Wordsmiths we all

 

Today's post is an ode to us writers who are in this challenge to savour the joy of putting pen to paper or should I say fingers to keys. Words make and break, words hurt and heal, words scatter the silence, words are how we feel. And to think we can get better at our craft by sharing this invaluable treasure, that's exquisite. 

I have been reading blogs from across the spectrum and what a delightful month this has been. I think of us writers as weavers who dig deep into the recesses of our minds and climb into pockets in our hearts to pull out the threads of vivid emotions and lace them with words. I'm amazed at how each of you are sustaining through this rigor and putting out such delightful reads. I have been blog-hopping just to experience the smorgasbord of ideas and their infinitude.   

Writing is a meditative process no less. One has to shut out the chaos (mostly within) and turn the volume down on all outer distractions for words to discover their way out of those creative veins. Writing also means a lot of groundwork, seeking beyond the obvious, sewing up plots, building narratives, tying up the loose ends and adroitly plating a kaleidoscope of perspectives.

More than the spoken, I have always been a fan of the written word. Little wonder then that I'm here writing. Written words are endowed with patience, a virtue otherwise in short supply. You are free to interpret them as you may and when you may or just move on. You could keep revisiting them and yet never outstay your welcome. They know no offence, don't come back to bite you, nor judge you for how you feel.  

To all you incredible wordsmiths out there, I find myself richer discovering you. More power to your pen. Happy writing!

Image by Monfocus from Pixabay

 

 

 

Vibe check done

 Rusha parked herself on a three-seater waiting chair with a book spread on her lap. Her suitcase occupied the remaining seats. It was her first time travelling alone and her senses were wide awake. At high noon, the railway platform wore a deserted look and Rusha could feel the throbbing silence. She had purposely turned up early to avoid any misadventure. 

Her parents had insisted on accompanying her to Delhi, where Rusha was to pursue higher studies. But the teen rebel in her firmly refused. So much so that she embarked on her solo trip right from home. At 18, she was confident she could do it alone. She had done a couple of train trips to Delhi with her parents and didn't think it was a big deal. Otherwise too, a family friend's son, who was also Rusha's school senior, was to board two stations later. 

The train was scheduled to arrive at 3pm and depart in half an hour.  As boarding time neared, footfall at the platform increased and the bustle grew. The train was on time and Rusha was glad there was no nasty surprise. She wheeled her suitcase, lifted it up the two steps and into the train, found her seat by the window and slowly settled down.     

A woman and her chirpy daughter occupied the opposite berth. Rusha set her book aside, pulled out a sandwich her mother had packed for her and took a few bites of it while looking out the window. The train had left the station and was just about picking up speed. Rusha's eyes drifted towards the little girl who was stealing glances at her. She smiled.

As the wheels chugged, Rusha's body set into a rhythm and her thoughts drifted to a point where it was all a blur. Her eyelids heavy, Rusha slowly placed her head against the window. A few hours later, she felt a gentle pat on her shoulder. Neev, her senior from school, stood there with his backpack strapped on his shoulders. 

Rusha took two seconds to gather herself. It was time for another vibe check. Just like she had done at the desolate station and on finding her co-travelers. Neev tried to study her expressions but felt lost. Seconds later, Rusha stood up, leaned forward and gave Neev a hug. "Always do the vibe check, my dear," her bestie had told her just the previous evening. "And veer with your vibe." Rusha smiled to herself and made space for Neev.         

    

Undermining the present

Undermining the present - It's one of the most pronounced ironies of life. We either live in melancholic wistfulness for a past that is nothing but a chimera now, or our worry lines stretch thinking about a future that could literally end in the next few minutes. And still our thoughts gallop back and forth, but refuse to make a halt.

Between this surge of craving for the days behind and the ceaseless pursuit of that which is unknown, the present yelps for a chance to be acknowledged but finds us too occupied. To pause and relish the here and now is a rare gift, only those with heightened awareness get to experience.

To give an immediate example, I publish the day's A-Z post every night after putting the thought factory into an overdrive (on most days). But once the task is accomplished, I'm barely able to take a moment to sit back and feel good about the process and the outcome. The mind swiftly pivots to 'what tomorrow?' Some say that's how the human mind is wired, but isn't that weird? 

Come to think of it, every tomorrow is a today and yet today finds little currency. The mind loves to brood big and we tag along - physically present, mentally absent, like they say. Life often expires between how things could have been and how things should be. May be also the reason why happiness seems so elusive?

 (Your thoughts? And what do you do to stay anchored in the present?) 

Tale of two tails

Brandy was a woolly tomcat, Coco an adorable furball. Size-wise the two were no match, but Coco was always up for a game with frowny, browny Brandy. It was the quintessential love-hate relationship and their little antics kept the Branson family in good humor. 

The two felines were brothers from different mothers, or so thought the Bransons. Coco loved to tinker with Brandy's bushy tail. It was a toy he fancied, one he thought played along, even if Brandy growled under his breath. Brandy had figured that Coco scampering around meant mischief in the making. So, he'd often curl his prized tail and neatly tuck it under his soft, cushy legs. 

Cats love belly rubs and both the members of the fur family got their staple every morning during breakfast, first from the daddy and then from the toddler twins. Coco being the junior one would be served both food and cuddles first. Brandy had to wait his turn. 

But here was the thing. Coco loved interrupting Brandy's two minutes of seventh heaven. Whenever Brandy would sprawl on the floor to savor his share of morning indulgence, Coco would crawl up from behind, set his impish eyes on his favourite 'thing' and start stomping all over it, flapping it right, flapping it left, at times trying to flip it even. Eyes clenched, softly mewing, Brandy mostly preferred to ignore but there would be days when Coco would get a good whacking - a flurry of sharp slaps to be precise.

And then came a day when it was Brandy's turn. The big brother caught Coco unawares, wedged between two cushions and heavily purring, oblivious to the happenings around. Unforgiving, Brandy climbed up the sofa and lodged himself right on top of the furball. The little fella squealed and squeaked from underneath. But it was revenge time. The toddler twins who were around playing saw Brandy but could hear Coco. And when they went up close, all they could see was Coco's puny tail frantically wagging from underneath Brandy's slouching tummy. Scores settled, once and for all!     

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Stumbling on happiness

Stumbling on happiness - That's the tile of the book I'm on next. I don't know what the pages will reveal but I'm curious. Authored by American social psychologist and writer Daniel Gilbert, the book is a gift from a dear friend, someone thoughtful and sensitive. And for starters, the cover has a nice appeal. 

Books as gifts are rich and here's why. First, it's heartening to think someone has taken the time and trouble to scan through titles to settle on something, especially for you. Second, it's the kind of gift that can happily change hands and spread the unalloyed joy of reading. Third, with every book you read, you evolve in some way, there is bound to be a perspective shift. A book then becomes much more than just a gift.

I'm the kind of reader who pulls over at many stations while journeying with a book. It's like a slow burn, a book growing on you and you growing with it. But I mostly desist from reading reviews. Why approach it with a clouded perspective? I'd much rather prefer a clean canvas for new vistas to open up. There are times I'm stunned to meet my deepest thoughts seamlessly coursing through words weaved by a total stranger. Thoughts, which until then, craved for expression. It's beyond amazing.  

Books have this uncanny power of revealing a mélange of feelings, sometimes even playing them up against each other. That's why there are pages that make us squirm and then there are those that make us believe in the mysteries of the universe, after all. I imagine no two reader can feel exactly the same about a book. For, as readers, we too bring our baggage along.

Coming back to Stumbling on happiness, I'm eager and excited to the turn the pages. Reading is a consuming process, but something every reader willingly succumbs to. I'm no different. Happy reading y'all!  

(How do you approach books? Would love to know.)

  

Rainbow from oven of heaven🌈

Puzzled, Mindy's eyes scanned the open box of crayons on the desk. Some pencils were blunt, a few broken and the colour white was missing. Miss Gomes had set the kids buzzing like bees with her instruction for the class. "Children, draw anything that's part of nature and that which you love. But you will also have to describe whatever you draw."

Mindy's tubby fingers grazed against the violet crayon pencil and she playfully picked it up. Her eyes darted to the blank page in her drawing book. The pencil in her right hand, Mindy unmindfully brushed aside the unruly curls tickling her left cheek. What was she thinking? What would she come up with, little Mindy just shy of six...

Next, she stretched her hand and pulled out the colour indigo. Together she pressed both the crayon pieces between her thumb and index-plus-middle fingers. Bent over the page, her head slightly tilted to the right, Mindy started drawing. Over the next twenty minutes, she flitted between the page and her box of crayons rather purposefully for someone her age. Strings of golden curls covered her face from the right. Miss Gomes strolled by a couple of times but couldn't quite catch a glimpse of what Mindy was up to. But she let her be.

After a while, Mindy raised her head, her small frame still bent over the page. "Miss Gomes," she called out. "I have finished. May I come and show you my drawing?" "Sure darling," replied Miss Gomes. Excited, Mindy sprang up, took a few quick steps and then almost made a dash towards Miss Gomes. "Here it is," she said stretching her hands out.

Miss Gomes took the open book from her and in seconds her face lit up. Little Mindy had drawn a giant rainbow. And the words below the colorful display read: A RAINBOW FROM OVEN OF HEAVEN. Miss Gomes turned to Mindy. "It's beautiful, sweetheart. How did you come up with that, Mindy," she asked.

Mindy smiled a naughty smile. "The sandwich in my lunch box that mama has packed came from the oven in the kitchen. This, Miss Gomes, was prepared in the oven of heaven."

 

Quill parked in pages

Image by Karen Ewald from Pixabay

The pages were her home, the words her neighbours,

she was more than a drifty little quill;

She wafted through emotions high and low,

nestled in tales that gave her her fill.

Wild and woolly, she rolled from stone to stone,

till a throbbing soul took her in her fold,

saved her for the tomes, parked her in stories,

folded her into sleep when the day'd grow old.

She'd slide in and out, travel light like she always did;

Save the tears, glean the smiles, know her seeker's  every whim.

Pile to pile, cover to cover, page to page, hurt to heal,

the quill savored the unsaid yarns, the plot twists and their every wheel.

Happy she was to find a spot in the world of all things real and reel;

Placed between pages of yesterday and tomorrow,

a fantasy ride she often could steal. 

 

  

 

 

  

Petrichor: Smell the rain

 

            (Today, I will let the pictures - taken by yours truly - and a dash poetry do the talking)                  Petrichor it is!

The petals fluttered, the leaves chattered,

when a flurry of drops came dancing down;

The grass twitched, the earth grinned,

the clouds gathered and rumbled on;

The wispy winds nuzzled them all,

The shower had them in their thrall,

And in their midst I rooted myself, watching nature have a ball

Drenched & demure 

Three tattling beauties

Shower power

Walk down a rain-soaked way

Over to the moon

Suzie looked vacantly at the boundless sky. The moon spread its warmth on her, the breeze nuzzled her face and yet something within felt extremely cold. 'When you miss mama, tell it to the moon.' Her mother's fading words lashed her thoughts.  

All of six, Suzie couldn't make much of her mother's passing, except that she knew mama had travelled as far as the stars, right up to the moon. But those parting words came back strong. "I will be just across the rainbow, my little girl. And when you miss mama, tell it to the moon..." 

Yes, the household rhythm saw an interim disruption. But Suzie's father, Mr Harvey, got a grip on things soon. Granny was sent for and the part-time nanny was given a raise and a full-time role. And though he tried not to betray the emotion, Mr Harvey was glad that Suzie's summer break was over and it was time for school.

In her mid-fifties, Garcia, the nanny, was a gentle soul. She ensured Suzie was well looked after and her days unfolded without too many hiccups. And nanna (that's how Suzie addressed her mama's mom) was right there to snuggle up to every night. Beside her, Suzie could easily doze off in the arms of dream. Both the women knew the motherless child had a lot to puzzle out and all of it was just the beginning. 

Today, after skygazing for long, little Suzie walked back to her room. She pulled one of the drawers attached to her colorful study and picked up a pretty little diary. It had been lying there, a gift from mama. She opened the first page, all pink and floral, grabbed her favourite pencil and got a good grip on it. A little later when nanna walked up to find Suzie, her eyes stopped at four longingly placed words: 'Moon fills for mama'. The page softly fluttered on Suzie's face, that night must have been long.          

   

     

 

     

       

Notes on nothing

 

As a tenderfoot at the A-Z challenge and that too not riding on a theme, 'nothing' is the word that swamps my mindscape these days. While committing myself to this endeavor, I had never imagined lasting beyond the first few alphabets. And here I'm into week three.

Every night I ask myself what can you come up with for tomorrow's post and pat comes the reply, 'nothing', at times even in fluorescent ALL CAPS! It's as if the grey cells want to potter about but the head in which they are encased has incarcerated them. I show them a clean slate every day and set them abuzz. And remind them that they have a deadline looming large. 

So, today when my mind pretended to be cerebrally impaired, I threw a spanner in its works. Thought poverty, did you say? You have nothing to come up with huh?  Fine then, let's do a whirl just around that thing, which is 'nothing'. And here's how the mind obliged, knowing there's no escape.

•  Nothing is a beautiful thing.  It’s the mother of all beginnings
• Nothing travels light, so you can fill it with a thoughtful something
• Nothing brings a pause and then warms up the mind to fly 
• Nothing blows away the dust, clears the clouds and reveals the silver lining
• Nothing is the one constant, from before birth to after death and beyond
• Nothing in its limitless expanse can encompass anything, everything

Dear me, to weave a post around 'nothing' was something!
 

Material memories

Life's a one-way street for all. Yet we never know who gets off the ride when and how soon. The departure of a loved one leaves a boundless void and all you have to pour over, even if ever so fleetingly, are some material memories. 

That pair of forlorn reading glasses, the dogeared diary carrying stains from yesteryears and now some dried-up tears, a chipped piece of crockery, a hand-written greeting card, a little piece of jewellery... In holding them, you feel that fading touch, in smelling them you breathe in the bottled-out warmth. Poor consolations, and still these timekeepers help calm the oft-raging storms. 

While we learn to nurse our secret sorrows and deal with all the silent chaos, grief silently lurks around and pain lights up with the faintest tune of a distant song. At such fragile moments, it’s the material memories that bring comfort, even if cold. Once mere articles and items of sundry use, they are the last of what’s left to clutch onto, to lean on when life feels overwhelming sore and the heart’s been in smithereens for far too long.

Yes, objects are barren and know no feelings, but when the same cradle a mother’s long-lost love, or froth with a sister’s animated laugh, they breathe life on their own. Little nothings or material memories which carry us to the deep valleys of our thoughts and give us a taste of time, sweet and snug, but irredeemable.  

And then it's a different trepidation - now the keepsakes must live long, stay intact and hold on.

LOL factory downloads...

 

Life's mostly comical until we start taking it too seriously. On a jocular vein, I'm posting snippets of some LOL moments from my journey, which have me in stitches even to this day. Call it much guffaw about nothing.

Arpita to Armpit! Autocorrect, like they say, has a special place reserved in hell. Thanks to this overzealous software, my sign off (on a text message) once got autocorrected to Armpit and off it went that way. So much for a spellcheck, gosh! What followed was studied silence on both sides, after which it was business as usual. Today, I laugh my head off every time I recall this mortifying episode.

Trash in hand, cash in bin: Every cleaning spree unearths some stray cash from nooks and crannies of your cupboard you don't even know exist. I usually plug into music during these drills and zone out. On one such occasion, I conveniently trashed a fistful of small cash into the bin and walked back to my drawer with another handful of paper shreds. Such wizardry! Clearly, my mind needed a hose down more than the closet.

A tumble down the stairs: This was during break hours at office. There was this sweets & snacks shop which my work besties and I'd frequent. That evening, after digging into our favorite sweets and some savories, we were streaming down a staircase, when I tumbled down a flight of steps. What's worse, in that very moment I was struck by a hideous laughter fit, the kind where you start to snort. My friends waited for a good minute or two for me to recover. One even disowned me as a friend in that moment for the public spectacle I made. Well, I did an ROFL long before it even became a thing. Did I end up with some bruises? Who knows, but laughter was my medicine.

A phantom or a pillion: This was back in college days. My brother and I lived in the same city and his two-wheeler was our easy transport. He, however, would always crib about how the helmet cut off all surround sound. One evening, we were about to go to the grocers and he was seated on his bike, headgear on, waiting for me to perch behind. Must have been the surround sound, for I wasn't that feathery, after all. The next thing I see, he was gone. Without me. I tried to wave at him, even call, but choked on my own laughter. Poor guy, rode quite some bit before realizing little sis had disappeared like fizz! 

 What's the best LOL moment you can recall? Share here and spread some cheer 

 

    

 

Kintsugi, I'm crushing on this word

Words have always been my safe sanctuary and one of the best things about reading is discovering and succumbing to the charm of new words. Kintsugi is one such find and I'm floored. 

Some of you might be already familiar with this stunning word, but for those unversed, Kintsugi is the Japanese art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold. It's about not hiding the imperfections, but giving them a new meaning and flaunting them still. The profoundly philosophical word mirrors life and how - aren't we all a little broken but beautiful! 

Fit in or sit out. Be ashamed of your scars. Put on a show for the world. Wear your veneer of strength ... how often have we yielded to such thoughts? The answers are not far. We want a life of roses and rainbows, but without the thorns and rain. How lame. Kintsugi reminds us that beauty births from pain. 

The cracks in us need to show and how to fill them gracefully is what we need to know. We all shatter but can build back better. Just like the piece of pottery which reincarnates, you and I too should have have no sell-by dates. 

When age brings wrinkles, fill the creases with smiles and some twinkles, the Kintsugi style. Let's all be falwsome!   

What's your favourite word and why? I'm all ears...

   

Junkyard for the spillover thoughts

 

How many of you are overthinkers here? Oh no! Now please don't overthink it. I'm the kind who ponders 360 and more and has multiple mental tabs open simultaneously. It's phrenic acrobatics. Sounds stupendous, even to me! 

As a seasoned overthinker, I'm aware that my mind generates a lot of junk, feeds me a lot of trash (thoughts). Sadly, it's only junk food that gets all the press. I believe, junk thoughts need their junkyards, too. How often have I wished there was a delete button in the human anatomy to select and discard the pesky thoughts that return in bigger loops. Or at least a recycle bin, where I could fling my wayward woes.

Practicing pause, I'm told, helps stop recurring thoughts in their tracks and that it comes with mindfulness. But how to be mindful with the mind already brimful? We overthinkers overthink why we overthink and end up pontificating like this (ha ha!). And now that I'm thinking, there are times I have even overthought on others' behalf. Yes, that's the level of mastery. Am I seeing some facepalms there?! Well then...

So, I'll tell you where's my junkyard. It's sleep, a state of mind that doesn't just bring me rest, but also lets my thoughts recline. How do you toss away your excessive, compulsive thoughts? Please share here but don't overthink ;-)

Hold on, there is an afterthought...

Before I leave, I have to take a little detour. Overthinking isn't always the ultimate and absolute villain. We are all writers because we are overthinkers. Aren't we? We run into our thoughts, sit with them, dawdle over lots of coffee, dress them up in words and put them out. I cannot believe anyone who writes doesn't overthink.      

I - 'nuff said!

The A-Z challenge puts the mind on a spin every night. Another day done. Now what tomorrow? At 'I', I just couldn't come up with anything till it hit me, why even try.

'I' isn't just another alphabet waiting to know its true worth only after being baked into words. It stands tall as a term in itself, with an unmistakable identify of its own. Imagine it taking as many unique forms and more as there are people on this earth. That's ginormous! We all and without exception lay claim to the 'I' and effortlessly so. 

'I love', 'I hate', 'I believe', 'I feel', 'I think', 'I concur' and the foremost of all 'I know', the 'I' is boundless in the way it can expand to fit in and feed our sense of self, which is all great. As life flows, we all need to figure out our 'Is' to compositely project them as who we are, but are we discerning enough to stop and see its delusional side? 

I read somewhere that 'I' can be limiting and that struck and stuck. The obsessive 'I' is myopic. It paints an exalted sense of the self which is a lot of hubris. The kind of 'I' that doesn't let you rise above and smell the other roses in the garden. 

But there is also a version of 'I' that knows that it has to come out of its silo and embrace the 'we'. That's the aspirational 'I' which powers the real growth of a person. It's the one that has to subsume itself and be reborn. None of us can do without the 'I' for it forms the bedrock of our identity, but what if we water it in a way that it branches out to make room for every other 'I'? 

Sure nothing is impossible.  Read again. Even the word impossible says 'I M POSSIBLE'. So much for the lean, (dare I say mean), freestanding 'I'! 

Home is people

'Home is people. Not a place.' This quote by American writer of speculative fiction, who goes by her pen name Robin Hobb, is as beautiful as it is profound, and today I feel like perching my thoughts around it and giving it my own little spin.

Maybe we have got to view life three dimensionally to expand the scope of what we understand as home. To me, such people take you in their warm embrace. Around them you feel safe being vulnerable, in their presence you can be a little more you. They are the walls that will never let you crumble, the roofs that will gather your tears and the doors that will not shut on you. Your cheerleaders for all seasons, they give you the best high fives when life's on a roll and pull you out and dust you down when you tumble down that rabbit hole. 

Such are also the souls who know the art of silent love, the kind of tenderness that shows in action more than in vacuous words. No wonder then that even today we smell home in grandma's kitchen, sniff nostalgia in mom's knitted stole and dig into fading albums for a scoop of heaven. It's also the father's little bursts of anger that often come layered in love or the kindergarten teacher's words that have remained etched in our hearts. 

To me home is that dear friend who remembers my toughest day and lights up as a message on my screen saying, 'You are in my thoughts today'.  How beautiful it is that people can make you feel at home, what else otherwise are all our dwellings but edifices made of beams and stones. 

Gadgets off the menu

It was a hectic Saturday evening and the menu cards had been much thumbed at Miss Murphy's charming riverside cafe, The Munchies. The clock had struck 10 and it was time to down the shutters. The cards had been stacked up in a neat pile at the billing counter. Chloe, Miss Murphy's hired hand, liked to leave the place in good nick every night. "A place for everything and everything in its place," she'd quip, if ever Miss Murphy suggested she take it easy.   

Lights out, the place slinked into silence, only the mellifluous river gurgled under the star-lit sky. The items on the menu cards too rested on their oars. Tomorrow would be a new day. Who would Miss Murphy pick as the Day's Special for display on the sheeny blackboard at the entrance? Would it be the 'Double-layered fried chicken cheese sandwich' going strong a third day, or would a combo meal be put out in her impressive cursive as the steal deal of the day? The sides knew they'd have no luck ever making it to the centerstage. But the burgers and burritos fancied their chance with every setting sun. And so wafted the thoughts as darkness blanketed the after-hours...

At The Munchies, Sundays usually began on a yawny note, which meant not before 11. Chloe would arrive by 10 to set up the place mostly populated by youngsters. Not like the older folks didn't make a halt, but their visits would be brisk and purposeful, unlike the young'uns who'd lounge around as if it were their second home. At seventy something, Miss Murphy loved their company. She loved the vivacity they infused with their presence, the way they schmoozed. 

But there was something she wanted off the menu. Something she hadn't put out there in the first place. Something that had invaded The Munchies and found a seat at every table, uninvited and definitely not from her culinary stable. So this Sunday Miss Murphy thought to experiment. 'Gadgets off the menu. Tuck them away & and half the price you pay!' read the words on the blackboard.  

Chloe, who was busy sponging the tables, curiously turned around to steal a glance and instantly broke into a smile. She knew that through that offer, Miss Murphy was gifting the spritely frequenters something as precious as their own time. And as if on cue, even the menu cards she held suddenly felt light!    

(The piece is a fiction, not the pic though. That I clicked at a cafe in Mussoorie, a hill station in Uttarakhand, India)

Forever I the flower girl... 🌸🌸🌸

If there is one thing I have indulged in over the years, it has to be fresh flowers. Sometimes I think maybe our souls are very old friends, flowers and I. As a child, I grew up in a bungalow with a garden speckled with flowers, some that appeared seasonally, others that bloomed round the year. The sync of souls must have begun right then. I recall turning to my books every morning only after a round of rendezvous with the flowers meandering through the manicured lawns. Dew-clad in winters and sun-kissed in summers, they'd transport me to a realm of wonder. 

A floral memory floats back to a time when one arid afternoon, my friends and I walked the edges of a pond that had hundreds of pink lotuses in bloom. And how can I not mention the gorgeous orchids that hugged a mango tree in our backyard! 

Years later, when I stepped out of girlhood and moved into a bustling city, leaving the warm confines of my little town, the flowers rehomed themselves in my thoughts, their essence forever blended with mine. I have since bought myself flowers many times and they are a favourite home decor now. Who needs a fancy wallpaper when you have flower power to make a splash! Dreary days are never the same when you have long-necked gladiolus, redolent tuberoses or an assorted bunch of carnations and lilies filling your vision.   

I have picked up abandoned stocks and scattered summer blooms from under massive trees and placed some in pages of my favourite books, from where I inhale long-lost memories. I have stopped to watch them quiver in rain and and then look 'droop-dead' gorgeous, I have seen them eddie together in playful banter under the soft evening breeze.

If ever I find my spirits wilting, I trust a flower to make it twirl,
revel in some petal prattle, forever I the flower girl! 

           

 

Eating out, alone

Until recently, I could never bring myself to eating out alone. I'd feel gawky about seating at a table with empty chairs across. It felt like the world around was watching with an extra pair of eyes. If alone and at an eatery or a cafe, you'd most likely find me at the take-away counter, even if it meant home was another thirty minutes away or the packed food would certainly go cold.  

I often searched for an answer behind this unease, my stomach all the while growling in protest. We are what we think and it dawned on me that my discomfiture was because of what I was feeding my mind. My thoughts would circle around random people pouring their gaze on me, or a family at the corner table giving me the side eye. Not like I cared, or did I? Basically, I didn't want to be the center of attention in my singularity. It also stemmed from social conditioning. A young woman eating alone in a public place wasn't a common sight and I hadn't grown up seeing much of it. We always look for templates to follow, don't we? 

But I wasn't liking this version of me. Every time I pulled back, it made me hangry! I wanted to care less and eat more and uninhibited, like literally. And so I started making the little moves. I chose quiet corners or tables facing the wall. I walked into places that weren't already teeming with people. The first time I almost shoveled in my food and washed it down with some quick swigs of a cold coffee. But it felt good, to turn the tide within. 

The real magic lies is in crossing over the line. And all it takes is that first time. The other day I not only indulged in an unhurried brunch all by myself, I also sat at the table for an extra hour arriving at the topic for the A-Z Challenge and even writing it down, all the while strong hot cuppas keeping me good company. I still caught the occasional glances and the second looks, but nothing stirred in me. Checking in with myself helped me move a mental block. 

And wait, now that I'm thinking, this was such an appetizing food for thought!

Dimply Beautiful!

In a summer dress her eyes crinkled, she was dimply beautiful,

The dent on her rumpled-looking cheek came alive with every giggle.

What a beauty she must have been underneath those wrinkled skin,

 How many hearts might have melted at the alter of her every grin.

She must have known her precious gift, for she smiled often and easy,

Or did she turn frowns upside down, knowing life's regardless crazy.

Did she keep a dimple diary, swoon the world with her beetroot blush?

Here I tried to trace her thoughts, she though was in no tearing rush.

Curious, I strolled up to see what was giving her all those giggles,

And there propped in a stroller was someone doing her own little jiggles.

A spitting image of her grandma, just the dimple on the other cheek,

The blue-eyed darling smiled all gums, a bouncy bundle of happy streaks.

Between then and now and now and then, the dimples shared a little smile,

Preserve my legacy, said the older one, now that I have come this long a mile.    

   

(I love poetry and even dare do it at times. This one's one such attempt. And yes, I'm a big fan of dimples, the creator's special gift to only select some.) 

     

Clothes donned and ditched

We live in a world where there are a gazillion stimuli to feed the consumerist glutton in us. So much so that even our phones today annoyingly eavesdrop on our conversations and push tailored advertisements to propel us to make a purchase. This is an aside. But when I learnt that in marketing lingo it is called 'conversions', I actually chuckled. Whoa! How easily and often we get 'converted', I thought. 

Now before I digress, let me plate the seed from which this post is sprouting. Clothes that we routinely buy, wear and discard are actually keepers of memories and holdalls of emotions, the good, the bad and the ugly. At the time of purchase, they may sit neatly folded with their lookalikes, strategically placed under troffer and track lights to reach your eye. But despite all the sheen and shine, they are denuded of emotions. 

Their real journey begin once they get off the shelves and enter your cupboards. Picture this. You are staring wide-eyed at a closet full of clothes. There is no dearth of outfits, yet you scratch your head to pick the right one to wear. This is because your choice is being driven by a certain emotion. A happy you might pull out a vibrant colour and a fancy cut. On a dull day, you may reach for the most blended look, wishing not to stand out even in a crowd of two. When the mood's all jaunty, you might dare yourself into trying something that's otherwise not you. And on days you feel like you are already tired tomorrow, your pajamas feel the most comfortable. 

And then there are the memories that get weaved into their fabric as we experience life and its various flavours. That's how we have that 'one lucky lavender colour shirt' or 'the not-so-lucky green dress'. I have many such garments that could tell you beautiful stories only if they could speak. I also have many others that carry my battle scars. Some have fallen into disuse and yet find a coveted slot in my cupboard for the sheer memories they bring back. 

In a world where emotions and emotional people are often thought to be silly, how fascinating it is that something as inanimate and customary as clothes absorb feelings and begin to reflect the same once they find their wearer. 

Is there a piece from your wardrobe keen to tell its story? Lend it a voice, please. The mic's all yours!

Bubble-wrapped through Covid

How many of you are a fan of the bubble wrap? I for sure am one and ever since I have know them. I call them 'the audible anti-stress pills' that work like magic to calm every grated nerve. Thanks to ecommerce, these pop treats became a ubiquitous part of our lives. I literally go on a mission mode to find the last one in every sheet I lay my hands on. Yes, that's me! And if ever I find them all flattened, my mood deflates like that of a child told to hold back from her favorite candy. 

MY LOCKDOWN BUD

During the pensive pandemic days, when my modest 1BHK flat felt like it was growing in dimensions because of the overbearing solitude and unguarded thoughts it had to accommodate, a massive roll of bubble wrap, very thoughtfully gifted by a former colleague who had noticed my obsession with it back in office, brought me much meditative calm. When puffed to the brim, the neatly seated symmetrical pods are so inviting, you'd think they are infused with some ethereal spell. 

If the pandemic brought us face to face with life's fragility, the healthy supply of bubble wraps gave me a comforting sense of continuity. Every day and very ritualistically I'd cut a piece out of the tall ream and go on a popping spree. And what a balm they proved for all the disorderly thoughts that crowded me. A most unusual pandemic gift, I was delighted to be loaded with such a stressbuster during those unpredictable days.

TIME TO REDEFINE IT 

While a dry dictionary meaning indicates their core purpose is to provide cushioning to fragile packaged objects in transit, the unassuming bubble wraps, in my opinion, belong to a higher league. To me, their definition should expand to include the intangibles: 'Bliss-induced air bubbles that release glee.' And finally, thanks to that colleague who spotted my workplace quirk and drove home a lockdown remedy. 

Ambulance with a seat for a prayer

You are caught in this nauseating traffic, the reels on you Instagram feed are the only things moving. The engines go quiet and ennui takes over. Some listlessly stare out the window, most fiddle with their phones. And suddenly the wails of an ambulance grows louder behind you. 

The sights and sounds of these emergency vehicles always tie my stomach up in knots. Who is in there? How much time does s/he have? Will the person make it? Is it the last few minutes of that Golden Hour for someone who might have suffered a near-death heart attack? Is it some accident victim in urgent need of blood? Or is it just an empty vehicle racing against time to reach someone clutching to that last straw of hope?

Questions which will never know an answer pound my head. I get fidgety, shuffle my legs, turn back to look through the windshield glass. All I can see is the anguished red siren amid a sea of searing car roofs. This time I look ahead. My eyes fixed on the traffic light.  Three, two, one...and the light goes green. I release a quarter of a breath and then some more. And in seconds the ambulance rushes past me. I settle down, let out a full breath this time and say a prayer, hoping for it to hitch a ride and help whoever is in despair.

Amorphous wishes they are but every time I let one out, I trust them to travel far. I don't remember when this habit grew on me, but through it I have come to believe there is always something I can give. Next time you think you have nothing to share, give out a little prayer. Grace will find its path and land as a beautiful fleecy feather somewhere. 

G(r)owing frugal with my words

 

CALM IS A SUPERPOWER

Candor can be my thing when the vibes match. But of late, I’m also savoring the goodness of letting muted words take a stroll in my mind. Often a mouthful and always in a rush, they are free to roll and ride, get all ‘cheeky’, ‘hit the roof’ and even go looking for some ‘wisdom’, as long as they tango behind the confines of a subtle smile.

The thoughts that come dunked in these words stare me in the eye, say they feel deprived. But I reason hard. A 10-word vocab is enough to glide through most cursory and customary exchanges in a day, I say. Okay 50, at best 100, I relent. The thoughts circle wild, flex their muscles, gush to spill out and I know why.

So, I laboriously explain one more time. Silence cannot be misquoted, nor misconstrued when it’s sealed with a benign smile. And the benefits are obvious and plenty. Buttoned up lips prevent unintended verbal spillages, pull the plug off arguments and, as a co-benefit, spare my lungs the much-befouled air in this day and time! And when I turn the volume down on my words, I see the feelings stoking them settle down and dissipate, a magic balm for any tormented mind.

Ever wondered how a monosyllabic baby giggles and gurgles its way into our hearts? That’s the language of love, though bereft of words.  The thing with words is they are potent and carry not just their own weight but also the unjust burden of interpretations. Often lost in translation, they get ensnared in wrangles that feed nothing but insatiable egos. So, if not for any good, why unleash them and empty them of their true meaning? 

These days I prefer sitting with silence instead, our arms wrapped around each other, even as some bruised thoughts feverishly froth beneath, bubble up to the surface and quietly recede when starved of words. And what’s your vent, you may ask. Well, words are also my tranquil succour. So, I’d rather  plate them sensibly and serve them right.