Life Lens

  We knew the rules here. Cricket in the morning, football by four. The chalk lines faded but remembered us— as did the mango tree that doubled as third umpire. Our games had rhythm— shouting over appeals, jostling for the best bat, teasing the goalie who always let one through. Then they arrived— a dozen strangers with laced cleats and broad grins, their ball—odd, oval, unfamiliar. Their run—deliberate, their pass—backward, their cheers—loud, but joyful, not arrogant. We didn’t know the game, but we knew the joy. The shouts, the scrambles, the huddles that made space for everyone. Even the girl who fell face-first got up grinning, dusted off, and ran back in. We stood around, arms folded, not judging—just watching. Like when rain falls differently but still wets the same ground. On the side we mimicked their moves— bent low, made fake passes, laughed at ourselves, and kept doing it anyway. As they packed up, dusty, flushed, not a trophy in sight— someone...

 They asked me for a photo— a mother, a daughter, draped in reverence, eyes lit not by flash, but by the flame of faith. They stood before the goddess, not posing, but pausing— in stillness that sought to hold a whisper of grace. I obliged, clicked, and wondered: was the memory not already etched in the breath they held, in the silence they offered? Later, on the street, a café buzzed with youth— designer mugs and contorted smiles, tongues out, cheeks sucked in, as if joy required angles and peace needed filters. Photos snapped, faces stretched— not for memory, but for broadcast. And beyond borders, a celebrity smiled, perfect teeth in a perfect sky, on a perfect beach. A smile staged for headlines, not heartbeats. Why do we frame our lives not on walls but on feeds? Why must a moment exist twice— once in soul, and once in public? Does joy require applause? Does proof demand pixels? I find myself leaning not toward the loud, not toward the ...

  A room. A chair. A visitor. One sits. One stands. Not by fate, but by arrangement. The seated gestures— “Please, take a seat.” A nod follows. We call it courtesy. But beneath that gesture lies a quiet script, older than speech. In that brief pause— between offering and accepting— a thousand years of hierarchy breathe. And when we truly remember, no seat is higher. No space is mine. It is all ours.

  ​ He said “Good Morning” like a ritual, Simple, steady, every single day. Not loud, not eager—just there, As certain as the sun, as quiet as breath. Even when we moved on, Different jobs, shifting time zones, His “GM” still arrived— A soft tap on the screen, A thread still holding. He was not a loud friend, Not one for long calls or sudden jokes. But in that two-letter greeting Lived a kind of presence— A rhythm, a reminder, A man whose kindness was quiet, But daily, dependable. And then, silence. A morning passed—strangely still. Another followed—heavy with waiting. By the time we noticed the absence had a shape, News came—he was no more. ​ Gone, not with farewell-  But with the dignity he always carried—Unspoken, unfussed. There are no grand words to dress this loss Just the hush where a greeting once was. The absence is small, but piercing— Like a space cleared out In the corner of a room you never looked at ​ Now, the phone does not blink with that first ping-The ritual ...

  Decorated, Then Drowning A white wall waits, unclaimed, at peace. No cluttered tale, no grand release. It hums a tune both still and fair, “I’m full in quiet. No need to wear.” At first, we sigh, “How stark, how bare!” And dream of Madhubani flair. One frame, then two—oh what delight! A mirror too, just feels so right. Brass diyas from Delhi haats, Silk runners bought in fits of arts. Fridge magnets from Kochi shore, And terracotta owls (we bought four). A console from a cousin's cousin, It "sparks joy"—until there’s a dozen. Now each wall groans in painted pride, But inside us? A rising tide. We think of the white wall once more, The one that whispered, not implored. The one that didn’t ask to stay, Just let our gaze float, drift away. Now giving away feels like a sin— “This Ganesh was brought from a vintage shop!” Too precious to toss, too bulky to keep, So we hoard our memories in a cluttered heap. But oh, the dream of space, of air, Of echo...

  In the hush of dusk, the old owl sits, Eyes like lanterns, thought never drifts. He watches not just what moves or flies, But listens deep where silence lies. He speaks not often, nor to all— Only when the truth must call. In dusk or dawn, his truth stays firm and clear He lends his words to those who hear.

MIDDLE CLASS CIRCUS First, we’re told to dream big. So we aim for a job. Preferably one with ID cards, and birthday cake once a year. We land one—and celebrate by updating LinkedIn. Then we search for a better one. Because ambition is just dissatisfaction with better branding. We get a flat. One BHK with “vastu-compliant ventilation.” We decorate it with fairy lights and pay EMIs. Our home is our pride— and the bank’s property. A car arrives. Second-hand, but we call it “pre-loved.” We drive it with hope, park it with anxiety, and pay insurance like we’re betting against ourselves. Vacations? Yes, of course— to Goa, in off-season. We return refreshed, tanned, and financially lighter. Risks? No, thank you. We don’t take leaps. We take calculated sidesteps. If a dream doesn’t come with dental insurance, we let it go. We teach our children to dream, as long as it ends in engineering. We measure success in square feet, not stillness. We’re told we’re “comfortable...

  Alive by Presence, Not Pursuit- A conversation with Buddha Seeker: If one has no desire, no longing, What makes them rise at dawn? Without something to look forward to, Wouldn’t life feel hollow, withdrawn? Buddha: Does the river ask where it flows? Or the tree why it leans to light? They move not from craving, But from stillness, quiet and right. Seeker: But don’t we live through looking ahead— A hope, a goal, a flame? Isn’t desire what gives us color, And makes life more than a name? Buddha: Hope can be light— But cling to it, and it turns to chain. Desire isn't the wound— Attachment is the pain. Seeker: Then must I give up all I seek To find some sacred calm? Buddha: No. Let desire pass like weather— But let stillness be your palm. Live with joy, not grasping. Walk, but know you're free. Seeker: So peace is not the end of longing, But knowing I am more than what I seek? Buddha: Yes. That is to be free.

  We speak of ourselves, as if we are self-made, Carved from our will and untouched by the world. But beneath every choice, every possession— Lies a history not our own. The cloth against my skin is not mine— It is the memory of a seed, The story of sun, of soil, Of silent hands that coaxed it into form. What I consume is not earned, But received—through cycles of effort, Through labor of a farmer, folded into matter, By those I will never meet. The comfort I afford is not of my making— It carries the echo of working hands, Of those who rose before the sun, And worked so I could rest in shade. Money may measure the price, But never the cost. Thought and language— These too are borrowed. Shaped by voices long vanished, Held in place by minds I never knew. The path I walk was cleared before me. The shelter I claim was raised without me. Even rest, at times, Is made possible by unseen kindness. We are not singular stories. We are the consequence Of countless inten...

  Yoga is not the bend, the stretch, the pose, But a path where inner stillness grows. Beyond the body, the self aligns, Through Ashtanga Yoga, the spirit climbs. Not form or feat, but mindful grace— A journey inward, to a quieter place

  The Safety Pin We do not fasten what is torn— but what we fear might someday be. Not cloth, but calm — a sense, forlorn, That even stillness hides a plea. It clasps not thread, but quiet doubt, A tremble stitched beneath our grace. We carry it, within, without, A silent anchor just in case. We pin not fabric, but the fear That something small will come undone— The thread unnoticed, drawing near To tug apart what we had spun. We pin because we once have known The hush that falls when seams give way. We carry it not quite alone— But with the ache to seem okay. So when the world feels faint, unclear, We reach for what we cannot name— A safety pin—small, sharp, sincere— That holds together what we claim.

  Screened Lives We speak in blue ticks, not with eyes, In groups where silence multiplies. A smile is now a pixel flare, And hugs dissolve in vacant air. We send a rose, not smell its grace, A birthday wish, no warm embrace. Voice notes pretend that they are near— But echo back what we don’t hear. We watch each other’s status bloom, But never walk into the room. A “ping” replaces doorbells rung, And laughs are typed, not ever sung. We forward love in viral threads, But sleep alone in separate beds. Our faces glow in ghostly screens, While touch is lost in online scenes. We know their moods by Insta posts, Yet never call or raise a toast. Connection bars are full and bright— But hearts don’t hold that kind of light. We tag and share, but don’t arrive, Alive online, yet not alive. The soul grows quiet, the hands grow still— We’ve traded presence for a thrill.

  The Great Cinnamon Deception Two glasses gleam with a golden glow, Like something aged and served slow. A whisper of brandy? A wink of wine? Oh no, dear friend — this brew’s divine. No parties here, no tavern tales, Just spice-soaked water in wellness veils. The color lies, the scent misleads, But it’s all bark — no reckless deeds. You’d think it pours from a vintage stash, But it’s boiled to cleanse, not burn or crash. No sugar highs or drunken slips, Just heart-healthy goals in measured sips. For those who’ve danced with years gone by, And now chase steps on a fitness high, This is the toast at close of day— Not to buzz, but balance, come what may. So raise your glass to this quiet trick, To life lived long, and choices slick. No hangover waits, no memory blur— Just spice and virtue, gently stirred.

  We dance, we weep, we rise, we fall— But who, unseen, directs it all? Each step we take, each breath we claim, Is stirred by the skilled hands of the Master. Not ours the thread, not ours the cord, But bound to will, silent and stored. We are but dolls, Moved by a grace that charts our way. The Master holds the subtle string, With fingers light as dawn in spring. No boast of ours, no pride, no plan— But every turn, a mark divine We spin in joy, we bow in pain, Yet never once are we in vain. For every twitch, and every pause, Is bound within the law of grace. His will—our breath. His glance—our light. His silence turns our day to night. And if that Hand should ever rest, The puppet falls, unstrung, unblessed. So let us bend and bow with grace, Not seek to lead, but take our place. For freedom lies not in control— But in surrender of the soul.

The Squeeze A man once said with worldly flair, “Life is fleeting—strip it bare. We sip, we dance, we chase, we yearn— The lemon dries before we learn.” He bit into life with greedy zest, No prayer, no pause, no inward quest. “What lies beyond? Who’s ever known? Better to feast while flesh and bone.” The juice ran wild down mortal chin— Sweet with thrill, edged with sin. But nights grew long, the pulp grew dry, And silence echoed in the sky. A monk, serene, with gaze like flame, Heard this thirst and placed no blame. He said, “Yes, squeeze—squeeze if you must, But with a gaze both kind and just.” “Each soul you meet upon this stage— The young, the old, the wise, the rage— Treat them not as fleeting cast, But God in form, from first to last.” “Not idols carved in distant halls, But breathing light in duty’s calls. To bow before the mundane face Is to make your squeeze an act of grace.” “The skin of ego, peel it well, The seeds of pride—let them go. Each squeeze becomes a sacred rite Whe...

  ON HER FATHERS' SHOULDERS He lifts her high at the village fair, Above the jostle, above the glare. Not just to see, not just to roam, But to give her the world and call it home. She sits like a queen on a throne of bone, In a sea of strangers, yet not alone. A string of balloons, a wheel that turns— She sees it all while his shoulder burns. Her hands in his hair, her laugh like rain, Unaware of anything else- but the ride To her, it’s a ride; to him, it’s grace— To carry a heart in that small embrace. He is her compass through the crowd, Her shade, her map, her song aloud. And though she looks to find what's new, He watches her find a wider view. Later, she’ll walk on paths unknown, Steady on feet once gently flown. But this moment, bright as morning stream— A father’s joy, a daughter’s dream.

  Where Tea Is Poured, Hearts Lean In In cracked old cups or porcelain fine, A little tea can realign The weary soul, the rushed routine, And paint the world in calmer green. A kettle hums, a moment brews, A pause from breaking daily news. Old friends laugh loud, their voices blend— Where silence ends, the cups extend. On station bench or office floor, The tea arrives and moods restore. In dusty fields, when noon runs high, It cools the brow and lifts the sigh. Mothers talk across the fence, Over chai, life makes more sense. New brides and grannies find a bridge, On rooftops or the kitchen fridge. Two strangers meet, no words to start— The tea steps in, connects the heart. A teacher pours in mid-day light, A student smiles, the world feels right. The tailor takes a break to dream, A poet stirs the sugar-cream. Laborers pause their sweaty toil, For warmth that doesn't burn or spoil. The monsoon knocks, a cup is poured, A thousand memories are restored. It ...