He called me Anamica, admonished me… and disappeared

My mobile rang one noon in October 2012.

A booming voice, "Am I speaking to Nisha Sanjeev?"

“Yes. May I know who is on line?"

"Anamica!! How are you? I am so-and-so…"

This gentleman, a veteran media professional with unrivalled accomplishments, stumbled across my book and had traced me down.

The next day I was on air, speaking about women’s empowerment – a live interview, which he had arranged.

He referred me to a few and thus I became a speaker

 

Every single day for the next six months he spoke to me at least once. Sharing inspiring anecdotes from his life, talking to me about great people and their lifestyles and egging me to write every day…

Soon he began admonishing me over my habit of waiting for weekends, not waking up early enough, not reading enough… not changing my lifestyle to focus on my passion.

He compelled me to break free, meet new people. He even referred me to a few and thus I became a speaker. I was invited as one of the key speakers at an event celebrating the 150^th birth anniversary of Swami Vivekananda.

He persuaded me to try a new genre – I wrote a play

Abruptly, his calls became occasional. But even those began with, "Anamica!!! Tell me how far have you come with your new book?” My replies never satisfied him.

And then, I heard him rare… and then… I simply waited…

Yesterday I learnt he left Dubai two years back!

The serendipity of people suddenly appearing in my universe at moments when I least expect and dusting clean my path and vision only to disappear suddenly, leaves me in humble submission to the Divine.

God Blessings to all who crossed my path!

The search for my friend ends

Sarita Reddy was my best friend. We sat together on one bench all through high school.

While in Grade 9, she misread a question - carrying 8 marks - on 'Glorious Revolution' and instead wrote about 'Green Revolution'. After the exam, a weeping Sarita pleaded with our teacher, who considered her answer. She gave her 5 marks. When the progress cards were distributed at the month-end, she stood first in class, scoring just 4 marks more than me in total aggregate. I felt cheated and didn't speak to her...for a day. Neither of us could stay angry with each other beyond that. We were best buddies!

After Grade 10, we decided to take science and joined the same college. We again sat together, studied together and even bunked classes together. She hated sweets, but she would often bring me 'double ka meetha' [the traditional Hyderabadi dessert] because I loved it.

It was in Grade 11 that Sarita first asked me to write a poem for her. "You have a way with words," she said and pestered me into writing one. I wrote about her sisters. She took it home to show her family and forced me to write one every day, thereafter. She was the best bully, too. She stopped speaking to me if I didn't write. So I complied. She also had another rule: I could only enter the poem in my diary after she had read it.

Within a year, I discovered science was not for me because physics and chemistry blew over the top of my scalp, while I held zoology at arms' length. I scored a dismal 65%, while she passed with over 80% marks. The results ensured we were in different colleges for our graduation. But we were in touch. She came home often.

However, after my three-year graduation I opted for journalism and she went ahead for a Masters in Organic Chemistry. She had her new group of friends, so did I.

Yet, we were in touch. However, it was she who visited me often. I always had reasons for not being able to go to her place.

Well, time flew and one night in 1997 she came home to invite me for her wedding. "This time, I want to hear no excuse. You are coming. That's it," she threatened.

I was all prepared. But as luck would have it, I was down with high fever on her big day. I felt bad. Sad. Genuinely sad.

That was the last I saw her, at my doorstep, in the dark. That was the last I heard my friend speak!

She got busy in her married life in the other part of the twin city of Hyderabad and me in my new job in Secunderabad. We lost touch.

Two years later, after my wedding I left the country.

Years later, in 2012, when I wrote my first book, 'Anamica', I dedicated it to her, as I believe it was she who showed me my purpose in life. And my renewed search to touch base with her began. I took to Facebook voraciously, passing the word around. I yearned to hug her and give her a copy.

At last, early this year, a stranger contacted me on FB. She sent me a message, "Are you asking about Sarita Reddy from Kharkhana? Who studied at St Ann's Bolarum...? I'm her cousin. When can we speak?"

I read the message on my way back from work. I couldn't wait to reach home. I buzzed the girl... "Sarita passed away in 1998. She..." The rest of her message was a blur.

Rest in peace, my friend.

How I love him!

I thought long and hard if I should write this here rather in my diary, just for my eyes. At last I decided to post it. Because I owe it to him. To the only soul who has understood me!

It’s two years since I realised my dream of holding my first book – Anamica. Like any writer, I had yearned for reviews, for feedback, for reaction... and more.

I distributed books free. I gave it to all who as much as gave half-an-ear to hear me say that I am published. From family, relatives, acquaintances, friends, colleagues, celebrities, neighbours to total strangers…I gave them all. 

One of my friends said: “I should attempt writing plays.”

Another friend said: “I should concentrate on poetry.”

Yet another said: “I should write children’s book.”

One senior colleague said: “It’s frivolous.”

Another ex-colleague said: “It’s sarcasm at its best.”

An acquaintance said: “Typical middle-class stuff.”

A cousin said: “I didn’t understand.”

My editor said: “Become a life coach.”

And so on… Majority of those who gave their opinion had not read until the end. Some just a few chapters. [How do I know? Well, I know my work].

Most of the others [including those who pestered me for a copy] chose to disappear and ignore after receiving one. 

But for one person.Geoff Thompson!

Geoff Thompson - My mentor and inspiration

An author of 40 books and multi-award winning films, a celebrity in his own right, he need not have bothered to reply to an obscure fan from across the miles.

That he had read each page before ringing me up from London that April afternoon in 2012, was evident from the conversation we had. When he said, “Your book made me cry,” I choked. And when he asked, “When will you make up your mind…?” I couldn’t control myself. After 20 minutes, when he wound up saying, "You will get there..." and gave me tips,I had to hold on for support.   

The trials, tribulations, hopes and dreams of the protagonist in the book are mine. ‘Anamica’ is my life journey of three decades. None saw it. Because I never mentioned it.

But there he was, my man, how I love him! Am blessed to have him as my mentor, my inspiration.

This anniversary month, when I received a mail from him with the words “Blessings lady”… I couldn’t help rewind and ponder… Am I a good writer that I can create a make-belief world and hide behind my words Or am I so hopeless that I can’t get across my idea Or am I being too ambitious for my own good...

To all those who have scrolled down until this word… THANK YOU!