It was the night of a year-end. We were on the road in San Francisco, showing a New Yorker friend this city in night. Between the ocean and the sky there was no gap- they both were tucked in a blanket of fog. The city was so silent that we could hear our breath.
Continue reading “Youth: A note”
“The reason the beasts give among themselves is that Man is the weakest and most defenseless of all living things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him.”- Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Book
It’s Sunday. All windows are open to welcome the sun in the house. I can smell French toast in the air. My mom is talking to the help in the kitchen. Four eyes glued on the TV. Dad and I, not ready to move an inch from our drawing room. On screen, Shere Khan is threatening Mowgli. There is an argument going on in the wolf family about the acceptance of a human being. I’m thinking of moving to some jungle. At least it won’t be this sunny. I’m allowed to have half a cup of tea with sub-merged biscuit today. My tea is already cold. But I don’t mind. I look at my dad and whisper, “Now what?”
Continue reading “Jungle Book of Nostalgia”
Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth. ― Khaled Hosseini
It was one lazy Sunday afternoon. My husband decided to do cooking and laundry to give me a break from those mundane weekend activities. Alone in a corner, I was reading the first story from Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Unaccustomed Earth” and I was sobbing.
There was a part about mother-daughter relationship that made me speculate about a time in future when my mother won’t be around. Continue reading “Fictions and Feelings”
I grew up having home cooked meal four times a day. A meal together was celebratory.
During many festivals in a year, people from extended family came together and made different kind of food. I hardly remember what we celebrated in those festivals. But I can never forget what each family cooked and what we ate. Continue reading “Cooked”
When the winter dies, my mother’s rose plants wake up. The pink one. The pale peach one. The red one. The white one. “Which one is your favorite?”
Continue reading “Call rose by any name”
I have a wiser self.
The one that acts as the soothing inner voice when I miss an exit on the longest highway. The one that asks me to check my heart on the mirror once in a while and fix the flaws, not hide them.
The one that tells me to live silently, work on things that matter in the mundane world. The one that suggests me to be a true friend to friends and to be present in each others’ lives, for years, not for a month or a year, not only on Facebook. Continue reading “Thanking the wiser self”
“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” ~Helen Keller
Continue reading “Things I like”
I know some people have multiple faces. You just have to blink while talking to them. Acid smiles. Random Kindness. And then they turn to someone you never could know. Continue reading “Identity Crisis”
These days I remember what Umberto Eco said in “Foucault’s Pendulum“. I remember it too many times.
“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.”
Today, I am guest posting at Eli’s popular place Coachdaddyblog, and talking about my father and the lessons I learned from him. So please stop by, show your support, and help me cheering for all good fathers of this world. This is the link to click. Continue reading “Six Lessons from My Dad”
At the age of nine, I was taken to a popular local painter and asked to learn painting. My mother who loved art in every form, requested the painter to teach me twice a week, “She has the gift. So start with still lifes.” The painter taught me how to draw deep layers of rose petals, a lonely lime blossom under a rainy sky, and a lifeless hibiscus trying to find light through the open window. “But I want to paint human life. And a landscape of his week and month and year and I want to color them natural,” I pleaded once. “But they won’t look good forever. Flowers are fine,” the painter yelled. Continue reading “Still lifes”