Desert Rose

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.

What was I even thinking? Some days you just can't stop wondering about this. Some soups we get ourselves into, leave us questioning our own self over and over again. Some people we choose make us wonder about our capacity to analyze or make choices. Some of these situations are such a mess that though we make ourselves believe that we have moved on, very often we keep going back trying to understand why it took that path.  Whoever it may be or whatever situation it was, we definitely knew what we were feeling. But then - what were we thinking? Or, did we think at all? In some way or the other way, most of us are trying to sort something like this at all points.  A couple of days after me and my friend spoke about this aspect, I happened to read a note I'd written to myself in one of my older notebooks.  "What was I thinking? - I clearly wasn't thinking. Why wasn't I thinking? - Because I was busy feeling and I guess some aspect of it was good at that moment."...

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 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...

“You know what. I really can’t stand that. It is so distracting. Why can’t she stop doing it?” “He will never understand. He’s always been this and nothing is going to change.” “I don’t know. I can’t tell her this. My relation with her is not like you and your sister. We don’t connect or share much. So I don’t think me asking will work.” So what is the one common factor about these dialogues? It is the very fact that the issue is not being discussed with the person involved but with somebody else. And this aspect has been grabbing my attention way too much lately. Most problems I hear from people of my circle actually boils down to this – lack of the 2 C’s. Confrontation & Conversation                            Source : https://goo.gl/images/eN9vGx “Sometimes you just need to talk about something – not to get sympathy or help, but just to kill its power by allowing the truth of things to h...

                                                                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 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 ...

Disclaimer : If anything from this post relates to you or offends you, please don't be. You know we're talking about the other parents! This aunt I know. Apparently she was this extremely fun woman who believed in breaking the stereotype norms and go far. She lived independently and did a lot apparently. But now years down the lane, her daughter is not allowed to stay out after 8 pm, not allowed to drive because it is too dangerous and a whole lot of not allowed to do things. Fair enough right? My little niece. Oh she be one adorable doll. So her mom had gotten her morning milk ready in a blue sippy cup. She pushed it away and demanded, “I want the pink sippy cup, not the blue!”. My sister’s face whitens and she rushes to get the preferred sippy cup before the baby throws a tantrum. Fail! What are you afraid of sister? I go out shopping with a family friend. Their little boy loves my company (or at least it feels that way with all the fun we have). We are at the...

The sun has almost set and as I stand in my balcony, I feel the city serenading my favorite songs for me.  As the night sets in, somewhere in a multi-storey building I sing back. Is it my never ending thirst to find new shores that brought me here? Or is it the never ending love from my heart only for you? I stand here taking in the unending long view of shining lights. From this shore of love and lust I look up at the sky longing for it to rain on me. I’m here for you in the beautiful night like a shadow of you. I look around to see this city the way you do before I paint my own picture. Each nook of the city smells like cigarette smoke at this hour. With a pint down their throat, the artists walk through the lanes, to capture life. As the city lives on - everyone is looking for something. I sure am. We are all finding something or making something or maybe just being. And suddenly I know, it is time to start something n...

Pistanthrophobia – Is this word familiar?  Well, I came across this one lately and was surprised to find out that fear of Trusting someone again is such a common reaction to being hurt in love that it has its own name. Thinking of it, what is one of the most crucial commodities for a person that’s becoming increasingly difficult to obtain these days?  Is the possibility of interruption and distraction everywhere taking a toll on most individuals and their relationships? Is it the fact that the juxtaposition of people’s loftiest hopes and aspirations with their deepest worries and fears is too difficult to be brought to a balance?  Is it the fear that if taken lightly, one day it might just become routine? Does this all boil down to the fact that we have forgotten about ourselves? That the other person is after all the secondary character and not primary. I don’t know.  What I believe is - It is good to love, because love is difficult. For one human ...

If you can see her for all that she is, every bad decision wrapped in pretty skin. If you can see her fears trembling in her palms, And long to kiss away the pain they cause. If you can relate to all the moments she roared gracefully, and the ones where she stumbled back to reality. If you can look at her scarred soul, and crave a taste of life she’s been dying in. If she looks like heartbreak wrapped up in a smile, and you’ve never wanted disaster in your life so badly. If like her, for you too, ‘happily ever after’ doesn’t mean a perfectly told story, but falling in love with delicious chaos that is life. If you are the kind who admire the gentle breeze, the baleful wind and the storm alike. Then maybe there’s a chance at a true sort of love where ruins are more beautiful than the flesh above.

She was like ice but still burned like no one ever could. She set herself on fire each night because it was too dark and chilly in the hell she was living. She dreamt of people falling from the sky, plummeting to their deaths. She woke up with disbelief in her eyes but the nightmare continued.  She pumped her veins with things that can poison her blood; but she continued breathing.  She felt her insides rotting and quite unsure of how her heart still kept throbbing. She was like ice but still burned like no one ever could. So she put on her pretty dresses and painted herself in different emotions.  She kept singing aloud as if she knew the right trail.  She kept dancing and swaying as if she knew the right moves. What she knew was that every thorn that caught her at each turn, slicing into her, would just make scratches.  She wouldn’t let a few scratches bleed her dry.   So she kept singing and dancing loud enough while...

“Oh I thought you were a feminist. Aren’t you? “ – One comment I encounter very often. Like even yesterday. So am I? Being a woman is a privilege I was born with and it is an identity I cherish more than any other. It is something that has shaped my emotional response and sensitivity for as long as I have known.  Like most women, I too am strengthened by my experiences and it is the truth when they say “a woman is like a reed, she bends to every breeze but she does not break in a storm.” ‘Woman’ is the far deeper, wider and greater word. Does it even fit to qualify a more limited term like ‘Feminist’?  Not in my opinion. Being labelled a feminist would misrepresent who I really am. I know that some dictionaries define feminism simply as ‘equality’. But I do not want to be part of a movement where too many of their actions do not match this definition. I know that not all feminists are man-haters, don’t care about men’s rights, or believe in female s...

We all have that WhatsApp group that is mostly asleep but when it wakes up, you have no choice but to mute it. So the same happened with one of the groups on my list a few days back. It kick started with reactions to the Telugu version of the Malayalam fame song ‘Malare’ and somehow drifted to reservation based on caste system. Participating in the discussion that followed, I got reminded of a time when I wished my father was a Latin Catholic and not a Syrian Catholic. I would have got that seat you know! I’m sure Jesus won’t care as much as the country did whatever I called myself. The constitution of India says all Indians are equal. Oh really? Reservation today is not just an affirmative action but has become a means for getting more and more benefits. As a matter of fact, the scope of reservation has enlarged to quite an extent. Oh so the backwardness has increased? It seems that nobody really cares about the welfare of the underdog but wants to gain a bit of th...

It was all about order then; But she doesn’t know until when. When did that pull towards love and chaos take over? Or maybe was chaos always the constant? Her world now moved too fast. She missed the shades of each sunset;  She no longer felt her toes kissing the earth beneath. It was no more about order; But chaos. It was like being the moon afraid of the vast sky; but loving the way it held the stars. She yearned for peace from all this mayhem. But she didn’t realise that she invited it; Because she was too wild to feel alive when at peace. To be reckless; To consume. To be wild ; To be her. Chaos was its own kind of beautiful.

They wrote love letters like bed time stories and stacked them.  Those stacks. Reminders to never forget. They swam in a sea of open ended sentences.  Sentences punctuated with her scent. But did she know then, that the gravity of loneliness smelled the same as well. Broke. They rebuilt. Broke again. The 'lost cause' wrapped in 'remember when ' and 'what could have been' ;  all in an 'if only things were different'. And she's lost. Dizzy. Lost on that less traveled road.  He was like a December. Serene. He was the morning cool.  And she no less than a fool for mistaking glass for the openness ;  mistaking the calm for content. To awaken the lost, silent dreams ; wanting to gather hope and spirit ; those stacks found a place elsewhere ;  those bed time stories were put to sleep. Forever. 

So I came across a little something lately that was pretty interesting and I was unaware of. Maybe you already know about it but never the less, worth sharing for those like me :) “Love stories” are often associated – at least in the popular imagination – with fairy tales, adolescent day dreams, Disney movies etc.   Beginning in the early 1970s with the groundbreaking contributions of John Alan Lee, researchers have developed classifications that they believe better characterize our romantic predispositions. The patterns unknowingly expressed by respondents culminated in a taxonomy of six distinct love “styles” that continue to inform research in the area forty years later. The first of these styles – EROS – is closely tied in with images of romantic love that are promulgated in Western popular culture. Characteristic of this style is a passionate emotional intensity, a strong physical magnetism – as if the two partners were literally being “p...

All that turbulent past ; to times moving way too fast. All that bow and arrow ; that made it right at my heart. All the wrongs and mistakes ; that saw immense growing up. All those trials that seemed right ; which turned out what I call my life now. All those moments of clarity ; which was just a mere weak illusion. All those questions with no answers ; but just my endless and tired gaze. All that waiting for greater purpose ; which is more about whether I care to hang around. All that turbulent past ; to times moving way too fast.

It is the fire in her eyes ;  And the flash of her teeth ;    The swing in her waist ;  And the delight in her feet.   It is in the reach of her arms ;  The cross of her hips ;    The stride of her step ;    The red of her lips.      It is in the arch of her back ; The ecstasy of her smile ; The ride of her breasts ;  The grace of her style.  It is in the click of her heels,    The sway of her hair,    The palm of her hand,    The need for her care.     A woman. Phenomenally. You should know ;  Just why her head’s not bowed.    She doesn’t shout or jump about,  Or have to talk real loud.    When you see her passing,  It ought to make you proud.  Because it is her. Phenomenally. Courtesy : Maya Angelou