My bed time story

I am Tehani, which, in Hindi, means ‘branch’. My ma, poetic ma named me Tehani while my papa was all set to name me Marushika, which means ‘born out of blessings of Lord Shiva’. Ma argued that Marushika seems to be a twin sibling of Hiroshima and so Papa dropped his idea.

I am eighteen now; an ardent reader and net surfer. Those are my favourite extracurricular activities.

This hunger for books, I inherited from Papa. He is a voracious reader while ma…! Oh what a story teller she is!

I remember, as a child, I would never sleep until ma and papa read to me from my story books. I had a huge collection of books. Animals, fairy tales, mythology, alphabets, rhymes, I had the full range.

And I had built my own world of imagination around them.

But my favourite bed time story is not from any of my books but from the lips of my ma.

She has been always narrating me the tale of my homecoming; since when, I do not even recall. But I remember every night the last and most awaited story would be this. I knew every detail of the story but I just loved listening to this, again and again. Ma would rest on the bed with the support of her left hand, her right hand affectionately fondling with my hair, in an effort to put me to sleep. I played with her mangalsutra, entangling it between my little fingers while papa stroked me on my back. Her managalsutra, papa’s stroke, her fingers and sound of her metallic bangles and the story would all conspire and put me into a deep sleep.

Ma told me that I was not born out of her tummy. Like a fairytale, she narrated how there lived a couple who wished to be parents by adopting a baby from orphanage. And how this couple brought home a two month baby girl and named her Tehani.

Since very early age, I knew that my ma had not given birth to me but then, I did not understand the whole process of birth, at all. My ma tells me today that I had developed an understanding that all babies come from orphanage!

With my age, this bed time story did not change. Only the intricacies changed and I demanded more details. Whose tummy did I come from? Ma and Papa said they did not know. But they explained that whoever my biological mother was or parents were, they must have been good. They said that my biological parents must have found it very difficult to raise me and so handed me to the orphanage, requesting them to find a family for me, someone to nurture me with love, shelter, protection, education as well as provide material sufficiency.

As years passed by, my questions grew from ‘intricacies’ to ‘confrontation’. Was I an unwanted baby? Was my birth unwelcome? Ma and Papa said my homecoming has been the most welcoming event in their life.

There have been nights when, during the story-time, I cried and lamented that I was not born out of the body of the woman I so much loved. Ma did not try to render any philosophical reply. She simply cried along with me, we shed tears together and went to sleep, all three of us cuddled together.

It has never been, nor will be easy to wish away the one month of my life before I came home. I will forever wonder what my biological parents look like. I wonder if I have brothers and sisters related by birth! I will never get over the strange feeling at my fingers to touch the tummy of my biological mother. Sometimes a crazy wish maddens me that I want to see the inside of the womb of my ma. I sometimes wish to be inside it once and change my birth story forever!

I will live with it, only because I love my ma and papa. Only because I know they are there with me.

One day I wish I meet my birth mother and father, I wish to I see them once for just knowing who they are. For quenching the thirst of mine for knowing the reason why they relinquished me. And after meeting them, I wish to come back to my home, to my adoptive parents and listen to my favourite bed time story again!!!

From an old man’s diary!

The lamp in the night dims out....only to usher the sunlight of the dawn. And if God wills, we behold the sunlight, if we do not see the light anymore, it is God’s will, anyway.....

I am Poritosh Banerjee, a retired high official from the Indian railways. All my life I have earned wealth more than I could have imagined and I have earned it the honest way. I have earned fame more than my wealth. I have earned the affection of my friends more than the fame.

And I retired as a proud man.

I have spent most of my wealth and energy in raising my only child; a son. After he was born, we were very clear that we did not want a second child. We wanted to provide the best of schooling and materialistic comforts and undivided attention to him. Dhruv, my wife named our son.

During my job, I was transferred throughout the length and breadth of India. So, my parents never stayed with us. They were confined to the small sleepy village in Bardhaman in West Bengal.

Throughout my job-life, my rewards brought pride to my family. Added to this family pride were the trophies my child earned for academics, sports, extra-curricular activities. He was a brilliant student and a winner all through.

Before we knew it, Dhruv grew up and we sent him to London for his further career pursuits. All that I had earned belonged to him. He was my only child, after all.

Dhruv never came back to stay in India. He and Meghan, his wife settled forever in London and now they have a daughter, whom I have not yet seen!

He would visit us once a year. Dhruv was busy, very busy. He would often have to go for some official commitments in India even during his visit to us.

My wife, Mitali, the quintessential ‘Ma’, never had any complain against her son. She instead would try day and night to make Meghan’s stay comfortable at our house while Dhruv was away.

Mitali passed away four years back. Though I had secretly wished to migrate to London, Dhruv was not very keen. Meghan was not keen either. Their child did not know who I was!

For me, the last four years passed as if I lived through four long lives. Life never seemed so long and unwelcome! My credentials and Dhruv’s trophies gathered dust day after day now that I had no more energy to clean them. The big bungalow I had built screamed in silence. Many a times I had thought of returning to Bardhaman but my parents are no more, so there is no one to receive me or even want me!

I lost the eyesight in my right eye after a stroke last year. Dhruv did not know this. Mitali had ordered me that we should never bother our child and never come in way of his career pursuits.

I have more than enough money. I have a bungalow built for housing ten people! I have the kitchen set up for feeding a dozen people at a time. Such magnanimous was Mital’s heart and intentions but now I stay here alone. I don’t need more than a cot and an arm chair. My diet is reduced to some insipid monotonous food which my hired cook makes.

If I could see God, I would enquire, how long do I have to live?

But last month, I met Tapan, a young lad from Katihar with dreams in his eyes and hole in the pocket! I rented out a room to him, not for money but in search of some companion.

He is here to earn some living, he says. He works for a small Government health project.

I had no idea that my life would change after meeting young Tapan. Over the last month Tapan and I have schemed out a wonderful proposition.

I was almost ready to spend most of my wealth to buy a place for me in the ‘Nirvana-House for the aged’. They demanded some 10 lacs for a two room space for me and other facilities which the aged need.

I talked it over with Tapan and some of my aged and frail friends whom I meet every evening in the park.

But now I have this brilliant idea in my mind, courtesy Tapan. I am not spending my wealth in paying to an old age home but I am actually turning my villa to a home for the aged!!!

Tapan will spend some time for managing the home, he says. He will infact live with all of us, for the time being. We have also got Dr. Vashisht, our neighbour to offer his voluntary service to us. In one month, five people have already contacted me. There is no dearth of money for any one of them, they have all earned wealth and fame but that is a forgotten era. They all have their children but they are busy, as I was or as Dhruv is. All they look for is a companion. All they want is not to sleep in an empty house. All they want is that if suddenly one morning, any one of them does not wake up anymore, somebody else is there to take charge of the final rites and to send a casual message to the children.

So, I know, I will be not alone anymore. I will turn my haunted house into a home. I will have friends living with me.

It is a new beginning. Even if the end is near, the path does not have to be dark.... I deserve moonlight till the last hours of the night!

My culinary crimes!

I am a well read lady. Or so thinks my mother! My parents hardly inducted us into kitchen skills earlier in our life. My mother especially believed that we needed no culinary coaching (as we were supposed to be busy studying!). “Jokhon dorkaar hobey, nijei sheekhe jaabe”. She meant that we will learn when the time (and need) would arrive!

And I did learn. The hard way!

During my hostel days I had discovered the royal Indian recipe of preparing the Horlicks. And my experiment begun and ended with that! And not that I did extremely well in studies! I was ultimately ‘na ghar kaa, na ghaat ka!’

Of the various skilled culinary culminations (read crime!) I can recall, the first one was during my first posting at Hazaribagh. The time (and need) had arrived, finally!

My brother had arrived on the occasion of Rakhi. We were five colleagues staying together, maintaining a common ‘mess’. And what a mess that was! Four of my colleagues were great cooks, we also had a very skilled hired cook and that left me alone; being the only one who had very little clue about the cooking secrets!

With the arrival of my brother, the affectionate sister within me woke up in a pursuit of dishing up something special for my ‘Bhaiya mere bhaiya’. Till then, my skill had reached to ‘anda curry’. So, I ordered “Takhliya...” or “You leave” and out went our cook. My colleagues were in for a surprise that day!

So the onion, garlic, garam masaala, tomato, ginger, chilli, and whatever, were perfectly done on the pan and the already fried eggs and boiled and peeled potatoes were waiting for their fortune to be dipped into the gravy. I already could smell the food and boy! Did it smell good! So the andas and aloos were in the gravy at last. I wandered if the gravy would be enough to feed seven hungry mouths. So I added some water and then little more and then more. My cook was by then vehemently pleading, “Bass Didi Bass” but I knew the appetite of my giants! So more water and more went into the curry.

The onions were now floating and the curry had lost its aroma. But there were so many famished skeletons I had to supply food to!

So dinner was announced and I requested them to bear with the anda “jhol” (soupy liquid curry). And then this proud me had all the famished skeletons pouring out their heart in disgust at the very sight of the curry. One of them, the lesser famished one played with the soup by dipping a ladle into it and pouring it into the same pan, over and over again and laughing her heart out! I was not the one to be hurt so easily! I said well, we could have the eggs and ignore the rest. In a moment the army of the great cooks were inside the kitchen, trying to prepare some edible stuff for my Bhaiya.

Our cook at Hazaribagh made the best Parathas in the world. One day all the other colleagues (the accomplished cooks) were out on tour and our cook had to be at the head office for the entire day. My colleague’s sister and I decided to prepare some parathas. We fought with the wheat, oil, girdle and all the other paraphernalia until we could finish making those edible maps made of wheat! Even at the end we were not sure whether the oil should be put at the centre of the paratha or from the edge. “End taq pata nahin chala!”

After the cooking was done, we sorted out the best of the (okay, comparatively better) parathas and separately stored them for our cook, to spare ourselves from his stark remarks. The two of us satiated ourselves with the rest of the black elastic carbon parathas!

Well, I have come a long way from that point in life! My mother was correct, everyone has to learn, some learn fast and some has a pace of one’s own but the roads are not always easy..

Iss Mod se jaate hain
Kuch sust kadam rastein
Kuch tez kadam raahein...

So we all cross this lane, some are slow and some are quick. Gulzaar saab, maaf karnaa mujhe!


Photograph source: Web

My Minz Chaachaa

He was a little more than 5 feet 3 inches or so, dark, with radiant oily complexion, hair generously oiled too. In the scorching heat, in withering cold and during the torrential rain, Minz Chaachaa, in his Khakhi uniform, would un-failingly arrive, walk few stairs up and few stairs down and on his big black Hercules, move from lane to lane, street to street......

Minz Chaachaa. That’s how we children knew him. He was our postman.

As very young children, we watched him delivering yellow postcards from beneath our closed apartment door. At times we would duck at this side of the closed door, watching the letters being slowly pushed in by Minz Chaachaa. At times we would politely pick up the letters and at other times, we would pull a letter so as to let him know of our presence. Minz Chaachaa, in turn, would playfully pull back the letter and this fun would continue for a few moments.

At times, when he had something important to deliver, like a registered post or parcel, he would bang the door loudly. Worthwhile to mention here is that though we had a door-bell, Minz Chaachaa never could use it since at that part of India where my father was posted, there was no electricity for a brief duration during the day, say, for about 20 hours!

The other neighbours called him with a ‘generic’ name, ‘Aye..postman..!” That’s how Minz Chaachaa was addressed most of the time. My mother said that no one addresses my father as ‘Aye....Supervisor’ or for that instance my mother did not have to hear ‘Aye..housewife!’...so why call anyone by his/ her occupation! And that’s how we knew him as Minz Chaachaa; Albert Minz, being his name.


We saw him delivering the acknowledgement of the money-orders, which our father would regularly send to our grandparents and at times, during the Christmas season, he would bring a lot of Christmas joy and money orders from our uncles. He would meticulously count the notes and ask my mother to repeat it before accepting her signature. My mother would always shy away from checking the notes and the amount in his presence. She said that would mean she did not trust him!

I would often wander how on earth Minz Chaachaa could travel to all the faraway places where our grandparents and uncles lived to bring us those letters and money orders!

During those days, most of the letters arriving were in yellow postcards. Mother and father would go through them, turn by turn and the important ones would find a place on the wall, get pinned to a hook, along with other paper bills, grocery bills, wedding invitations, etc. etc.

Sometimes we would receive inland letters. The more sophisticated relatives would always send inland letters, my mother explained. It was Minz Chaachaa from whom we learnt the art of folding an inland letter.

During the school days, we received our annual report cards via post. And thus, once a year, for ten long years, I would have to bear the tearing anxiety when from my balcony, I could see Minz Chaachaa, carrying along with other letters, my yellow report card! He sure did not have a clue as to how my heart beat increased at that sight! He would wait till the result was opened and each time my father wished to gift him some money on the occasion, Minz Chaachaa denied, saying , “Uss paise se baby ke liye kitaab khariid leejiye, dada!”

He accepted gift only on one occasion, Christmas! Each year, the gift he would receive from the neighbourhood would go to the orphanage.

Times changed, days gave way to months and months to years...but I saw the same Minz Chaachaa, walking up and down the apartments, across the lanes and streets, tirelessly and never missing a smile.


By the time I was 20, the postcards and inland letters had given way to more numbers of yellow envelops with stamps on them. Those were from Nike.

I was studying in the neighbouring city during those years and as my holidays would begin, a permanent seat by the window of our apartment would be booked for me for the lazy afternoons. With voluminous books on my lap, I would have my eyes across the window, waiting for Minz Chaachaa.

His arrival would mean a gush of expectation for Nike’s letters. Never in my life was the ring of the bi-cycle bell so melodious and never before in life the loud thump on the door during the sleepy afternoons, was so very welcome. Days would pass like this, waiting for Nike’s letters; some days would bring in disappointment while there were days when my heart fell out to Nike’s letter, lying beneath the door where Minz Chaachaa would have pushed it through.


Years of courtship passed with Minz Chaachaa playing the messenger for our love, fights, tears, complains and forgiveness’s... only that Minz Chaachaa had no idea of what he had been delivering....!

Even after Nike left for his further studies and I returned to my home town for my career pursuit, Minz Chaachaa continued to be the harbinger of my blooms and glooms...

Suddenly Nike’s letters stopped arriving! Day after day Minz Chaachaa arrived and returned without slipping in from beneath my door, any letter from my Nike. With his arrival, my expectation would soar high and with his return, would start another day of wait, hoping that next day, Nike’s letter would arrive! And months passed by...


And one day, finally, Minz Chaachaa, as usual, pushed in a pink envelop, this time an Archie’s Greeting Card. This one was from Nike! Months of anguish broke into a dam of tears as I picked up the card.

Nike had proposed. And not only was that, inside that cover, there a letter from Nike’s father, proposing a visit to our town soon, for engagement. He did not want to wait, he said.

I wanted to run across the lanes, fly across to Minz Chaachaa and tell him that for me, he was the messenger from Paradise!

While I walked down the aisle on my special day, I looked at Minz Chaachaa sitting among the guests. He raised his hands in blessing.

Today, when I am at the other corner of the world, I have no clue of my Minz Chaachaa. I wander how he must have been during the past few years, I wander about his health and I often picture a frail Minz Chaachaa, hoping his sons are taking good care of him.

My messenger from Paradise, the harbinger of my happiness; May God bless Minz Chaachaa with great health and abundant happiness!

The Valediction

That was the last time I saw you. Standing at the balcony of your apartment, you waved your hands in adieu while I walked away, via the small red gravelled path, out of your campus. And your life.

That was the day when the harsh reality was finally condensed in your dew laden words. You told me that no tree ever could hold back a wandering bird. The sky was home to your wings, you had said and you were on your way to fly across lanes, meadows, shores and oceans, but all alone.

With the utterance of your decisive words, I heard a glass castle break. The castle had belonged to me. I had joined pieces of pristine glass, one by one and had held out towards you to put your piece, in the same castle, for the two of us..

But the castle was broken and with it ended my trance. It had given way to a conscious pledge which you did not have to reciprocate. I did not need that. I was too proud to need but anything from you.

Decades have passed and today as I prepare for my eternal journey beyond the confines of my breadth, I have nothing to demand from you, I have nothing to offer you.



If my silence reaches to you across the horizons, tell me, could I once see you? Could I once behold those eyes and the smile and could those hands liberate me by waving an adieu, once? This time, for the last time, for the last time, ever?

Daddy cool!!

Dear friends, I want to dedicate this piece of writing to the four men I have in my life! Not a regular testimonial though but this one is a heartfelt stream of appreciation and thankfulness for these men without whom I would not have been what I am, today.

My father was the first person who taught me that as a girl child, I did not have to feel inferior to any boy. He planted his faith within me, guarded like a knight when I needed to be protected and let me fly when I spread my wings! I remember my mother advising my father, “Meye boley kotha…kichu taakaa jomaa kortei hobe, biyetey taakaa dite hobe!” This means, “She is a girl, we have to save enough for her dowry!” My father believed that one day I will be independent enough to fend for myself and in addition take a stand not to support dowry. “Je baaritey pon nebe, she baaritey amaar meye biye korbe na (my daughter will not marry into a household which demands dowry).” In his life, my father taught me the science of balancing the goods and odds of life and in his death, he rendered to me, the art of detachment. Now he is no more within his mortal body, but resting in eternal peace ‘somewhere up in star land, where the corner is cosy and blue’. He is as far as beyond the unending skies and as close as deep within my heart, like a lamp lit for the rest of my life!

My brother, whom I have always known as a little boy, is a hero now! Before I knew it, he grew up to be a very responsible, upright and a successful individual. And friends! Is he a woman’s man! I remember the lazy afternoons when his wife and I would wake up to find steaming hot grilled cutlets waiting for us, along with the chai! And by the way, he cooks better than me. My mom has trained both of us equally and he happens to have led the way in culinary skills, as also in all other skills, be it art, music, academics, whatever. To this quintessential gentleman, here is 'three cheers' and all good(est) wishes!

Since I am a foodie, most of my testimonials will bear references to my delightful experiences with food, lovingly dished out by these men! So friends, read on…

I am married to a Tamil household; to a family that carries many legacies of social changes that the previous generations have tried to bring about during a British ruled India. My father-in-law, reared in that milieu, is the epitome of social and gender equality. I have found no bias within him, neither social, nor gender bias. The law makes him a father-‘in-law’ but to me, he is like a doting mother and the dearest friend. Between him and his children (includes me too), there is no generation gap! Actually there is no generation gap between him and his grandchildren either! I am in total awe of this person who is a cheerful playmate to my child, a rock for me, emotionally and also in the mundane duties of life. He is a chat-room partner (not virtual please!) for his sons, nephews, daughters-in-law, neighbors (young and old)…list goes on…and arena varies from politics to craft to Urdu shayari to Naushad to Saigal to Dinkar..and on and on and on. Well, and how well we sing the old classic duets…provided you do not judge us by your ears, our duets are timeless!

And now, meet my hubby, the man I went ‘round and round’ the fire, taking vows for being partner throughout cheer and gloom. He reinforced what I had learnt from my father. He planted his belief within me and here we are, together in the journey called life, in a caravan called comradeship… And friends, no one cooks a better rasam than he does, either! And pakodas..and sambhar…and cookies…Wow! What a great cook he is and he is a better cook than me, a very stylish at that, too. My Mr Dependable, he is the earth for my roots as well as the wind beneath my wings. I leave it to my daughter to write a longer testimonial for her dad and save my further words about him for my personal diary! :) :)

And to all of them,

“Jeet hee lenge baazi hum-tum
Khel adhooraa chootey naa
Pyar ka bandhan, janmon kaa bandhan
Janmon kaa bandhan tootey na…
Pyar kaa bandhan tootey na”

Therefore, friends….let us join together for three cheers for the men in our lives, your, mine, everybody’s lives! There are not enough words for their testimony; but in the words of the generation which my child belongs to, these men, across the generations, are just TOO COOL!!!

From this moment forward.........

It was a warm and humid afternoon during the month of May. The sun shone outside like a fireball and it seemed as if every living being was deep into a spell and refused to move! But the interiors of the church offered all the tranquility and sanity one would need.

Gracy prayed, in quiet solitude, eyes shut and mind as calm as a quiet lake at dawn. Gracy, in her late 30s, would be stepping into a new role, soon. This was a moment she has been waiting for, since the past two long years; this was the moment towards which her hands were stretched in dire desire, her lips never stopped praying and her belief never ever swayed.

Gracy was bearing in her womb, the image of her love for her man. In her womb was the bloom of crimson hopes, with the wings for her dream. A dream, which defined into her crave for a complete family, her crave to be called a mother; her desire for a souvenir she would present to her man, wrapped in all her aspiration and worship.

Gracy was the wife of Thomas, a wealthy businessman who had everything he could ever want: name, fame and heritage. But everything in life is not bestowed just by wanting and reaching out! Thomas was clueless as to who would carry forward the heritage which his forefathers had built and which he had meticulously preserved and added. In other words, Thomas wanted to be a father!

Gracy was the second wife of Thomas. Thomas was previously married to the beautiful, charming and cheerful Stella. Together, Thomas and Stella had once weaved the dream of a nest which would be built high among the branches of aspiration, rooted deep in faith and stretching its hands towards the boundless sky of delight, contentment and benevolence.


Providence had other plans for the young birds, which were still busy gathering twigs and grasses for their dream nest! Stella died during the childbirth and just after an hour, the newborn was also on its way to join its mother!

With them, died the soul of Thomas, leaving behind a body, moving around, aimlessly, with the remains of the scattered nest in his shivering palm, wandering why the storm was so violent! How could he put them together again!

Time is the best healer, the wise say! In another five years, Thomas picked up the pieces of his broken and scattered life, one by one and gathered courage, to gather twigs and leaves for a nest, yet again! And that is how Gracy came into his life.

Not that Thomas was new to Gracy. Being part of the same commune, Thomas was not a stranger. Gracy had, from a distance, been a silent spectator of whatever was happening in Thomas’s life, all these years, since Thomas was a University student. So, it goes on to say that Gracy always loved him but never had the courage to speak up.

After their wedding, it did not take Gracy long to realize that Thomas searched for Stella in her. Gracy knew, that for Thomas, she was nowhere like the Stella whom Thomas has carried like a crown! Stella lived in his heart and dreams and he was in an effort to find a living Stella in the mortal Gracy!

Thomas wanted to be father, craved to be a father, although he did not say a word about it. Even though no words came from him, Gracy was not oblivion of this. After all, she knew him since years and all these years she had always waited for one single careless glance from this man and now the man was hers! All hers! This would often strike a melody in her thoughts and body although she knew that when Thomas looked at her eyes, he looked at Stella!

Gracy had, thus, started believing that once she is the mother of his child, he would start noticing her as a different woman. She herself yearend to bear the child of the man she loved. She would not let anything bar her from being a mother.

She carried the belief, all alone, in her heart and as if her prayers were heard, with powerful recommendation from the soul of the beautiful, benevolent Stella, at God’s doorstep, Gracy found herself on her way to having her first baby!

Thomas, though very caring, could not often accompany her to the doctor. However, he had employed a fleet of chauffer, attendants, full-time nurse and care-giver to take care of Gracy and pamper her during the special nine months. Gracy could see a happy Thomas, for the first time, like this, in the past two years of togetherness. She could see a change in Thomas’s eyes, the way she smiled at her, the way she took her fingers in his hands and the way he brushed aside her playful locks from her face. This Thomas was her man, and she was his, for the first time!

Sometimes, she would wake up in nightmare, fearing if anything would go wrong! She clutched her hopes and happiness, all in a bundle, near to her heart and could not afford anything to snatch it away!

So, on this sunlit afternoon, Gracy rested in the cool milieu of the church, like a tired child on the lap of her mother!

Just two days prior to the due date, her blood pressure was abnormally high. What she had hidden from Thomas and all others was that she was, before pregnancy, warned against bearing a child at that instance, due to her low weight and anaemic condition. She did not pay any heed to it, did not ever talk to Thomas about it. She was head-on her path to bear the child, bear the child for Thomas and in return, demand what she was waiting for, always! A small niche in his heart! Together, they would make a ‘family’ and how she savored the very thought of it!

Her blood pressure was not normal and she ran into many complications. On her way to the labour room, she managed to whisper into the doctor’s ears, “Doctor, even if something happens to me, even if I do not survive, let this baby see the light, let it survive; his father awaits him…..”

A frenzied Thomas walked up and down the lobby, with fingers clutched in prayer! The moment had arrived!

The doctor rushed out of the labour room and explained to him that there was serious complication and a threat to the life of the mother as well as the baby. Though she would try the best of the best, the doctor announced the cruel truth that only one of them could survive and not only that, after this delivery, for sure, Gracy could never be a mother again!

The cruel fate looked up with a crooked smile once again, at Thomas! Time froze again and his feet were like heavy stones and he felt hollowness in his entire body. The fate’s finger marked an icy line down his spine. There was Thomas, a lost man, all set to lose again….

The doctor added that Gracy had wished for the life for the baby but as ethically….

Thomas did not wait to hear her explanation.

The suddenly composed man, in his decisive voice, told the doctor, “Doctor, I want my Gracy to live….I want my Gracy….!”




Anindita Baidya