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29 Mar

We’re not special beautiful snowflakes. We’re mundane raindrops. Indifferent and ordinary.

There is this thing about uniqueness, It decays. Something superior is always there to be a replacement. The ordinary however, stays.

And our struggle is to stay. It’s about adding value to the lives and lacunae around us. It’s not only our skin that dies and regenerates to remain plump, it’s not only our soul and body that dies for once – we on a whole choose which part of us has to perish and which lump has to rejuvenate. Decline, anyhow is a requisite.

So we remodel. This process in our personal capacity often takes us to a moment when everything which was glorious suddenly becomes ash. Our elucidation of success changes and there are monsters that we want to cage to be called meritorious. We exert and battle ourselves, kill our weaknesses and wage a contest against odds that pull us down to get to our new goal. And when we get there, it’s not enough.

Many a times we save our selves for the grand finale. And suddenly, it’s not grand anymore.

I urge you to fell the stillness in accepting that the race will never be over and when you begin to hurt yourselves too much to shine – choose to be the audience instead. Just sleep! and before you do, just take the time to gaze up at the night sky. Bask in the silence, take deep breaths, and just marvel at this universe.

You’ll never know what you may see up there. And trust me, it’s going to be every bit as beautiful. Because by that time, you’ll learn the beauty of being ordinary.






Stories told at hearth.

12 Apr

Something stale emerged from that debris, something which diffused instantaneously to the surface of my thoughts and conquered my mind for the next hour or so. Something that potent. I have noticed it plenty a times, grey and olden memories don’t take too long to come back to you. Mach. They strike you, and all of a sudden, present is left entangled in the ticks of clock and you’re gone.

I have always been fond of those traditional village plotted old tales which our Grandma’s narrate when light goes of and the ambience is illuminated by dim romantic candle limelight. Romanticism soon meddles the typical being of flies, the dripping sweat, the uncharged cell phone and the fast track life and I melt in the tales of times when grey was golden.


How many of us remember that white bearded ghost who haunts kids when they refuse to sleep at night? Or that tooth fairy who in return of our tooth gives us money? or the stories of that old tree in the garden, it’s fruits and that swing? the fiction of those stretched evenings by the lake and harsh decisions by the villagers, the recital of ode and tales of roaming around in fields at night?

Grandma’s make it all sound so interesting by the hearth. She smiles, amuses, laughs, questions, assumes and feels every word that is told. I’ve heard many such, All of it by the hearth. Grandma is no more, but that fireplace absorbed her scent, her stories, I can re-hear them any time I want, All I have to do is to walk up to the hearth.

Love you Grand ma! Miss you.



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