Wall That Remembered

This is my attempt in response to Friday Writings #218: The World Is Burning, But…

Image generated by Gemini

I was bored all day sitting inside. For someone as athletic as me, confinement is torture—especially after coming all the way to the hills for a vacation.

Ron and Ana seemed perfectly happy reading, hugging, or gazing at each other. I, however, had no romantic partner here and urgently needed to move. After hours of my finest whining, they finally gave in.

The air outside tasted wild.

I sprinted through the grass toward the rocky bottom of the hill. Normally I am very stable and balanced, but today loose gravel betrayed me. I slipped and skidded down the slope—twenty feet, maybe more.

Ron shouted and rushed down to help while Ana followed more carefully, already annoyed that I had complicated the trip.

As we searched for a way back up, we noticed an opening in the hillside. No door, no sign—just darkness breathing out cool air. After a brief debate, they agreed to the adventure, and I was more than happy to take the lead.

Once inside, the light faded quickly. Ron switched on the flashlight of his phone and aimed it down the tunnel.

The beam revealed faded paintings along the walls—hands pressed flat into stone, faces leaning close together, a small figure lifted toward a circle of others. It felt as if the walls had once been a journal for people who lived here long ago.

Deeper inside, the drawings changed. The colors grew muddy, the strokes hurried. A group pressed together behind something that looked like a barricade.

Ana’s voice broke the silence.
“Ron… these aren’t celebrations.”

He moved the light slowly along the wall.
“They’re hiding.”

Further inside, charcoal figures crouched low, their lines tangled like roots gripping the earth.

Ana brushed dust away from a small inscription while Ron read softly, his voice faltering:

“The world is burning, but we want to live.”

Ana read the line below it.
“They will find us one day and stop the oxygen flow.”

Ron pointed to the corner wall.
“Look at those numbers crossed out—a countdown.”

Next to it lay a shallow pit where the bones rested in an open grave.

Ronbir and Anasua stood there a long time, holding hands.

“Will there ever be peace in this part of our world?” Anasua whispered.

Sometimes I can tell when people are remembering something they never lived.

I wondered if the people who tried to stay alive here had a few dogs with them.

Like me.

Let My Star Be Your Guide

This is my attempt in response to Friday Writings #217: Your Message to the World 

We are mere travellers here,
drifting wherever life takes us.

No one will ever earn here
the right to dictate others’ paths.

We barely see the path here
clearly beyond the next bend.

Still, for fellow travelers here
I share my guiding North Star.

People spend their lives here

just fighting their own storms.

True, we cannot always help here,

never unleash our demons on them

Navigating the Flamethrower

 

Gemini generated image

Dedication:

To mine and all daughters — may you face life’s lights and flames with courage, grit, and unwavering hope.

Navigating life’s narrow lanes today, takes grit.
The route is clear — education, perseverance.
Eyes fixed ahead, she charged toward the light.

The light was a flamethrower, unexpectedly.

Society favours the fair, the pretty, the wealthy.
She continued moving, step by step, unaware.
So when the light turned to fire, she was ready.

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Prompted by Poets and Storytellers United

If It’s Just a Body, Let My Words Linger

 

Image generated by Gemini

The moment you die, your identity becomes a body. Today I came across that thought, and it felt quietly humbling.

It took me back to a cold day in February, a few decades ago — to the day I rushed home from Delhi, the wind slicing through the airport glass, my mind racing faster than the wheels beneath me. My father had suffered a stroke. The flight was delayed by Delhi’s infamous fog, and by the time I reached home, he had already left this world.

Everyone waited for him to come home. I expected to see my father — strong, tired, gentle all at once. For years he had been a husband, a father, a brother, an uncle, a friend, a colleague — many things to many people. But when he arrived, no one said his name. No one called out a relation.

They said, “The body is here.”

In that instant, language stripped love of its titles. My father — a voice, a laugh, a presence that filled rooms — was now the body.

The body we idolize, critique, measure, compare and mold is, in many ways, deeply mechanical. It takes in breath, food, admiration, comfort — all the good things life offers — and when it releases, it releases what it no longer needs. Everything that leaves the body in its natural course — even through our skin, our eyes, our breath — is something unwanted.

And yet, there is one exception.

This very body has the ability to release something that is not waste, not toxin, not discard. Through the tongue, we can offer kindness, compassion, gentleness, truth. We can speak warmth into cold moments and remind someone they matter.

Perhaps that is how we outlive ourselves — not through the body that is eventually reduced to silence, but through the words it once carried.

If it’s just a body, let my words linger.

Chasing Spring

 

image generated by Gemini

"For those who missed the journey in pursuit of their elusive destination"

Like you, like me — my dreamer friend forever rushed through life, chasing evenings in the mornings, seeking spring in the heart of winter, and started to look for Sundays on every Monday morning.

That restless buddy never lived in the present moment for all those forty not-so-long years. 

 

Until one day, the limits were tested … and the spirit quietly left the flesh behind. that day we lost the friend for ever. 

Was it worth it? I wish I could ask.  

So, my friends — love life while it’s yours; indifference will only let it slip away.

For Friday Writings #213 at Poets and Storytellers United, we are invited to include any or all of these sets of words: 1. flesh/spirit, 2. spring/winter, 5. love/indifference.

Between Partner and Companion

Inspired by this week's prompt from Poets and Storytellers United, which is Great Combination/ Collaboration, this post looks into two great relationships.  

Sometimes it’s perfectly fine to use words interchangeably. But when those words describe a relationship, caution helps. A brief pause can reveal how much meaning lives in the space between them.

Partner and companion both speak of connection, yet they resonate in different emotional registers.

A partner implies shared intent — direction, balance, and the quiet strength of collaboration. It is a relationship shaped by mutual trust, aligned goals, and the discipline of walking toward something together.

A companion, by contrast, speaks of presence rather than purpose. It evokes ease, solace, and the grace of simply being alongside another — not to achieve, but to share the moment.

And when your partner is also your companion, effort softens into rhythm. Purpose meets ease. It is no longer just a journey forward — it becomes, quite simply, a dance among the stars.

A partner steers the ship

Through storm and calm;

A companion brings the light,

Holds a hand and sits beside.

One steadies the plans,

The other steadies the soul.

The Most Expensive Dress

Photo by cottonbro studio

Epigraph

On the ramp of life, true beauty is not the shade of skin nor the shine on the outside, but the light that radiates from within.

The Most Expensive Dress

All walks the ramp, each shade on display,
Black, brown, white, and yellow, colors in a sway.
Some shimmer like silk, some glimmer like gold,

Is the outer glow that all hearts behold?
Destitute by fate—what causes this radiance?
What money can’t buy; purity shines on face,

Yet, judged by skin—what a disgrace!

The prompt for Poets and storytellers United is "We will invite you to find inspiration in this quote: “The most expensive garment you’ll ever own is your own flesh.”

Why We Gave Dark a Bad Name

 

Why We Gave Dark a Bad Name

Epigraph

“It is not the dark we fear,

but what we choose to hide within it.”

And when this world first begun,
it shone as one, beneath one sun.
Space was vast, the light too small,
so night was born to balance it all.

Dark came gentle, soft, and deep,
a cradle for all the weary to sleep.
Soon the beasts began their game,
and we gave the dark a bad name.

Then humankind, with cunning art,
hid its sins when the shadows start.
Fear took root, and whispers came—
and so we made Dark a scary name.

Yet all those stars in silence gleam,
to guard the dark, to hold our dream.
Innocence will return in dark’s embrace,
fearless we’ll sleep again in gentle grace.

Disclaimer: I am not a poet. 

This attempt in response to a prompt by https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2025/11/friday-writings-202-what-i-love-about.html

“My Song” by Rabindranath Tagore — A Poetic Offering of Simplicity and Devotion

No, no, no — this isn’t another post about Tagore’s greatness or his influence on Bengali or South Asian life. There are books, lectures, and institutions for that.

This is something smaller, more personal.

It’s about a song my daughter learned when she was in middle school — My Song by Rabindranath Tagore.

Now, there’s nothing unusual about that in itself. Most Bengali girls her age learn a Rabindra Sangeet or two. But this one stood out for a simple reason — its language. It wasn’t Bengali. It was English. 

Listen to the song here:

And yet, it carried the same fragrance of tenderness and quiet devotion that all of Tagore’s songs seem to hold.

Today, I stumbled upon a recording of her practising that song — her young voice, a little unsure but full of feeling. It brought everything rushing back.

In My Song, Tagore doesn’t speak to the world; he speaks to the soul. He writes of art as something pure — free of ornament, pride, or decoration. He imagines his song as a bride who sheds her jewels, choosing simplicity over grandeur. That image stays with you — because it feels like a reflection of life itself.

The poem carries a quiet prayer too. Tagore asks for his life to be made simple, so that divine music can pass through him. Perhaps that’s true for all of us — if only we can make ourselves still and simple enough to let it flow.

For many, My Song isn’t just about poetry or music. It’s about surrender. It’s a reminder that beauty doesn’t need to be loud — and that what comes from the heart never fades.

The most widely sung version of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem “My Song” around the world is the English translation that begins: “This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love.” This version has been adapted into choral music and performed internationally, both in classical and contemporary forms. Prominent modern renditions include Alan Bullard’s choral arrangement “My Song (This Song of Mine),” sung by choirs in festivals and concerts globally. Tagore’s own English translation and poetic text remain the basis for most musical adaptations, making it the version most recognized beyond India.

Thank you for stopping by and spending a few moments here. I hope this song finds its way into your day — softly, like a quiet prayer.
Do visit again — there’s always another story waiting to be told.

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Here is the most loved version of this poem —

“This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love.
The song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing.
When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear,
When you are in a crowd it will fence you about with aloofness.
My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams,
It will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.
It will be like the faithful star overhead
when darkness is deep in your soul.
My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes,
and will carry your sight into the heart of things.
And when my voice is silenced in death,
my song will speak in your living heart.”

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Read Reflect Rejoice

The Woman by the Window

 

Photo Courtesy

Sometimes we wake up with a strange unease — a hollow feeling that something unpleasant is about to happen.
Some say the body senses trouble before the mind does.
Daniel’s left eye had been twitching since morning.
He wasn’t a superstitious man, but when life is in turmoil, even reason looks for omens.

On another day, he would’ve shrugged it off — determined to make a bad morning better as the day went on.
But not today.

All night, Daniel had simmered from a bitter argument with his ex-wife — the kind that replays long after the words end.
“There’s so much in common between evil and Eve,” he muttered when she’d shown up that morning — with her new partner.

His thoughts were sharp, restless. To escape them, he drove without direction, trying to reassure himself that “the world isn’t ending — there must still be kind, rational people out there.”

After an hour of aimless driving, he spotted a small café glowing with warm morning light. For a moment, he thought a cup of coffee might calm the storm inside him.

Inside, the air smelled of fresh bread and quiet — two things Daniel felt he no longer understood.
He told himself, “This will be a happy day. No matter what.”

He sat near the counter, ordered coffee, and noticed the room — a mix of college students on laptops, friends chatting softly before work.
All men, he realized.
Maybe that’s why it felt so peaceful.

And then, he saw her.
A woman sat by the window, reading a book, utterly at peace.
There was something infuriating about her calmness — as if life itself had placed her there to mock him, to remind him of all the grace he’d lost.

Before he could stop himself, he said aloud, his voice cutting through the café:
“Today,” he declared loudly, “is the first day of the rest of my life! Coffee and muffins for everyone — except that woman!”

The waiter blinked, unsure if he’d heard right.
But Daniel’s face left no room for questions.

Moments later, the café hummed with quiet delight. Trays of muffins appeared on tables — for everyone except her.

The woman looked up from her book. Their eyes met. And then, to his surprise — she smiled.
“Thank you,” she said gently.

Daniel felt irritation rise. He was expecting her to react the way his wife would have.
“Fine! Add pastries for everyone — except her!”

Again, the woman smiled. Again, she said, “Thank you.”

Confusion replaced anger. Maybe all women aren’t the same, he thought to himself.
He got up and approached the window, half-demanding, half-pleading,
“What’s wrong with you, lady? I keep excluding you, and you keep thanking me!”

The waiter, who had stepped closer anticipating trouble, leaned in and said softly, with a knowing smile,
“She’s not upset, sir. She owns this café.”

Daniel froze.
For a second, the air itself seemed to laugh. Then, a chuckle escaped him — the first in weeks.

“I do own the café,” she said softly. “But that’s beside the point. I’ve learned not to lose my inner peace just because someone else has lost theirs. My peace is my own.”

Sometimes life holds up a mirror in the strangest ways.
We strike out at others to soothe our own pain — and life gently shows us how foolish that is.

He looked at her once more and, for the first time, saw that she looked nothing like his ex-wife.
She was simply a woman by the window — and he, perhaps, was finally ready to heal.

Thank you for stopping by and reading my story. I hope it left you with a moment of reflection — do visit again for more such tales of life and perspective.

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🌿 Read Reflect Rejoice