I’m no expert in blogging. But the other day, a Mumbai friend, Nandi, dropped me a call. “I need some help! Are you tech savvy? How do I navigate this thing?!!”

So after school today, I hitched a ride with her seven year old son, Taj, who chattered about tooth fairies and rupees. And in her living room, with a Kingfisher in hand, I introduced Nandi to the world of tags, freshly pressed and blogrolls.

After some technology hiccups, she dug out her binder, filled with stories she had spun over her three years of living in Mumbai. Her descriptions lured me into her world of tipping bicycles, juxtaposed beggars and Brad Pitt, and a husband trying to raise his status amongst his colleagues through tiffin lunches.

She’s obviously studied how to be a writer, but that’s not what impressed me. Nandi writes with her heart. Her skill of adding unexpected twists only serves to propel her underlying message. The few stories I’ve read have a pattern. She starts with a metaphor, leaves the metaphor until it’s erased from your memory, and towards the end somehow the metaphor fades in again, unexpectedly, twisting its way into your heart, leaving you with “aha!” moments and hungry for more of her stories.

I’m looking forward to her blog launch. But more than her blog entries, I somehow picture her future novel, resting on my lap, as I’m lured into her world, Kingfisher in hand.

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