Some time back I developed an intriguing (pen) friendship with a stranger in England. It began with his appreciation of my book  published by HarperCollins. His wife had presented it to him while he was on dialysis, awaiting a kidney transplant. He vowed that it was the funniest book he had read and wanted to send me a laptop as a token of appreciation!

I was mighty pleased. The book ‘AFTERNOON GIRL – my Khushwant memoir’ was indeed a hilarious, salacious and scandalous account of my interaction with the noted (notorious) Indian author, journalist and columnist Khushwant Singh but a laptop from a stranger? No way! So I replied: ‘The greatest reward that a writer desires is, appreciation. As you have supplied that in ample measure, I need nothing else.

One thing led to another and we began to correspond on a regular basis. I was amazed at the positivity he radiated despite the fact that his body was riddled with diseases. Perpetual pain and regular rounds of the hospital had become an integral part of his life, but he had not lost the zest for living.

I wrote: ‘I cannot believe that God can be so cruel to give one person so much to bear.’ He replied: ‘He has not been cruel to me. I am the lucky one. He has surrounded me with a caring family — a loving younger brother, an amazingly fantastic wife, sons and daughters who dote on me, not to forget, friends like you.’

I replied: A happy marriage and loving relationships are indeed a blessing. For me the reverse is true — good health but emotional unhappiness. Perhaps this too was for a reason. I honed my writing skills on heartaches and transformed into pearls of poetry, grains of sand lodged in the oyster of my existence.

What hurts most was, that though, the soil of my soul was rich and fertile, not for me were golden fields and lush orchards. All that the farmers of life sowed on it were thorny cacti. I have now learnt to love what I have and revel in the ephemeral blooming of these prickly inhabitants. I have also learnt not to expose my vulnerability for people, sadistically poke needles into tender flesh. It is only in my writing that I pour my angst so that, drained of negativity, I retain my witty demeanor. Profound are the words of the poet who penned the following couplet:

Kabhi kisi ko mukamal jahan nahin milta/Kahin zameen toh kahi aasman nahi milta (no one gets the entire world, some are deprived of the earth, others of the sky).