Just four letters, make me stop in my tracks. but it doesn’t matter neither does it point to any sense of urgency that I’ve stopped. For I know not where I am headed. I look left and right, up and down, all I see is emptiness. No one calls out to me neither do I feel my voice strong enough to call out any name.

I see people everywhere, doing something or the other, feeling some sense of purpose (or so I think). I look at my hands. They look young and healthy. The blood rushing through my veins. Full of life. But I don’t see any worn creases, neither do I see any bumps. No work seems to have come to life through these hands.

What have I done to make any difference in anyone’s life? Or my own for that matter. I keep reflecting. I am still lost.

Still. Lost. And screaming inside. Smiling outside.

you meet a thousand faces each day
in a thousand places each day
and one of the few has that little
bit of sunshine on their face

meet everyone on your journey
and its only till then that you know
who’s yours and who you are to
seek the one with the sunshine
on their face

keep laughing my dove
keep smiling at life
and walk with me with the
sunshine on our faces.

Even the smallest of signs can spark your heart’s desire. I watched a movie today – About Schmidt which inspired me again to go back to my roots. To go back to my deepest desire.

Which is to work with women and children. I believe in the prayers of children and despise those who bring tears to their innocent eyes.

I have made a decision but I am fearsome within myself that if I were to speak it out, the fire in my heart would be subsided so this one time I wish to see my action plan come through and live the dream before I can begin to speak of it.

I seek and I will find my path. My willpower to make a difference has still not left me, contrary to what I thought about myself.

India, here I come.

Heart of fire, spark thy desire. Calm thy thoughts but spirit, not.

Heart of fire, spark thy desire. Calm thy thoughts but spirit, not.

bubbling brooks and flowing water, who art thou running after? you tickled the pebbles and kissed the quays, but ran off to marry the oceans and seas.

beautiful beguiling beaches

the smell is the most memorable of senses. I miss the waft of your scent around me. Being the early riser that you are, I miss the freshly bathed hug you gave the “night-lover” me, each morning.

living apart after marriage does take its toll on one’s inner strength. It puts life into a whole new kaleidoscope of priorities, commitments and sometimes (well most of the times) keeps you living on the edge and on the hope of a prayer that everything on the other end of the knot is going well.

I fear the times when we fail to see eye to eye with each other. That moment brings with it the crushing realization that we are, but two souls forcefully separated by the fists of fate. I cannot show you how I feel and all that we have with each other is the sound of our voices. And the memory of our smell.

when I was a child, my comfort blanket became my partner
when I was a girl, it was the worn-out teddy bear
adolescence brought with it a fake sense of rebellious independence, giving rise to just music
And now…I hug a shirt each night. Your shirt. One of the many which are carefully and lovingly piled in the back of my closet, reserved just for those days when I miss you the most.

I fall in blissful sleep taking the smell of you, in.

Goodnight my turtle dove.

i whisper, softly, to the moon, i do. for i know it's sight is shared, by you.

when I’m happy thinking of you, I feel like some sort of sunshine is going to burst out of my heart into a thousand sparkling shards enveloping the entire world with radiance and warmth..

when you cry and there is nothing I can do owing to the distance, my heart withers and dies instantly.

why is the world round and not flat? i wish it was flat so I could walk to the edge and fall into an endless chasm.

I wish the world was flat

at Cafe Batavia, Jakarta, Indonesia.

a hundred faded memories resting on the wall, a hundred happy faces may’ve frequented that hall. each one tells a story, a forgotten family tale..alas each has only a space, afront a rusting nail.