And What Remains in the End

" We are meant for each other, you know that? " She asked, looking him in the eye. They were sitting in his car, under a tree nowhere, as was their wont. They never knew where to go.  Most of their time was spent inside that metallic capsule with leather seats, their cocoon against the world.

" I know", he said , holding her gaze. " We are two jigsaw pieces that fit,each complementing the other" .

" You also know this may not be right? " 

 " I know".

"Takes a lot of courage to accept that. Even more to acknowledge it"

" Thatss the truth isn't it? And its you " he shrugged. " I dont know whats in store for us Ananya. We may be or we may not, both equally likely. We may laugh at this conversation, looking back with fond remembrance , while our kids scream for our attention. We may have other lovers, wonderful men and women, changing our lives ,shattering us. We may marry others, move to other places , become different people until 

what we were becomes mere memory, another thing in our cupboard of recollections- to be taken out, dusted and put back in once a year."

" But within us , in some small crevice, underneath careful layers, there will be the person who is here today. And in that part, wherever it may be, however small or distant, what we have will still be" .

To See the Universe in a Grain of Sand

"Shyam! Shyam! Did you see that? " she asked, barely concealing her excitement. " That butterfly there. Its a pale translucent white. If you see it from one side, it looks white, if you see it from the other side, it looks green, the colour of our wall. its so pretty ". The joy was evident on her face.

" Its nine ma. Only moths fly at night, not butterflies" I thought. " Moreover the lack of patterns and bright shades indicates its most probably a moth" .  As soon as these thoughts flashed, I realised something.

My mom may not know the minutiae of flying insects but she knew something far more valuable. She could see beauty in everyday things. She could share joy.

Kindered Spirits

Where you are from, whom you are, what your interests are, what your views in life are do not matter much to me. What matters is do you think or do you not. Do you try to make sense of your life? Do you have a core set of ideas and a worldview? Do you have a morality and a sensibility that is not merely inherited but also honed and shaped by you with utmost care? Are you open to ideas ? If so, you are someone I would love to know. For we are kindred spirits, you and I.

Friendly Advice to a Lot of Young Men

Go to Tibet

Ride a camel.

Read the bible.

Dye your shoes blue.

Grow a beard.

Circle the world in a paper canoe.

Subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post.

Chew on the left side of your mouth only.

Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor.

And carve your name in her arm.

Brush your teeth with gasoline.

Sleep all day and climb trees at night.

Be a monk and drink buckshot and beer.

Hold your head under water and play the violin.

Do a belly dance before pink candles.

Kill your dog.

Run for mayor.

Live in a barrel.

Break your head with a hatchet.

Plant tulips in the rain.

But don’t write poetry

- Charles Bukowski 

Sketches - 1

Written more than six months ago:


I could never truly comprehend the different faces of her, the different phases of her, the different facets of her personality. Writers are those who  have been scarred by life. She was no exception. Life had dealt her many blows ,many many blows, some downright cruel. She found the courage to face them , to look life in the eye. She found the courage to get back on her feet every single time, to not be beaten, to not cower down, to never surrender. She found the courage to come out in the open , to express her individuality, to not hide who she was behind a veil of appearances. She wore her  scars proudly on her face. It gave her a rugged, enduring beauty much like a weather beaten rock that proudly faces the onslaught of the ocean.

Those eyes. Volcanic rock that protrudes from white sand, leaving red cracks in its wake. Those think strands of black interspersed by a few strokes of grey and white - an unfinished painting. The sharp line of her nose with a ringlet marking its end. The crimson amidst her brows the golden orbs on her ears the thin wisp of platinum on her neck. Her face. Battered yet proud. It was not a face you could easily forget. She was not a person you could easily understand.

Tiny Beautiful Things

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.
When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t ‘mean anything’ because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.
The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.
One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.
Say thank you.

                                     - Cheryl Strayed


        Courtesy : http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/07/13/tiny-beautiful-things-dear-sugar/

Existence and Bliss

I wake up on a cold misty morning. Its drizzling outside. I shiver and get out of my sheets. The motion disturbs you and you instinctively put your arms around me. Don't go, they say. I'm only too happy to oblige.

I wake up to the aroma of filter coffee. As my blurry vision clears, I see that its drizzling outside. The sun is not fully awake yet. I take a mug of coffee and sit by your side on the porch. The hills. The grass. The birds . And you. Silence speaks more than words ever can.

Its a warm, lazy afternoon. One of those times when time seems to stand still and timeless works are meant to be savoured. Read to me she says. I do. The words of Tagore hold us both in rapture.

In the evening it rains again. The clouds conspire to keep us indoors. I stand watching her. She is lost in a world where only sound exists. Her hands slide effortlessly along the neck of the veena, producing sublime strains of music. Occasionally, she breaks into song. A concert for a sole, ardent admirer. I close my eyes and listen.

The rays of the sun bid one final goodbye as twilight turns to dusk. The cool rays of the moon bathe us in soft light. We walk, silhouettes in the near darkness. Whispered conversations. Laughter . We walk.


Thanks for the Inspiration :)