The dedication at the front of this novel reads: For Namjoon and BTS, who made music a place to go when the world outside was too much.

I wrote that in 2025, in southeastern Pennsylvania. The music worked as it always had. Not by pretending the world was better than it was. By making it more bearable to be in. I found the words for it by writing a character who thought she was doing research.

Her name is Amaya. She’s a writer in Manayunk, Philadelphia. She covers culture for a magazine called Mosaic, and her editor sends her to write about a K-pop group called MYNX because MYNX is about to tour North America and Western audiences are finally paying attention. Amaya takes the assignment. She plans to stay at a comfortable journalistic distance from all of it.

She doesn’t.

Her sister Naila has been a MYNE for four years and meets Amaya’s new beat with the enthusiasm of someone who has been preparing for this her whole life. There is a glossary. FANCAM. PARASOCIAL RELATIONSHIP. LIGHTSTICK. The Orbit, MYNX’s lightstick, is deep indigo, Bluetooth-enabled, syncs to the music during concerts. Naila’s annotation: Buy it before. Venue lines are long. You will want one.

Amaya reads it. Takes notes for her article. Plans to stay distant.

A few weeks into the research, having written her first piece and starting to feel something she didn’t predict, she hosts an audio session for her audience. Near the end, she says:

A commenter replies: only at concerts and maybe church and sometimes neither.

If you have been to a BTS concert, you know what she means. The lightsticks sync. Sixty thousand people say the same words at the same moment. Amaya, who is a culture writer and has clinical names for most things, says it is what people are actually dismissing when they sneer at fandom. Not the enthusiasm. The need underneath it.

Near the end she says: part of why she responded to this music, she thinks, is the artists who trained internationally, who grew up between languages and cultures. There’s something in the sound that understands what it means to be assembled from more than one thing. To not have a single clean answer when someone asks where you’re from.

Her Amma is Tamil. She has had her own answers for that question for twenty-eight years.

The other half of this book belongs to Noah Park.

Main vocalist of MYNX. Grew up between Los Angeles and Seoul, speaks both languages without an accent in either, belongs fully to neither place. He has spent a decade learning to make that into music, and somewhere in it lost track of who made it. He sets up an account under a false name. Needs to be no one for a while.

He finds Amaya’s YouTube channel because one of his old songs is playing in the background of her cooking video. She doesn’t know who wrote it. She calls it Swiftesque. He comments.

Neither of them expects it to become anything.

They discover they have loved the same book since childhood. The Little Prince, their separate copies worn soft with the same kind of use. He has named the account after it: @_thelilprince. She talks about it in a makeup video, mid-mascara, like it isn’t strange to drop into a makeup tutorial: the idea that love is something you create through attention. It’s not found, it’s made. You make it by caring. Which sounds simple but I think it might be the hardest thing.

At 11:47pm, @_thelilprince comments: It’s my favorite book.

Just that.

She types back: Mine too. Since I was nine.

There’s a line I keep returning to. Amaya says that what people are dismissing when they sneer at fandom is the need for something beyond the private. For transcendence that doesn’t ask you to justify what moves you.

Noah is listening from his apartment window in Seoul. Every vehicle moving below looks like a twinkling star, briefly bright before disappearing.

She was describing why it mattered, he thinks. From the outside, without any of his reasons, she had arrived at what he had forgotten.

Two people very good at being fine. At moving through their lives a step removed from what they actually want. He had put it in a comment thread at midnight, without planning to: art is the only honest form of escape because it doesn’t pretend you’re somewhere else, it just makes the here feel more bearable.

She keeps it. Carries it into a conversation with strangers. Offers it as something true.

BTS opens their North America run in Tampa on April 25th. If you’re going to any of their concerts, you know what these days before feel like. If you’re watching the fandom light up from wherever you are, I wrote this book inside it.

A Star Keeps Its Distance is available for purchase.

Originally published at https://lgiyer.com/if-you-love-bts-read-this/

I step out into the wind and cold, suitably armed. I have a sage green zip up jacket with a heavy hood. A black puffer jacket over it, also with the hood on, gloves on my hands and boots on my feet. Felix has his blue harness on and he zips right past me the minute I open the door. I run behind him as he sniffs each lamp post, every mailbox and, tree on the way. I notice how he lingers at certain places, pauses for every sound he hears and begs to be petted by every human he passes. He holds up his front paws, puts them together and literally begs. It is the cutest thing I have seen.

What brings me joy each time it happens though, are the leaves in the wind. He chases after one, then another. He pulls at the leash and I honestly fear my shoulder will be dislocated at some point. He lays low on the road, growls at the leaves and rushes at them as the float daintily in front of him. First one, then another, then yet another. The joy is endless. We walk, run on a loop along the oval in front of our home. On a good day without leaves it takes maybe ten minutes. On days like today, we are out there lingering, smelling the literal grass and gamboling without a care for twice that time.

In the days before Felix came into my life, my afternoons were drab. I only ever stepped out under dire circumstances. These days, rain, wind or snow, I am out there two/three times a day with Felix leading the way. He decides which snow mounds are perfect for him to pee on. He decides today is the day I mark the Khans home. He decides when it is time to get home.

Even on the days I am resentful, I get my coat on and we go. On the days I am particularly mad at him, I tell him that I regret bringing him home. He listens, his ears droop and then he perks up and barks loudly. I take it to mean he regrets having me in his life as well.

He turned one yesterday.

I felt the same feelings I had when my other babies turned one. A misplaced sense of pride. A whole lot of joy. A renewed sense of optimism that better days lie ahead.

So, yeah! Happy birthday big boy. May the leaves only ever fly your way.

Some of you have been waiting for this. Some of you didn’t know it was coming. Either way, I’m glad you’re here to read this.

For a long time, the essays that make up this book lived in different corners of the internet — on Women’s Web, on Mutha Magazine, on Adoptive Families, and mostly here, on this Substack. They were written across ten years, in the margins of a life that kept surprising me.

What I didn’t know, until I started putting them together, was that they were always one book. A book about our family. About how we came to be. About what it means to be two brown adults raising two white children and one brown baby, in an America that keeps trying to make sense of us. About infertility and adoption and immigration and food and hair and politics and joy. About belonging — mostly.

The book is called The Smudged Hyphen: Essays on Family, Identity, and the Art of Belonging.

The title comes from something I wrote in the prologue — about how our children smudge the hyphen a little, melding identities that were never supposed to go together, making something new. That’s what this family has done to me. That’s what these essays try to hold.

If you’ve been reading me for a while, you’ll recognize some of these pieces. They’ve been revised, in small ways. Others you haven’t seen before. Together they tell a story I’ve been circling for years, and I think I’ve finally found the shape of it.

You can find it on Amazon in paperback (soon) and as an eBook. I would be so grateful if you read it, shared it, gifted it to someone who might need it, or left a review.

And if you’ve ever had to explain your family to a stranger — or chosen not to — this book is for you.

[Link to book]

Thank you for being here. It means more than I know how to say.

We came home, killed time and as the clock counted down to midnight, I got to be Cinderella. I sat in the middle, bags of gifts around me, a cake that I loved from a place I really liked, candles, balloons and most of all, people who carved the time and effort to be with me as I celebrated five decades of life. I opened each card, read each note and squealed over each thoughtful gift. I went to bed that night feeling very loved and cherished.

The wishes poured in all through the next day, in text messages, voice notes, social media posts and, kids who hugged me each time they saw me. We cooked together, ate together and made plans for the evening. I napped while the rest of the family set up decorations, picked up cake and made arrangements to receive friends who promised to show up for me.

The evening was a blustery, biting cold. The interiors of the restaurant warm and cozy. Forty of us crowded in a lovely room with murals from Madras. We ate comfort foods from my childhood - onion samosas, thayir vadai, poori masal and other nostalgia evoking delicacies. I hugged everyone who came, we played games, I earnestly accepted wishes and gifts, took a million pictures and cut a cake as I sang Happy birthday to me along with the others.

It was as perfect as a day I curated for myself can be. As the night fell, we cleaned up and went home. I opened the sarees, the jewelry, the gift cards and the books, oh, the books. I made piles, folded away gift bags and as the clock stuck midnight, slipped into my comfy pajamas back to my non glamorous self, a year older, a year happier.

I turn fifty this week. It feels momentous not just because the world seems to hype milestone birthdays. This time around, I feel the weight of the years on me. A couple of days ago, I told my college going niece that I was celebrating a life well lived. I mean it.

I have lived a full life. I have experienced anxiety, insecurity and, low self esteem. I have lived through heartbreak, death and, grief. I have battled depression, loneliness and, fear. I have cried. I have also laughed, experienced incredible amounts of joy and known euphoria. I have lived long enough to check off a whole lot of boxes in terms of life events.

As I stand now, I see in myself a woman who is self aware, happy and self assured. I like what I see. I am optimistic about the personal journey I am on. I am now old enough to have solid positions about the state of the world and humankind. I am audacious enough to believe whatever fight I am engaged in will leave the world a better place for my children. I feel confident that I am on the right side of history.

Of course, I worry. I care deeply about what the future holds for my children. I am willing to do all I can to ensure I will die without regrets.

All this to say I am excited about marking this time in my life with gratitude and joy. I want to take this week to acknowledge that the life I have lived is one I am proud of. So, if this note passes your way, I am grateful our lives touched even if for this one instance.

The tab on my browser has stayed the same for over a week now. It holds the shopping cart for a boutique silk saree shop. I add and remove sarees. I click on the images and close them. I will turn fifty this December. For months now, this birthday has been on my mind. Unlike other milestone birthdays, this feels important. It feels like every milestone after this may be one I may not see. I am grappling with mortality in shadow ways. The more I think about it, the heavier the import of this one feels.

I make lists and delete them. They feel superficial. Yet, I am aware that life is all about the fleeting joys. Today my list is small. Visit South Korea, Tattoo and a special saree. I have images of the kinds of tattoos I think will be good. I am yet to zero in on that one permanent ink on my body. I toy with the idea of a get-together, a gathering of people I have known and grown with over the years. Good food, lively conversation and an evening remembering the person I have become.

I wonder if I should start a jar of memories, a place for me (and my loved ones) to write notes to read later, tangible pieces that can’t disappear into the ether. I have lived a good life. I have experienced pain and loss, rejection and acceptance, love and joy in equal measure. I have had career highs and lows. I have given up on some dreams while holding on tenaciously to a few others.

All this to say, if you are someone who has had a milestone birthday, how have you marked it? If you are someone I know, would you leave a note in my inbox telling me how we know each other?

Leave a comment

This summer has been the summer of Felix, our nearly six month bichon pup. Each day, we woke with him. His schedule dictated ours. He is our princess Felix, the pride of our home. He has identified his favorites, he has a fan following in the development. He rules our roost, for now.

With tomorrow, our schedule changes again. I am not sure I am prepared to be the primary caregiver in the absence of Laddu. I know like all else, this too will soon become the norm. So, to all the kids starting school tomorrow, have a lovely school year. And, the parents - may the force be with you.

Photo by Djalma Paiva Armelin on Pexels.com

So, I have news.

“Why is my hair curly?” will be available on Amazon in a few weeks in Kindle format. The physical book will take a couple of months to be available given the lockdown in India.

While I wait for the book to be available and permission to share the cover for the book, I have been spending time doing a lot of work behind the scenes. Vidhi, my publisher and book champion has been sending me last-minute edits and poring over the manuscript with magnifying glasses. My beta readers have been reading through my edits and giving me insightful feedback.

Publishing a book is a team venture. I provide the words; the illustrator takes that and comes up with images that capture the nuance and spirit of the people I birthed in my head. The editor reads through and points out glaring issues with the book, the proofreader sends copious notes on grammar and typos. The manuscript goes back and forth a zillion times marked up and commented on.

There are times when I feel I cannot read it anymore. The story that once lived in my head feels like an alien being with a life of its own. I worry about all the things that can go wrong. Mostly I worry about the reviews and all the flaws in my writing out there for everyone to see.

There is one thing that keeps me up. The story I was approached to write features a young child. She is an adoptee. This is her story. I am very aware that as an adoptive parent writing this story, I am co-opting the voice of the adoptee. I have been wrangling with my feelings about it. This is the story I am called to tell. This is what literally came into my head. It does not make it right. I am aware of it and I am not sure how I feel about it.

There is a paucity of voices talking about adoption in children’s literature (in India) in the ways it needs to be talked about. This is a gap I have seen and this is a gap I feel strongly about. The book is also about acceptance, about navigating big feelings. These are universal themes.

I am at the point where I am actively thinking about how to bring this baby into the world. I am thinking and mulling over marketing and ways of getting the book into the hands of those who will enjoy it. I need your help.

I am looking for book bloggers and reviewers of children’s literature. If you have ideas about how to market a book, I am open to hearing about it. Most of all if you are someone I know personally; I am hoping you will cheer me on as I embark on this journey. I have a separate list coming your way detailing how you can help me.

Just a few more weeks to go people. Wish me luck

She arrived by the morning train early on Thursday carrying equipment that occupied more than two unwieldy bags. She filmed us setting up the Golu. She was there, a tangible presence as we squabbled, as we debated on the order of the Dasavatharam. She was that silent fly on the wall as we rehashed stories, relived memories and made snow from thermocol.

Over this past week, her camera has been a fixture in the living room, in the kitchen. It has watched dosas being flipped, kolams being made, homework being worked on, photo album reminiscences, driveway chalk art, the swish of silks and the tinkle of anklets.

In the one week since Golu started, I have morphed from the Observer to the Observed. I am cautious about what I say, how much I yell, how stained my tees are, how messy my hair is. Most of all I watch my words, inspecting them for heft and weft. I parse them for meanings. I let them lie on my tongue, feeling their textures and shapes as they give shape to my thoughts and my life.

In being observed, I have had time to think about what all this means, this chronicle of my life, living on in perpetuity. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes me aware. It makes me think. I think about this blog. I think about the legacy I am leaving behind. I think of the hope that I represent to the many like me on the brink of treading the offbeat path. I think of the messages in my email folder, on my Facebook messages, all looking for help, solidarity, hope.

Most of all, I look at the woman behind the camera, slicing moments, weaving threads, spinning a story from fragments of our life. I see her and I see me. In weaving our stories, we draw from life. We paint stories of despair and hope. We watch and learn. We evolve. We hope that words and pictures will touch some person somewhere. In optimism, we carry on.

I scan the tinted windows of the Amtrak train which a new friend boarded to get home. I hope to wave one final bye before I walk back to my car but can't see her. I drive home on auto-pilot.

The weekend has been interesting. It has been intense.

Over two months ago, when The Huffington Post piece went viral, there was a flurry of interest. Many people contacted me. One among them was an award winning documentary filmmaker Chithra who works under the Real Talkies banner. We exchanged emails, phone calls and set a date to meet this weekend. I invited her home.

She expressed interest in making a film about our life. I was flattered, intrigued and definitely interested. She called herself a teller of stories. She spoke of themes, of how filmmaking is subjective. I listened in awe. All through Saturday, she engaged with my children. They played with her equipment, starred in warm up videos, goofed away only as children can. I watched from behind the scenes as she led with simple questions, delving deeper, teasing out emotions and narrowing in on a single thread out of many.

Late at night, we ambled along my neighborhood sharing stories, dissecting and talking about seminal events that changed the course of our lives. It was midnight before we retired. This morning she was ready, her camera in hand as she had the children share a photo book from their first year with us. Ammu drew as she spoke seemingly unaware of the camera that was rolling. The moments were heartwarming. Some questions brought out prompt answers. Others had her lost in thought, rambling until she hit a nerve and causing those watching to tear up. I watched my children tell their story in their words.

In the many years since I became a mother, I have told this story, my story many times over. Today I got to see their story. Perhaps someday, Laddu will share her story featuring the same set of people that will look and feel so different from all our stories.

I sat on the stoop of my home, leaning against the door as Chithra zoomed into my face, capturing worry lines, laugh lines and the glinting grays in my hair. She started with deceptively simple questions. By the time we were done, I was spent, exhausted from the effort of reliving, framing my thoughts and trying to traverse our life backward and forward.

As we walked inside the home, she reminded me that this was just the warm-up. Four to five hours of footage from which a thirty-second teaser will be cobbled. The end product, a 5-8 minute video, will capture a day in our lives.

As I drove home, one of the last questions she posed echoed in my mind.

“Why do you want to do this?”

Why indeed?

“Because I believe stories are powerful. Stories change lives. Stories touch people.”

Stories also leave the teller drained. Wrung out. Exhausted from laying bare lives, feelings, and thoughts.

The study door is locked. I have my earphones on. The house is eerily silent. My phone rings and for a second my heart stops. My “Hello!” is tentative as I wait for the voice on the other end. We talk for over forty-five minutes. My children’s mother, one of The Takeaway’s producers Dana Roberson and me. The conversation is meandering, touching on our upbringing, our views on race, on how we deal with parenting third culture children. There are moments when my eyes mist over. There are moments when I am overcome with trepidation on how my words will be perceived. We wrap up with my gushing over how much I am in awe of Dana.

This was just the pre-interview. The actual recording for Uncomfortable Truths: Confronting Racism In America of The Takeaway a WNYC/NPR series will happen sometime soon. It will air a few days after the recording. I was excited when I first heard from Dana. The excitement has now changed over to anxiety and fear of bringing up uncomfortable topics.

Prior to adopting my children, I lived in a bubble. I knew my place in the world and I did not question it. I carefully demarcated my social life and my professional life. I was extra polite when I did not feel at home. I measured my words, weighed thoughts and spoke carefully. At home, in the company of loved ones, the walls came down, I spoke my mind. I used politically incorrect terms. I did not pause to think of my implicit biases.

Over the years, I have been waking up. Too slowly to matter to anyone but myself. The things I did not ‘see’ are now visible. Everyday interactions are fraught with deep thinking. I cringe when people around me who are still the same use terms that are now abhorrent to me. I watch as I speak making sure I am not stereotyping people and races. Yet, things slip out. I go back, correct myself and explain to my children that I misspoke.

In the past two years I have self identified as a writer, I have expanded the circle of people I follow to publishers, agents, editors and other writers. I am mostly silent, retweeting things that strike a chord somewhere. Over time, my follow list has become an echo chamber, screaming loudly about how the system is skewed against writers of color.

My circle of all things adoption boast members of all parts of the triad. I am mostly silent. Reading, imbibing and hopefully opening my eyes wider. Race is not as much in debate there as is culture, ethnicity and heritage. The word inequality keeps coming up frequently as does bias.

Racial bias in adoption, in media, in writing, in arts, at work pops out at me. If before I could read something and take it at face value, now I pause and dig deeper. I parse sentences and words to figure out what was it that bothered me. Was it something that the author said? Was it because it reminded me of uncomfortable things from my past? Does it mean there is work to do from my side? I don’t have the answers. I tell myself that awareness is the first step to acceptance, to moving toward solutions.

I will share the link to the show when it airs. I hope you will listen. I hope you will write in about the uncomfortable truths in your life. Share the things that make you pause. Talk about the things you rarely give voice to. There is vulnerability in stripping away pretenses. There is strength in facing our biases.

To strength. To waking up. Cheers.

The alarm went off at 3:00 AM and I stood sipping coffee in the cool back patio of my sister's home while my Amma sat on the recliner inside listening intently to the radio online. She made a picture. Her eyes narrowed in focus, her glasses perched midway on her nose. Her coffee cup sat to the side. Watching her through the glass provided perspective. We are not a physically demonstrative family. We don't do war whoops of joy on momentous occasions. We smile, nod our heads and go our ways.

But we wake up when it counts, show support silently, tune in to the radio at 4:00 AM, read comments on shared pieces and quietly feel proud.

The interview call came in 10 mins past the time I was told. I paced the tiny patio, blowing into my thumbs, practicing deep breathing and thinking happy thoughts. The trees swayed in the mild breeze. I felt calm. Zen.

For twenty minutes I participated in a conversation that made me think, process what was said and then reply. I held on to the phone long past the interview just savoring the moment. I walked inside feeling good.

My amma and I traded glances and I walked upstairs feeling gratitude for everything.

Salut! Hallo! Ciao! Hola! Shalom! Namaskaram!

I have been blogging for about twenty years now. The idea of an About Me is fascinating. From the time I started with Blogger and went through many iterations of this blog, my descriptions have undergone many a change. From a straightforward 'this is who I am' complete with pictures to the current cryptic peek into what I believe in.

I am a bohemian trapped in a matron. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I am that mother who embarrasses her children by public displays of affection. I am that friend who still has the half a heart of the BFF pendant decades later. I am that bookworm who reads Pride and Prejudice a hundred times. I am one of those people you pass a million times on your way to work and can never really remember. A fly in the wall. A wallpaper.

In real life terms, I am a mother to three. A work around the home person. I love to cook. I hate to clean. I champion equality in every form. I have an opinion on almost everything but I will hardly voice it. I abhor confrontation. I love adulation.

I maintain a personal blog on a public forum for many reasons. One of those is that I like to write. The topics I write best are the ones where words tumble and fall from my head before I can capture them on paper. Most of them have to do with me and by extension my family, my friends, my work or lack thereof. The 'me' and 'my' I speak of has evolved over the years I have blogged. They have gone from bored to angsty to content.

The topics I have written about have been about being an immigrant in an adopted country, about finding my place as a partner in a relationship, about infertility, about pain and loss, about becoming a mother, about adoption, about pregnancy, about being a working professional, about being a stay at home parent. The things I talk about have changed as I have. The core is essentially the same.

Every once in a while I get a note from a reader saying something I wrote resonated with them. I have met kindred souls, formed lasting friendships and most of all found myself through my words. For that alone, I continue blogging.

As I wrap up this introduction, I have a favor to ask. If you stop by here, would you take a moment to acknowledge me and say hello? Leave a note or a link to your post and I would love to say hello.

Fatherhood suits you K. It does! I see you effortlessly transition from the sound sleeper to the person who wakes up at the sound of wails emanating from the crib. I see you move from going without milk for a couple of days to save a trip to the grocers to someone who will run out thrice a day to make sure the kids have plenty. From a person who loathes clutter I hear you already speaking of buying two of everything. I see you worried about how we are going to manage two kids, jobs, school and running a home and I am impressed. This is from someone who hates planning even a week in advance. I watch you eyes glued to the kiddie channels and watching Chugginton and singing along like this is something you have done all your life and it thrills me. I see you update your Facebook account and I am amazed. This is someone who thinks social networking is humbug. I see you scan every incoming wish and read every comment on every photo I upload with only the eagerness of a new dad and my heart melts.

In the one week that we have become new parents, I am loving the changes I see. By no means are they easy or even something we envisioned but I am thrilled about the way we seem to be coping.

To the man whom I have grown to love over the years, this is what I want to say. I love you with each passing year and with each passing milestone in our life.

Happy Fatherhood K!!!

I am operating on a precious few minutes when the girls are asleep so can't express all that I feel. :) Much of the story in later posts. Here is the link to a FAQ to most commonly asked adoption questions. Feel free to email questions and I will add them to the FAQ. Stay tuned!

Ever since we changed directions and are looking at a family portrait like none other that I have seen, I am having a hard time painting it in my mind. Most often I just wonder. Wonder about nature and nurture. Wonder if we will one day look back on this phase and pat ourselves on the back or wish we could unwind time and change course.

The questions in my mind are endless. They are needling. They are uncomfortable. They push me out of my comfort zone. I am now exploring a whole new world I did not know existed. Some days are better than others. Sometimes I catch myself smiling absentmindedly. Some days I wish I could hurry up and fast forward a year to know how my life story ends. Some days like this, I sit and wonder. At the beauty of life and the meaning of living in the present.

Since then every time I turn from my monitor to look at my dad, I now see four pairs of eyes smiling back at me. Am not sure I call myself a believer but something about the smile and a knowing pair of eyes quietens my mood.

So, coming back to today, I touched my daddy's face and respectfully touched my eyes like I would do for any deity I was worshipping. Smiling at the picture I realize how two and half years have passed by. Just like that. The raw pain dulled into a numb grief, exploding on occasion. Then it pushed itself to the back of my psyche showing itself in occasional tears. Then now, is the phase when I smile. Smile basking in the memories of the good man who raised me. A person am infinitely proud of calling my Appa. The tears come but they are tinged with positive emotions. Like my Thatha, Appa now has acquired a sepia toned warm image in my mind. Anchoring a place in my past after having hovered in the present for a long time.

Perhaps, it is time to let go of the grief and rejoice in the life he led. A time to draw on the wisdom he passed on to me. A time to worship him.

About three months back, K and I made the decision to grow our family through adoption. It had been on our minds for a couple of years now but this June we decided to take the steps necessary to make it a reality. The first step in the process was getting our home study done. A requirement mandated by the Government that certifies us as able, willing and healthy parents to be. It took a lot of paperwork, introspection and a giant leap of faith for us to get here. It has not been easy. There are miles to go yet before we can sleep metaphorically.

Yet, it felt right to celebrate our first milestone in this journey. Now, we enter the exciting phase where we wait to be matched with an expectant mom or a little baby that needs a home. From all accounts, we have heard it takes anywhere between a year and two. Earlier if we are lucky.

There are more questions than answers in this new adventure. The hope is that we will figure out the answers as we go along. So, while we wait, I have a request for you. Keep us in your thoughts and pray that our little child will find us.

If someone you know is going through a difficult time in their lives and is looking to make an adoption plan for their child, keep us in mind. Drop us a line and we will get in touch with you. K and I have plenty of love and security for a child that needs it.

We have our share of differences but with every passing year, I have trouble recollecting our last big fight. I watch him smile and talk in to the phone. His angular jaw making him look young and the smile reaching his eyes. I am struck by how much I am in love with him. I watch as he picks T Shirts out from a pile at the mall. Always reaching for the bright ones. I laugh as he holds it against himself waiting for my approval. I notice with laptop on my thighs, books strewn around me as he tiptoes around the room holding the fort till I am done studying.

As we make plans for his big five week trip to India, I am touched as he includes my old great aunt from my maternal side on the must-visit list. I sit silent as I watch my sister and him discuss programming for hours on end. I sit back and enjoy every weekend at my brother's as he slips into his role of Athimber playing peek a boo with my niece or tennis with my bro. I watch him in a crowd always the last in line to pick food from a buffet table.

Every impression is savored, pressed like dry flowers in the middle of a book and stored away like a treasure to be smelled later, bringing back glorious memories of the past. As I look forward to the changes our life together will bring, I know we will weather the storms, drenched, yet alive and eyes dancing with love.

Happy Anniversary Darling Saathi!

This picture was taken at the 'Oonjal' of our wedding, an hour or so before the actual wedding ceremony. As K and I sat on the swing with elders in the family taking turns to feed us milk and bananas and throw colored rice balls in all directions to ward the evil eye, I remember enjoying the moment. I also remember being anxious not to spill milk on my lovely silk saree. I remember being very conscious of K being seated by my side. I remember the heady scent of the jasmine strands that adorned the oonjal. I remember Akay standing by the side handing me tissues and reassuring me all was well. I remember being surrounded by family and friends and felt an aura of love and happiness. There is so much of positive emotion whenever I look at this picture. I think some of the happiness is evident in the way my eyes are smiling. I'd love to see many of my blog friends take this tag. If you do, leave a comment and I will peek in to check.