In the stillness of the early morning hours, the empty page stares at me. My pen is poised, ready to chart the course of the flight of my thoughts. The pristine whiteness of the page soothes my mind. Even before I have written anything, I am calm. With the process of writing I get in touch with that part of my soul which is nurtured by silence and blossoms with the light of attention.
“Pata nahin isko kya problem hai…” I say with open frustration to Basantie, my friend and home managing partner. We both have our arms folded and are observing the culprit with focused eyes. It’s always unhappy, I complain. “Kuch bhi kar do, khush hee nahin hota…Idhar, udhar girta rehta hai…
#lifestyle ‘Errrr….Didi aapka phone baj raha hai… Yeh pencil mein le loon?’ (Your phone is ringing… May I take this pencil from you?) This is the standard line I get from Basantie, my maid, my friend, my co-conspirator in reviving many a failed recipie 😁 She knows if it is
I reached my studio just in time for my yoga class. Too late, I noticed that the building next to mine was being brought down with drilling machines and hammers…. The sound was loud and aggressive and violent…. Most unsuited for a yoga class, for sure. I had logged in with the
By Nook or by Crook I have a love hate relationship with my bean bag… I love it when I sink into it and I hate it when I have to get upIt’s like it doesn’t want to let go… I twist and turn into ungainly poses, yet sink deeper…
Newspaper Nostalgia 🗞️😊 I start reading the newspaper from the back. The sports section will not be the bearer of the worst news unless it concerns my favourite Roger Federer being defeated in some match against the equally beautiful and talented Djoker…I can live with that 😊 As I make
In the stillness of the early morning hours, the empty page stares at me. My pen is poised, ready to chart the course of the flight of my thoughts. The pristine whiteness of the page soothes my mind. Even before I have written anything, I am calm. With the process
Words… I see them floating around, pieces of paper, like confetti, carrying differently coloured words….disappointed…happy- maybe…been planning…so sad…glad…will do…nature…love…children- All these are snippets of pages from ancient diaries, diaries maintained over years, never re-visited, re-read yet carrying the ominous burden of the past. Stories about real and imagined hurts, extreme
There was only one thing I ever really dreamed of owning while growing up. It was a bicycle. In my mind I had pictured it completely. It would be colourful. It would have delicate tassels hanging from the curved handle bars and it would have a basket in front. From
We are sitting in the darkened movie hall and viewing a completely forgettable movie. Its mediocrity of story line, banal acting and vulgar dialogues make us cringe and seem like an affront to the intelligence of a common man. We decide to leave the hall and salvage whatever is left
