Desert Rose

 The hardcover was intact but a little sticky from years of perspiration from being stuck in the cupboard. It is lovely how seeing just the outer cover can stir a whole lot of emotions. It can wake up memories that you had put to sleep with a lot of effort. On turning each page, each of their faces smiling wide was so clear in the mind. In a phase of life where you’re wondering if memory is your thing anymore, it is quite reassuring to see your mind map the handwriting to the right faces.   A line here and a phrase there; a quick sketch here and an inside joke there; ink pen on a page that’s slowly fading (but you still remember enough to fill in); pages made all colorful with every line in a different pen. On a day when everything felt grey from the inside, just flipping the pages painted her mind red. They’d been the world at a point. Then there was a blur. Then there were years of questioning the blur. This phase was followed by some agitation and anger for not being...

It was in my 9th grade that I decided what I'd pursue as a career. I am not able to recollect when it all began and how I picked up Architecture as a potential profession. I remember my parents taking me to career counseling sessions and doing everything in their capacity to make sure I take an informed decision. When I look back, I believe I tailored the results of those sessions myself. In my head, I had that career implanted - so every questionnaire and every one on one interview - all boiled down to a career in design.  But what I strongly remember is that I never chose architecture because I wanted to run my own firm or work in an architectural studio - I don't believe I said that out loud! To be associated with the construction industry with a deep understanding of design so as to execute and get a project running was why I took this path. I knew it before I started my studies, but somewhere down the line, with the fraternity being inclined towards only the obvious career...

Bags were packed and they were all ready to go. But for her, it was so much more. She imagined the whole journey over and over again. She thought of the stolen glances, the giggles, intertwined hands, and all that this journey was about to unfurl.  The train trailed off from the station with a happy troupe. It did not go the way she imagined it in her head. It was happy but not how she pictured it. She distracted her mind and tried to stay focused on the chats and bustle among the friends.  But then she began to see clearly - yes, she was imagining it all. She was making it all up in her head and so fiercely defending and protecting her ideas because she wanted to.  She slowly made her way through the bustle to the compartment's door. She sat there with her eyes closed, imagining the stories untold and lips unkissed. She had to come to terms with the fact that they were not looking for the same kind of love. She needed to make peace with that soon before the train reached...

That morning stretch & silent prayer; that tea or coffee that you prepare. A little sweat and some good smiles; and cleaning off some pending piles. A pleasant hello to the one across; a quick chat with someone you were cross. A plate full that satisfies the tummy and soul; a good watch without having to scroll. A goodnight with a book over the face;  and that feeling of not being part of any race. Most of the days - this is all we need.  The honesty and integrity of daily routine - the highest vibrating energy to take us ahead.

Considering that this year has been a lot about motherhood for me, it had to be a year of intense connection. While that experience with my son and husband has been a chapter by itself, what needed more time and energy was realizing the need and beauty of a profound disconnect. I never worked well with the concept of disconnect. Was it because I did not learn how to build boundaries too well? – Let’s just say that I did not learn to draw them well and my parents probably still don’t know that there is an option to do so. Celebrating bonds, emotions and heavily investing in relationships is what I’ve been conditioned to. No – I still can’t tell myself it is any less than amazing. Yes – I can now tell myself that not everyone can understand or feel the same way. If the idea of needing to “disconnect” at times sounds ridiculous, or even mean-spirited, I want to assure you that isn’t my intent at all. In my own life too, I have been the one that was disconnected from. It does hurt,...

She woke up every morning convincing herself that it is a good time to be. After all, most things come to her doorstep without her having to go out and get exhausted; There was enough content to watch on digital platforms – so much that she spent more time on the decision than actually watching; Education was taking interesting turns with alternative learning systems to beat the conventional ones – so now we’d see more kids on the block who crack life better than we did apparently; Innovation in design and technology blew her mind with every aspect of daily life getting so much easier; Equality, empowerment, tolerance and what not – everything is in the air or at least on social media; Medicine is developing at a good pace to deal with all the increasing sickness in this world; Mental health is being taken seriously and therapists are all over the place - so obviously happier people with sorted life; People are making conscious shifts to organic products, sustainab...

“We were a thing, you know. It is almost like we wake up together and do all our stuff in sync. We also enjoy similar activities and styles. But somehow she was not okay with me being around with….” “We are so connected and I used to share everything with them. It never felt like they were so elder to me. It was more of a buddy vibe than grandparent vibe. But then…”  “Last time I did that work schedule since she wasn’t there right. Now apparently I need to take up that responsibility completely!”  “We both were the best of friends. Like literally! For a really long time, it was just that and then with all that happened later and for the mess it became – wish I could…”  “How can we say no nah? It is okay. We’ll manage somehow.” Every person I talk to seems to be having something going on along these lines on a personal and professional level. Of course – my life is full of it too.  Really – these kinds of issues that each of us encounter on a d...

Hold fast to dreams, they say. For if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly. But somehow she tried every night to stay awake to keep away from those dreams. Some days the waves get her and on others a shadow screams. She did her little prayer and filled her heart with gratitude. But then into the night, her fears came haunting, breaking her fortitude. Like children bring their broken toys to mend, she surrendered it all to God and turned to her friend. Tell me, she said. About the journeys they’d make, places they’d live. About the children they’d have, the home they’d build.  But he didn’t tell because he didn’t know it yet. We’ll see it as it comes he said instead. But it wasn’t until the bad dreams took her that he understood;  she didn’t need the home or the journeys; she only needed a beautiful dream to hold on to. 

Some days I hear that voice. The unpretending harmony. But so rare are such days. Most days it is all about the pretentious. Isn’t that proof enough that she’s been missing something. She spends her mornings and nights in faith; submitting every bit of her to that omnipresent power. It is like she waits everyday for her greatest self to come and rescue her. When will she realize that she must go to her? You’re sincerely being nice to us and everyone. When will you be nice to yourself, woman? You breathing thing. That’s how life works – being a home to new life while being a memory to many. I am letting you be because without a shattered heart, you may not find the strength to build a life better that before. Oh but I am not letting you be forever. Let me whisper this into your ears. "You’re worth everything. Loving deeply and living fully. Because you’re here today and alive. That’s all the proof you need."   "It must be possible to s...

When everything seems to be in place but yet it doesn’t feel that way. When the heart is always wandering but even the destination finds it hard to believe that you could wander. When there is not a bit of emotional energy you have for yourself and yet you squeeze out all that is left for people around. When you are honest and say uncomfortable things only so as to make the future comfortable but all you’re left with is a judgmental  sigh. When we are busy making assumptions and judgement  without realizing that you are being judged too. When you give your everything professionally but stingy ones on the other side dismiss it over convenient excuses. When you say “Me too” and people around dismiss it by just saying “oh you too”. When you’re constantly watching series and movies on digital platforms which of course are so brilliantly made, but you wonder why it is all about killing, dying, evil & fantasy – more like the end of something is near....

Some days we get it all wrong. Sometimes we just have one of those days, where things happen to you over and over again, as if someone up above is testing to see if you really want to have a good day. At least I do. A little something that's been brewing up inside my head leads to everything else. And then even before I realize, I just want to run and close myself in a room. I sit down and go through every scene of my 'bad day'. What all did I do? What did not go too well? Why did I say it or do it? I try to justify myself as much as I can ; as hard as I can. I repeat great lines to my own brains - " It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case you fail by default." or shorter ones like - "Life is tough darling, but so are you.". I deceive myself like I'm going to fix myself and look for options for distraction and engagement. It keeps going for a w...

The dream catcher slowly shifting. The curtain slightly swaying. The night sky all lit yet dark. You are the silent type. Aren’t you? The thoughts in my head. The memories from all around. The dreams in all its glory and power. I am not too silent. Am I? So why don’t you speak too. Or even shout. It just takes a thunder or a storm after all. In that kind of night, you can dissolve my voice. And then maybe we can have a dance.

Bangalore mornings are on most days worth waking up to. I was out for my run at about 6am and the rays of the early morning sun pierced through a blanket of light fog. The wind was strong on my face and the green around was happy. Sleepy faces walking, jogging and running but most smiled as we crossed one another. The ground had a group of people with their mats laid out and doing yoga. I was not aware about the yoga day though. Later in the morning I was at the bus stop heading for work. The kids were there to catch their school bus and they were carrying mats too. Then the little girl told me it was yoga day. (Yeah. Ignorant me!) Usually on getting on to the bus, I spend about 10 minutes browsing on my phone – then I knew it was yoga day for sure. Thanks to the memes and trolls. Image Source: https://goo.gl/images/psgKUw It was a pleasant morning in the bus to watch all the kids and their parents waiting for their school bus with different colors of yoga mat. T...

                                                                JO&LE I know. Beautiful. She seems to be at so much peace. Such calm. While it all seems so, her brain is exploding with questions and her eyes are filled with wonder. And mind you, those are the questions that actually matter. “Where does the sun hide when it goes to bed at night? Where does the moon stay all day long? Why is pink, pink and orange, orange? Why do some men have beard and some have a smooth face?” She mostly wants more – be it the carrot cake on her plate or the stories around the world. She says things as she feels it. She cries when she feels like. She sleeps when she needs to. Here I am. Grown up. So grown up that I am currently reading “The Subtle Art of not giving a Fuck”. That’s the fine line I guess. She giv...

She woke up that day with a smile.   Thank God. Lately days are bright and happy. Yet that day, it was something else. After a minute or two, she realized. The reason.   She was amused because she thought it was all long back ago. She thought she'd forgotten details. Days which once mattered the most.   And here she was, messed up hair and tiny eyes, and the smile. How a tiny bit from the past make us come alive without us realizing. How those pieces we thought were buried deep down or removed from our system find their way back on the days that makes most sense to those memories.   How we see the innumerable happy moments over the few that probably caused the drift. After all she's a wild child with stains.   Sometimes imperfect. Sometimes unclean. But so damn shiny underneath.

“Sending letters and cards have been a part of us for as long as I can remember. Texting, social media and phone calls all work out just fine but there's this electric, yet very soothing energy that revolves around the art of writing the same down on paper, digging up an envelope, throwing in som e stamps, lick-sealing it (Kidding, don't go there  #papercut ), seeing that beautiful red box, slipping it in, praying to all the Indian Post Gods ‘thou not leteth them goeth astray', hearing the khakhi attired person ring the cycle bell, see them walk in the gate, 'Sukumaretta, kathundo?' (‘Do I have letter?’), to which he'll nod. Your loved ones would run to the door, wind in their hair and take the letter to find a random LIC letter.”  Quoting Flynn George coz I couldn’t put this any better. Writing letters is fun, therapeutic, and has a much deeper meaning to the recipient than anything else. For that matter my husband proposed to me over a letter and I sai...

You know that feeling? When you’re just waiting. Waiting to get home. Waiting to get into your room. To close the door, to fall on that bed. And to just let everything out that you kept in all day. That feeling of relief and desperation? Nothing is wrong. But nothing is right either. And you’re tired. Tired of everything. Tired of nothing. And you just want someone to be there, to tell you that it is okay. But no one is going to be there and you know that only you can fix you. But you’re tired of waiting. Tired of having to be the one to fix yourself and everyone else. Tired of being strong. And for once you want it to be easy. To be simple. To be helped. To be saved. You know the chances are slim. You’re still hoping, right? You’re still wishing, isn’t it? You’re staying strong and fighting with tears in your eyes. You’re fighting. Keeping fighting. Write yourself a warrior’s tale.

She walked in barefoot into the nature. Something whispering, murmuring, coaxing and invoking. The many trees that turn color in the fall. The sunlight filtering through the treetops making beautiful dappled patterns on the pond. Children all around making happy shrills. Running, playing and being their age. The lone couple under a sprawling banyan and the other couple freezing moments of maternity. The bald man asleep on a bench and another just like that on the grass. A young lady reading ‘God of Small Things’ and the grandpa with his kindle. A bunch of burqa clad women busy picking fallen leaves out of their lunch boxes as they sat in a circle, giggling. And another lot playing ice and water. Babies in their strollers and the puppies strolling around. Roses of every color and shape. Some as big as two palms cupped together. The gulmohar, silver oak, pink Cassia and hundreds of nameless astoundingly beautiful plants. The texture of the ...

It was my turn to move away from home. It was time for me, like they say, to go behind my dreams. And I was sure. My entire world was sure that my father would not deal with it well. I knew he wouldn’t wave goodbye without shedding some tears - joyous and anxious. (Somewhere I was proud of it. Proud of being his girl with whom he cannot stay.) And finally that day arrived for me to fly out and as I walked away, I noticed something was different. He didn’t shed tears and his look told me a thousand things that I couldn’t then perceive. Everyone around including my mother said he had prepared himself well for this change and was strong. But somewhere behind my mind that image remained. Tiny details but the most important things seemed different whenever I went home. He didn’t play his usual doze of morning music which was like an energizer to wake up for us all our life. There were not many evenings where movies were discussed to tiny details. Those evening walks where keeping up w...