Memories, Entwined in Music…Β 

It was a perfect moment in time. 

My mom was visiting and I had cancelled all commitments to be with her without rushing around and stressing unnecessarily. She noticed this and conveyed her appreciation through a gentle smile. 

As I booked tickets for a movie followed by a leisurely lunch and discussed our day with her, she couldn’t help beaming. I hugged her and expressed my pleasure at having her home. She hugged me back with a tightness that surprised me. It held in it so much…. Love, pride, gratitude, blessings… Suddenly, my eyes brimmed with tears… My mom had given me everything she thought I might need to manage my adult life with equipoise and now she stood within my arms, frail and delicate, straight – backed and proud. 

As we headed home after our ‘date’, soft music filtered from the music system in the car that cocooned us from the outside traffic. Then that song started playing, the one my dad used to sing ever so beautifully…”Chain se hum ko kabhi..aap ne jeene na deeya…” I cast a sideways glance at my mom and saw a small tear form at the corner of her eye…. I skipped it, to the next one… But she requested me to put it back on… By this time a huge lump had formed in my throat too. 

“It’s been thirty-seven years… ” Mom said, “so much was taken away from us that day… But his music? That no one can can take away… Let it play…” 

We reached home, the sound of my dads singing reverberating in our individual memories… Rich, mellifluous, so him, so me, so mom, so Us…. 

That can never be taken away….. Ever…

As the Lotus Unfolds…Β 

There is something about watercolours. One can be as playful with them as children with their first set of paints or restrained like somebody overly trained. 

I find myself governed by my mood. Sometimes I am reckless and experimentative and confident enough to make the colours run riot, and at other times, like in the making of this one, I am almost sluggish. Enjoying every stroke and merging colours with a gentleness I don’t always possess. 

All I understand about art has come to me by my own journey of creativity. It has come after putting aside innumerable voices, some true and some false telling me about what I can and cannot do…. And quite like the blooming of a Lotus, one petal at a time, I have opened myself up to what lies within me…. 😊
With every stroke I realise

Just how unique existence is

And how miraculous our life! 

My Sketchbook πŸ˜€

My sketchbook imparts the most positive life lessons for me….it tells me… 

 πŸ“’

Ideas give excitement and cost nothing, therefore, stay excited 😊

Every sketch needs to see the light of day ☺️, without any judgement…🌿

The impatience outside is silenced within the calm of the pages 🐞

Every stroke matters…to complete a picture as unique as meπŸ™ƒ

If nothing is working… Turn over a new leaf πŸ˜€

Most importantly, if the book is over, don’t hesitate to start a new one! 

And finally, never forget why you started this journey in the first place… 

Smile😊

The Spark of Life

It was a grey day. Dark and overcast. I went to check on the Koi fish to see how they were doing and reassure myself that their pond had not overflown with the incessant night rain. 

There was nothing in sight barring some bedraggled water Lillies and fat, round Lilly pads, collecting water… And then, as if on cue, a vibrant cloud of Koi appeared from under the leaves… Gorgeous, pure, graceful and languid…. Totally unaware of the surrounding drab and muddy weather, they were just sure of their own purpose… That of adding a spark to the environment in which they lived and in the only way they knew how 😊! 

To be in Foreign Lands..Β 

Saadi Saga..!!

We are both speaking english but we both don’t understand what the other is saying. Each is believing that the other is lacking basic intelligence. We stare at each others lips brazenly in the hope that the moving parts will reveal something more for the ears to comprehend. Magically, we both stop at the same time. This conversation isn’t going anywhere.

I restart, taking in a deep breath and gathering all the patience that only a mother can muster up in situations that can drive others insane.

“Dew. yiew. haive. ainy. vege. thaarian. aaptions. puhleese?” I enunciate slowly

“Aaaah! Oui!” she says excitedly, “feesh??”

….And it starts again…

I want my words to be light and breathy, like foam over a perfectly made cup of cappuccino, but alas, change doesn’t happen over a days time. My words feel clunky and large, as if they are taking too much space in the air when they come out and they do not float like wispy clouds, but instead fall like stone pellets. There is no way an Indian can take out the breathy lilt that a French can so effortlessly. Their tongue curls in inhuman ways, injected with treacle and ice in equal measure. My ears are tired of trying to understand them, as I am sure theirs are too. And whereas I am dealing with just one, they have to deal with a huge number of interesting situations. 

An old grandmother walks into the plane with a grandchild on her aging hip and three polythene bags over her shoulders and arms. Her hair is dishevelled, as is her dupatta. She asks the prim, french stewardess, “Main kitthe javan?” The lady is bewildered to say the least. Very patiently and inhaling deeply she asks for the boarding card. The grandmother promptly puts all her bags on a vacant seat and asks her to forage through them to find it while she proceeds to resettle her slumbering grandson. The stewardess raises both her hands, as if faced with a grenade instead of stuffed polybags. 

“Eye kan’t do thait!” she says in a panic. Meanwhile the grandmother fishes out the limp boarding card and presents it.  The lady reads it and proclaims, “twenty nain!”

“Kee??” asks the grandmother

“Unattee,” I pipe in, suddenly, I have dropped into the situation like a knight in shining armour. The stewardess looks at me with new respect as I take charge.

“Twanoo madad chaidey?” I offer. the grandmother looks immensely relieved. I pick up her many bags, like a seasoned coolie and guide her to her seat.

“Chould you help us here puhleeze?” they ask me when I return. A passenger from another part of the plane has made her way to the washroom in this section. The accosted lady is looking apologetic and saying,”Utthe bahut bheed seegee, pressure kabu nee horiya…” Okay, I don’t want to take the risk of translating this for sure! So I nonchalantly tell the posse of staff, “She’s good, won’t be a minute.”

The much relieved lady hurries into the loo and takes her time… A very long one at that!

I know they are staring at me, but I bore into my diary and scribble furiously with my pen and look very busy…!

Sometimes…Β 

The dance is always within us

Sometimes we forget the rhythm 

The song is always within us

Sometimes we forget the lyrics

The story is always within us 

Sometimes we forget the words

The answers are all within us

Sometimes we forget the questions

Everything that we need, is there

It’s just that, sometimes, we forget…. . . 
#morningwalkmagic #mysticmorning #morningwalkwonders #morningmusings #wordsandvisuals #summerrain #images #mywords