A memory for my daddy

Dear Daddy,

On this birthday of yours, I want to unleash one beautiful memory that is part of you and me. I don’t know how much of it you remember now, after all, you have a terrible memory. But somehow as I am growing up in years, my mind wants to hold on to all the precious memories of my past. Unlike other families, we don’t have too many photographs of us. But I have memories that keep me going in difficult times. These memories remind me that I was, I am, and I will always be loved.

So please hold my hand, to walk back into the time when I was so little that you used to carry me in your arms and take me out for the simple pleasures of riding a bike.

The light breeze making my short hair sway, the rustling of our clothes against the wind, and the feeling of flying like a bird. You, me and our weekly Sunday rides, on your black atlas bicycle. The little me sitting in front, on the crossbar and you on the rider’s seat, taking us away from the chaos of the world we inhabited.

The roads awaited us, and we ventured on them as if we both were on a secret mission. The lanes were different each time, but the destination was always the same. The deserted road surrounded by Aravali range with big brickyards on the side, there stood a war memorial. Unbeknownst to many, it was a hidden treasure that you found for our outings. You would sit on one seat, smiling at me, and I would circle the memorial stone reading the names aloud. Sometimes you shared stories about different wars that the soldiers were fighting. You explained to me how the people named on the stone laid their life for the country we all call home. The little mind of mine would not understand everything that you would say, but it realized one thing at that time. The place of our outing is not a regular place, it was as sacred as a holy place.

At other times the two of us would sit in silence, each lost in musings of once mind. The silence taught me that sometimes it’s much more important to feel the same thing rather than having a conversation about it. After all, always talking doesn’t mean we are conversating. In that calmness, I learned to listen to my soul at a young age.

You gave me a precious gift daddy, and here I am merely attempting to preserve the memory of the beautiful experience you gave me. Thank you for the best childhood a child could ever ask for, from a parent.

Happy 64th birthday daddy, I wish good health and blissful days for you, in the years to come.

Your only daughter

She never forgot

The winds once again have changed their direction, there was certain coldness in it now, signalling the oncoming winter season. She wobbled around in her swollen belly, collecting clothes from the clothesline. She was due in the next fifteen days, but the old ladies of the village said that children are always born before their due date. She doesn’t know much about it, and it’s her first pregnancy. She doesn’t even have any access to books and magazines to help her in this hilly village which is cut out of the city by miles. So everything she knew came from the mouths of other experienced women.

In his last letter, her husband informed her that he would not be able to come during the birth of the child. But he promised that he would visit around March. He asked her to take good care of herself and the child.

Her life took a huge turn, a year and a half ago. She was an educated city girl, now living in a remote village, where you walked miles to get the water. The poetry and the hidden words of wisdom that her books gave her were diminishing. But the entry of the tiny seed inside her womb revived her back to life. It gave meaning to her existence. Now at night, she was no longer alone, there was a companion who was listening to her. She recited all the poetry and the stories she has read all along. She knew the baby was in love with words just like her. They had an invincible bond, making them two burning flames of the same light.

Slowly she stepped on the staircase with the bundle of dry clothes. She lowered her body to sit on the floor and started folding the clothes in a neat pile next to her. It was then that she felt some prickling pain in her abdomen. She tried standing up from the floor, but she couldn’t. The pain was increasing with such intensity that she knew that the time has come.
She cried in pain, calling her aunt in law for help, who was busy setting up the dinner for the family. Before someone could come over for help, she collapsed on the floor. They revived her somehow, and her body was aching all over the place. She was in a different room now, and someone was holding her hands. The saree was taken off from her body, and she could feel a hand touching her genitals. An unknown soft wrinkled faced woman loomed over her. With an old white cotton saree draped on her sagging skin, covering her head which hid the streaks of white hair among the lustrous black, parted from the middle, gave her a wry smile. She knew from that smile that woman was the midwife, who will help her bring the life inside her in the outside world. She was profusely sweating, and she could feel someone’s hand wiping her face again and again. Her cries were getting louder with the passing time, and the voices around her kept asking her to push harder. She pushed hard enough one last time and everything after that was hazy in her mind, now.

It’s been years now, but the memory of that day still haunts her at times. The blue body of her first born child never entered this world, but somehow, it never left her soul. The small warm droplets have started falling from her eyes now. A warm hand wipes up her tears, and she looks up at her daughter’s face, her third born but to the world her second born child. It took her twenty-five years to open her wounded soul to someone. She held her daughter’s hand and said “that’s why I never buy any new thing on Dhanteras” because that day I lost something so precious to my existence that no worldly thing would ever compensate it.

After that day her daughter never asked her mother to celebrate the festival. Years later when her daughter started her own family, she would follow in her mother’s footsteps. Never buying any new thing but never forgetting lighting up a diya in her brother’s name. For the world, she had only one brother, but in her heart, she never forgot that she had another one in another realm.

PS: Today I have completed four years of my Blogging journey on WordPress. So I thought of sharing this true story. Some pieces are hard to write and this one is one such write up. So with lot of shilly-shallying, I bring this story out here for you to read. I hope you guys like it

Happy Blogiversary to me ❤

Fading Memories

I recently read A Strangeness in My Mind by Orhan Pamuk. While I was reading the book, a strange feeling struck me hard inside my gut. I always boast about having an excellent memory, especially of people and places which hold special meaning to me. But it hit me that however good I may be, there will come a time that the memories I hold so dearly inside my heart right now will fade if I no longer share it with the person with whom I made those memories.

How do I reach this point, I will elaborate it now with the story of the book.
Mevlut is the protagonist of the novel, he is a boza seller(a Turkish drink), and he falls in love with a girl whom he met at his cousin’s wedding. The only thing that struck him hard about the girl was her big deep beautiful black eyes. He starts writing love letters to this girl and keep writing to her for the next three years during his military period. One day he realizes that if he wants to marry this girl he needs to elope with her, so he makes a plan with his cousin for this elopement. The idea is to pick up the girl from the garden at night and then walk towards some distance where his cousin has parked his van. He holds the girl’s hand and walks towards the parked car without seeing her face. And when he sees the face inside the vehicle, it hits him that she is not the same girl to whom he has been writing the letters. Now that they have made the mistake of running together, he accepts fate and marries the girl. And when he meets the girl Samiha( to whom he has fallen in love), in his marriage reception, he didn’t even recognize her.

Is this true that time makes us forget all the people whom we have lost to fate and destiny? Is it true that one day I will not recognize the person who meant so many things to me at some point in time? And suddenly I had this thought in my mind, which I wrote on my Instagram page too.

I have a fear that I will lose the tiny threads of my memories someday, like I will not able to recall some people who mattered to me at some point of time, I will forget the moments I have spent with them, the small talks we had or their faces, I have started losing some of them already. I fear I will lose more of it if I don’t store it somewhere. Hence I feel the need to write about all those trivial things that matter to me, the memories that impacted me as a person. Do you ever fear losing people or moments from your memory?”

Some people replied saying that they too have this fear of losing fragments of themselves. Hence they also write memoirs or write fiction to hold parts or pieces of their memories of people, who have long gone from their life but left them as a changed person. I feel a bit relieved now that there are people like me who hold their memories as close as me and they too store them in their words in open or in secret diaries or journals. And may be I am also fading or have faded from the memories of the people for whom I meant something at some point of time. Then I wrote these last lines for them.

“There will come a day, where you will need to clear the dust from your memories in order to catch the fading fragments of me.”

The Bench

#thebench #yourtruly #lakeside #memories #nostalgia

You and me,
sitting at the two edges,
of a wooden bench.
Nervous, hesitant,
still very happy.
Glancing sideways,
I catch your gaze.
I blush, and you smile.
A smile of victory,
on your face.
You slowly slide,
towards me,
closing the gap,
between us.
There are no words,
only silence,
yet we hear each other.
You let your finger slip,
into mine,
we look towards,
the setting sun
by the lakeside,
hoping for a forever.

Years later I sit,
on this bench,
my back to the lake view,
Thinking of you.
So what, if our future,
never met,
our thoughts did,
maybe one day,
our horizons, will too.

The idea of this poetry came when I was listening to this song from “The Fault In Our Stars” by Ed Sheeran.

Then searched my google drive for the the above image which I clicked a month back by the lakeside.

Do stories come to you while browsing through images or listening to songs? Whats your process like? Do share in comments below 🙂

A journey of a daughter

“Behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begin.”


Recently we all celebrated Mother’s Day with lot of zest. Making our mother feel special for a day is a great idea. Now, that I am married, I am showered with love of two mothers. I love giving surprises, so for each of my mother I did something different.  For my birth mother, I sent a small gift followed by a small wish call on phone. For my new mother, I was able to do things in much more meaningful way as she was with us on this day.

The day was a full family day. A well spent one.

As I was lying on my bed, calling sleep, I had a thought that struck me hard. We girls often say things like we want to be like our mothers, if we became even 0.1 percent like them, we would be really happy, I have got my strength from my mom, she is the best women I know etc..etc.

Do we always use to thing like this?? Were we always felt so grateful toward our mother’s??  Did we always idolized them?

For me the answer is a big NO!

Those who think that, I am being too rational or rude, I would say wait till you read me completely.

There was a time, I so much wanted, not be to be like my mother. In fact, I never liked the idea when someone compared me to her. I remember when I once said to her, I am so happy that I don’t look like you. I know that statement is such a horror on a mother’s face. When your child make you feel that your partner is superior in looks than you and he/she is grateful that they got superior genes. My mother never replied me back on that statement but years later, I realized how much painful that one statement would have been for her.

My mother is a timid woman when it comes to expressing herself, people relentlessly, dominate her. This attribute of her always irritated me. I have been witness of many such nasty situations where people overlooked her.  I once argued with her after one such bad moment, saying that “How could you allow someone to control you so much “. She was bewildered by my confrontation, but after a long pause she said “I promise you that I will never let that happen to you “. I ignored her remark, and went on with my life carelessly. Until recently, I took pride in being a person whom no one could think of messing up with, never once realizing that the seed of this confidence and belief was instilled by the woman, I called my mother.

Every mother and daughter on this earth have fought once, for reason big and small. Our relation too went through this stage once. Our major opinion difference was our taste in clothing. I always loved having too many clothes that too of latest fashion. I am not makeup or accessory person but I love stylish and fashionable clothing items whereas my mother is a classy dresser. She love simple clothes that are evergreen and don’t bother much about having lot of them. During my teenage and early twenties we never agreed on same clothing’s for me. I always considered my mother’s choice as boring until someone changed my thoughts.

It was my cousin’s wedding and all my aunts were dressed up with makeup and glittery clothes. My mother being her usual self, wore a simple saree with only a single piece of jewellery that she possess. We all were admiring the ones who have all donned up for the occasion. Suddenly my little cousin pointed me towards my mom and said “I loved the way mausi (mom’s sister) is dressed up, so simple and different from all others.” Her words made me think that being peppy and trendy doesn’t make you different, it’s you yourself, your own thoughts and mind, make you different. I realized how my mother was different and unique from all other women of our family.

After the wedding got over, one of my distant relative asked my mother who her daughter was? My mother called me and proudly said “She is my daughter”. I saw the look on the woman’s face, she looked at me with awe. This time I took full pride in being my mother’s daughter and I told her “ I am nothing like my mom, I could never be like her, because no one in the world could be like my mother”.

PS: I took birth from your womb 27 years before but I turned into your daughter the day I realized “You are the best thing that I have”





A New Start With A New Challenge


It’s been long stay without you my friend

And here I am, to put my inhibitions to an end.

Yay!! Finally almost after month of break, I am back to WordPress 🙂 taking up this challenge.Hoping to make big entry 😀

So all the lazy fellas out there please sign up for this challenge , if you want to come out of the shackles of writer’s block 😛 Because for me this one was like savior, as it’s said “A drowning man will clutch at a straw.”

I will hold to this challenge until I am come out of my comfort zone.

Here is the link if you want to sign up for this challenge.

A-Z CHALLENGE: sign up 

So few things for the people who are going to read up by blogs for this challenge 🙂

My theme for this challenge would be RANDOM MEMOIRS ….it would be like the first word that comes to my memory with the given alphabet of the day 😉 I will share memory attached to it 🙂



I will try to make them as short as possible and entertaining so that you could read as many blogs as possible.

Lastly I would love feedback (in form of comments) from everyone who would be reading me 🙂 So just don’t hit the like button 😉 do put a comment too 😛 I will appreciate your efforts ❤

So , All the best everyone whoever is participating 😀 See you tomorrow guys 😉


When nature unfolds its own story

I am a loquacious person only morning blues, traveling views, reading booze and writing enthuse can stop me from one of my favorite activity.

As many of you know, I took a small break from blogging world, to go home and celebrate Diwali with my family. Now that I am married and staying quite far from my home, this is an annual ritual for me. Dividing my 2 weeks stay between my two homes.

This whole stay meant lot of traveling, for people like me who are reluctant travelers, this was lot to ask for. But the excitement of meeting my whole family and friends outweighed everything.

These journeys are fulfilling as they give me lot of introspection time. They are meditative experiences for me. Watching people, places and nature is my favorite passing time activity. When, I am in traveling mode, I tend to avoid my obsession with Reading instead I try to find inspiration for my writing art. I am glad that I was filled with many such experiences. Slowly and steadily, I will unfold them for you all.

For seeing inspiration in small things, you need to watch out. That’s why since childhood, I always try to grab the window seat 😛 . Then the race was between me and my brother and now it is with my hubby dear, who is a tortoise in these races. But his fear for heights means a window seat for me without any clash on all our flight’s 😉

For the first time, I took a flight in daytime that was accompanied by a clear beautiful sky. The blanket of clouds took me down to my childhood memory lane.

For the first time, dad came home, from his usual 20 days tour, early. We were surprised how come he was early by 2 days then his given time but we didn’t payed much heed to it and got busied in unpacking his traveling bag to look out for traces of present. Whenever dad traveled to a far flung or a new place he used to bring gifts or some specialty of food item of that place. This time he brought a beautiful Saree for mom, and shorts for both of us. We were immensely happy with the outcome of our search operation.

Dad was freshened up by then and asked us the usual questions about our studies. He was strict with us, when it came to studies and he used to keep a close watch on us regarding it. When he was out of home, mom became his eyes and ears, changing her usual soften mode.

While serving us the lunch, mom asked him about his early arrival. To this he simply replied, by flight. We were perplexed by his answer. Because back then, in India traveling by flight was an unusual thing to do, only rich and high post people used to do it. We were out with so many questions for him to be answered. And he patiently answered them all.

But I still remember my first question back then.

Me: How does clouds look from there, Papa?

Dad: It just look like a scoop of vanilla ice-cream 🙂

Me: Wow 🙂 Hope, I see them, someday, that way 🙂

This conversation that took place a decade ago brought smile on my face. Thinking of the time, I so desperately wished to have that look.

I thanked god for fulfilling one more wish of mine.

Here are two beautiful pictures from not so nice phone of mine with amazing quote by Victor Hugo 😉

“The clouds, – the only birds that never sleep.”




Share your first flight journey 🙂 I would like to hear you all 🙂