Kanha started writing a book that was a mysterious blend of fiction and non-fiction-it had a fine texture that appealed to the reader. Kanha poured his heart out into the book. Kanha wrote about his childhood days-a sojourn into his inner self as a child-only it was qualified by an element of fiction and the fine mix was as beautiful as the sunset. Kanha wrote in the book about his train journeys mixed with other elements of life. His book was about his how he travelled by train to his maternal aunt and uncle's house during his holidays through the beautiful countryside of India as the train meandered its way through the countryside. He also wrote about how he spent his holidays in his uncle's house with his cousins-some of the best memories in his life. Then the train of life slowly meandered its way through his long teenage years into his adulthood. All this was as romantic and beautiful as the rainbow after rain. Then the toils of adulthood began-but that had a beauty of its own which too was as beautiful as Sheakespeare's immortal works. Many people came into his life and some went so unrecognized that they hardly left an impact which come to think of it is sad. But Kanha's experiences were tempered with the mysterious admixture of fiction too that had a taste of its own as fine as finely blended coffee. Kanha with a flourish of the pen painted the realism of his life with the paintbrush of imagination. He wrote about his unfulfilled dreams but always with a touch of romance. For what is life without romance?. He wrote with his heart over mind about his wishes and desires and his innermost longings and rounded it off saying that his heart had been right. Then came how the train of life posed difficult questions to him-his moment of reckoning. How he encountered trials and tribulations that left him wisened. He wrote in the book about unanswered questions that painted the beauty of life in all its beauty. Then he tempered all this with the romance that life is beautiful only with dreams devoid of which life is nothing. He wrote how he always wanted to pen romance stories but was that a dream that was left as a dream. But what was Kanha's train of life but a admix of realism and imagination all painted with the paintbrush of romance on the canvass of life. Then Kanha's train took a detour which had the scent emanating from a jasmine flower. His dreams came alive. And they gained a larger than life image that had a beauty as beautiful as a train journey through snowcapped mountains. He wrote how he encountered new people and how he made new friends which had the romance and flavor of a journey through the woods with dew on pine trees. He wrote how these new acquaintances brought him bountiful rewards. All these were the virulent colors and flavors of life. Kanha was a keen observer of life and so he could record all these experiences with the detachment of an external observer. Then Kanha with a flourish of the pen penned his progress into wisened old age all painted with a flourish of the paintbrush on the beautiful canvass of life. Then he wrote about how he met his childhood sweetheart in ripe old age when he was still a bachelor and married her at the age of 66. Sweet 66. As sweet as sweet sixteen and he was to relive the sweetness of sixteen at 66. Then he reminisced about his life's sojourn right from childhood with his sweetheart-a journey down memory lane for him to be shared with his partner in old age. Indeed the stuff of the best romances-and he was very good at sharing his life's memories painted as it was with the paintbrush of his imagination at its fountainhead. So he waxed back and forth eloquently recalling his life's journey sometimes a mix of imagination and sometimes a mix of realism. How he faced the pains and toils of growing up that come with the pangs of growing up. All these he reminisced with his sweetheart in ripe old age about his innermost cherished memories tempered as it was as by the realism of life. Kanha recalled the storms of his life undulating with the deftness of a seasoned poet. What were these moments if not his best moments in life. He poured his heart out to his sweetheart and into the book. Kanha's virulent observations were nothing short of that of a Beethoven or a Mozart. He opened out his innermost self into his book. Then it was his sweetheart's turn for sharing her most cherished memories in her life and together they poured their heart into the book. In their life of togetherness these were some of the most cherished memories. And the book later won the Pulitzer and Booker prizes for that year.