Stories are a powerful tool to weave dreams, reality, imagination, sometimes unreal, fictitious things through a web of beautiful words and then enclose them inside illustrated pages of intrigue with the potentially of picking you up gently and placing you down on those wings which then fly you into a world created by the storyteller. I may have been a year and a half old, barely capable of lifting my little self and perching myself up on the bed surrounded by fluffy pillows on all sides to break my fall in case I happened to get a wee bit adventurous. Baba would place in front of me colorful story books whose three dimensional pages would stand up before my twinkling eyes, wide with anticipation. I am told that I would sit for hours looking at them, amidst adorable sounds of cooing, gurgling, babbling, just too happy to be amongst those imaginary characters popping out of my story books.
