If a keyboard is left on my desk long after I’m gone, it will be no more than four years old. It will have no patina, no aura, nothing more than my fingerprints on it. All the more reason to get to work and leave behind a stout body of writing. – Latha Anantharaman (The Hindu, 21st Dec 2011)
When my dad noticed that I (five years old at the time) wrote poetry, essays and short stories, he changed the plan of Sai Prema, our house that was being constructed in Palluruthy in
He added a big room and called it ‘the writer’s room and library.’ He said, “Writers need to be in their own private world, where the intrusions of the external world do not penetrate their process of creation.”
Dad spared no effort in getting the best for that room. He installed a beautiful wall-to-wall rosewood library that crowned the spacious, library room. All my collection of books, hundreds of them right from the time I was a child, are showcased there in that library. And for me, Dad got ready a very big, rosewood desk with shelves and spacious little doors that were inbuilt into it.
People who visited my home were always surprised to see that I had a bigger desk and chair than dad. The thing is, Dad has a bigger heart that is full of love for his daughters.
Thank you, Dad. That room is your dream and it represents all that is beautiful and from you in my life.
That is my writer’s room. Some day, you are most welcome to see it too.