories?” I simply smile. Those storytelling sessions, and the modest sketch pens, shaped me into an avid reader and eventually a writer.

This blog is my tribute to that journey. Sure, reading has taken a backseat these days, with Audible filling in the gaps (oh, modern technology), but I still yearn to relive those moments when a little girl would lose herself in a book, finding both magic and solace in every page.