Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay |
A storehouse of what not just crosses my mind but also leaves an impression --good, bad and the ugly. Mind over matter is just what it is.There are matters umpteen, and the mind seems to ponder over them a lot. Of things that make me smile, of moments that make me cry, of hopes and of despairs -- words are all I have, after all
Saturday 27 April 2024
'X'cuse me, please!
Friday 26 April 2024
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 incredible.
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, dreaming up characters, 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 |
Thursday 25 April 2024
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.
Wednesday 24 April 2024
Undermining the present
Tuesday 23 April 2024
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 |
Monday 22 April 2024
Stumbling on happiness
Saturday 20 April 2024
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."
Friday 19 April 2024
Quill parked in pages
Image by Karen Ewald from Pixabay |
Thursday 18 April 2024
Petrichor: Smell the rain
Drenched & demure |
Wednesday 17 April 2024
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.
Tuesday 16 April 2024
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!
Monday 15 April 2024
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.
Saturday 13 April 2024
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
Friday 12 April 2024
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...
Thursday 11 April 2024
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.
Wednesday 10 April 2024
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'!
Tuesday 9 April 2024
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.
Monday 8 April 2024
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)
Saturday 6 April 2024
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!
Friday 5 April 2024
Eating out, alone
Thursday 4 April 2024
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.)
Wednesday 3 April 2024
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.