May Meanderings: Monthly Missives from The Dream Pedlar
Celebrating the 50th edition of Monthly Missives by bidding farewell! Thank you for staying with me all this while!
The sun is shining and the skies are a clear blue once again in this part of the world. Leaves are bursting forth on trees with such joyful abandon that the sight of them makes me slow down and indulge in their beauty every time I turn into a residential street.
To top it all, this is the 50th edition of Monthly Missives!
And also the last one for the time being, I must mention right away. Rip the band-aid and all that.
As of last month, I was only thinking of taking a step back from writing fiction but intended to keep writing these missives. But I suppose the writing was already on the wall and it took me a few more days to see and come to terms with it.
So for one last time, dear Dreamer, grab a cuppa and let's see where this month's missive takes us.
Life, Unadulterated
Truth be told I've been struggling to write this missive.
First I thought perhaps it'd be nice to reminisce about my foray into writing fiction and poetry several years ago, because as we near the end of something, it's only natural to look back and remember how it all began.
But nostalgia has been the one thing that had kept me from calling it quits sooner than now, and I don't think it has served me well.
In fact, 2026 has so far been a year in which I picked up hobbies and interests from the past only to ditch them very quickly.
It was a no-brainer to understand that I'm no longer the person I once was. Things that had interested me in the past, when I was younger and child-free, no longer hold the same appeal.
In fact, for someone who could barely stay still, I've become rather domestic in these past few months, choosing to spend my time at home rather than outdoors.
That was largely owing to a debilitating foot pain that kept me from heading out on the long walks I used to enjoy.
Anyhoo, I still remember the times when 'home' used to feel like a prison. Unless I was outside, visiting a place or doing something outdoors or meeting someone or just breathing in the vast expanse of space around me, I'd feel very claustrophobic within the four walls of any house or apartment I lived in.
Now? I'm a homebody. Like little D, I too prefer to have at least one day of the weekend to indulge in R&R, meaning 'rest' and 'relaxation'.
I never thought I'd ever be able to spend time doing 'nothing', but these days I surprise myself with my ability to look out of the window — at the blue sky or at the incessant stream of traffic — without stirring for long stretches of time.
Not necessarily thinking of anything in particular, but just taking a pause from meeting the demands of the day.
Which reminds me of those famous lines from W. H. Davies's poem, Leisure:
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
So I often sit by the window, just breathing and looking outside. Watching the wind worry the treetops, the squirrels occasionally resting flat on their bellies on the fence, all that water that tumbles from the skies in a thunderstorm.
What a relief it is to be able to sit and admire these displays of nature without mentally naming and describing them, without automatically beginning to think of ways to capture these glimpses of beauty in writing!
Now that I've stopped writing, my mind feels a lot quieter. I don't know if that's merely a relationship of correlation and not necessarily causation, but it's a welcome respite.
It's as if I have nothing more to prove to anybody, including myself. And this, I've come to see, is in fact a very freeing, delightful state of being.
There's a quote by Osho on the wall above my desk.
A man who is happy is not searching for meaning. ~ Osho
As much as I've loved Osho's teachings ever since I came across them in my early twenties, this particular line has always triggered me.
Because, how could one possibly live without purpose or passion? Without a reason for waking up in the morning and looking forward to the day ahead? Without putting one's time on earth to good use or aiming to spend it in a meaningful way?
But in all these years of writing and indie publishing fiction and being a parent, I've also come to see another truth: Everything has a season.
Every passion, every relationship, every point of view ... it all changes with time as we grow and evolve through the experiences of life, and as the people around us, the world around us continues to shape-shift.
And in a world where even seasons can't be relied on to show up in the same fashion year after year, it's folly to expect any kind of sameness from ourselves in all our outward manifestations.
The more I observe the world, the more I find how fragile and fleeting everything is. Yet, we hold on to everything — friends we have outgrown or who may have outgrown us, passions and interests we no longer care about, places, communities and routines that keep us entrapped rather than serve to liberate us — because who would we be without these narrative constructs we've built our lives and identities around?
So it's only now that I understand that Osho's statement is pretty much the answer to every question of existential angst I've had since I first began to think along those lines more than two decades ago.
Everything else — purpose, meaning, passion — was simply an exercise in seeking validation and applause from others or even approval from my own self.
Nothing wrong with that, of course, as long as I can be honest with myself as to what I'm really hankering after.
So this is what I'm really quitting, dear Dreamer. Writing to prove a point. Writing for the sake of infusing my life with some semblance of significance or meaning. Writing for the sake of fulfilling an egoistic need for fame and approval or even in an attempt to be of service to others.
Because creativity doesn't need a reason to exist. It doesn't have to fulfil a worldly desire or take on an acceptable material form to justify its existence.
It can simply be, like a boulder in a stream, constantly kissed by all that water flowing over it, concealed at times, revealing glimpses of itself at others, and shining like a polished gemstone in the sunlight.
Tales For Dreamers
This is a little tale I wrote more than a decade ago. We stopped at a little stream on the way to Milford Sound in New Zealand; it was one of the most magical places I had been to in my life until then. Tranquil. Soothing. Healing.
I hope you too find this tale dreamy and serene.
Anitha Krishnan
Books You May Love
Reading has once again become a source of unconditional joy for me.
First there was Play The Game, a middle-grade basketball-themed trilogy featuring an Indian character in North America, by Amar Shah. I enjoyed this series of books very much and was very glad when even D tore through them with much delight.
I've also been continuing to read the Wings Of Fire series by Tui T. Sutherland, each book from the point of view of a character we'd have come across in passing in one of the previous books. Quite like how Tana French's Dublin Murder Square Mysteries progressed from one book to the next.
Speaking of French, I read the latest in her Cal Hooper series, The Keeper. It was such a powerful tale, and I now sorely miss the fictional Irish village of Ardnakelty the series is set in.
There was also a book set in Pakistan that was refreshingly different from my usual reading fare — This Is Where The Serpent Lives by Daniyal Mueenuddin.
And how could I not mention The Glowing Hours by Leila Siddiqui, which reconstructs that fateful summer that Mary and Percy Shelley spend in Switzerland in the company of Lord Byron, the summer in which Mary found the inspiration for Frankenstein.
Except, this book is written from the point of view of their housemaid, who's the granddaughter of a Nawab of Lucknow in India and falls into hardship when she sets sail to England in search of her brother!
I've always wondered why historical fiction set in Europe, or at least the UK, in the 1800s and early 1900s rarely feature Indian characters, considering that India was under British rule at the time. Siddiqui's wildly imaginative twist came as a delightful exception!
I've been blogging about all these books, interspersing my admiration for these stories with reflections on life.
Well, that brings us to the end of the 50th edition of Monthly Missives, dear Dreamer! Thank you for staying with me for this wonderful ride. I hope these monthly notes have helped you in some way.
Of course, goodbye doesn't mean we can't stay in touch. I will still post the occasional blog whenever inspiration strikes. You can comment on my posts (including this one) or email me (hit reply to this missive), and I'll be sure to respond.
I'm looking forward to June. D turns 10 years old! As always, I had been letting nostalgia inadvertently get in the way of wholeheartedly embracing the fact that my child is growing up and changing with each moment.
So here's to making changes on that front by no longer clinging to what once was, no longer fretting over what is yet to come and, instead, choosing to inhabit this present moment fully and thoroughly.
With much love and best wishes,
~ Anitha
