writeStuff

Siddhartha was born in the month of monsoon, in a small sleepy hamlet called Thione. He was a cute and a healthy boy born to a decent couple. The father was a craftsman and mother was teacher in the town school. They lived in their cottage by the green mountains of Thione. There universe was always peaceful and happy. Siddhartha grew up in an environment that was filled with love and care. He was an efficient learner and was quickly taking his baby steps. The first word he uttered was “Maa..” that left tears of lasting joy in his mother’s eyes. He would play for hours with his toys and would then have his lunch made by his mother. The courtyard in the house had a swing. A baby Siddhartha would swing like a pendulum sitting over it. One day his gaze fell on the green mountains behind their cottage. “Maa, what’s there in the green mountains? For how long they have been sitting there still?” He asked with an unmatched curiosity. “They have been there since a very long, long

As I sit beside the balcony, I see two earthen pots one besides the other, light brown, freckled and same, but still there lies a difference none the less. There was a blossoming flower once, with its ripening petals of red, being watered daily it grew slowly, maturing into a mesmerising rose. But now in the earthen pot lies dried leaves, shrive l led petals, and lifeless roots, all turned into the dust, with one cruel swipe of death. Dancing to the tunes of wind, a sapling grows in the other earthen pot, watered with care and love, life finds its way out through the mud. Life and death is a cycle, one takes place after another, the old becomes one with the sands of time, and the new blossoms with eternity.

A paper is a writer’s canvas as the sun rose I showed up at the page and the blank page stared at me balefully afraid I closed the notebook. My friends would ask, “ W hat’s there in your notebook?” “ Ideas, words and creativity.” I would say, But they could find none. Let down by the bare page, “ Where are your w ords?” T hey would say I know where they are read them hidden beneath the layers of an empty canvas.

The d ark c orner of my house remains unlit today as I, wait for the festivities to begin. The day is yet to come when I would light the lamp of thy Glory, in the d ark c orner of my house. People rejoice in ecstasy of victory, of light over darkness. But the lamp filled with oil sits unlit in the d ark c orner of my house. Amidst the celebrations and merry, bursting of crackers and laughters of joy. I hear a knock on my door, A veiled woman stands in front of the door. She has serene eyes and a beatific smile on her face. “ Oh seeker of words! What do you have to bid ?” Asks she I say “I have nothing to offer, But today, I surrender at thy lotus feet.” With a smile she enters my cottage, and walks up to the unlit lamp. With a flare of match stick she lights up the lamp in the dark corner of my house. Its a moment where even words are empty. I shed a drop of tear, yet it doesn’t trickle, feeling blessed I bow down unawa

A bird beautiful and full of grace flies over the blue sky spreading its wings along the wind l etting it take to far away lands fly ing through the trees there is a , a sudden screech and a loud noise, trapped in the net the bird makes a failed try. Alas! Its too late for all that. Gazing past the window, the bird looks beyond the trees, sings about mountains and fields that are locked beyond. I heard the bird sing, with a melancholy in his voice, for him the freedom is so near yet so far and understood why does the caged bird sings?

Travelling in the train, I sat by the window, A serpentine rail track, stretched into the woods. An entire new world, opened up past the window, trees and bushes flew past, as the mountains held their ground. They were beautiful, majestic, and still as if meditating like a stoic. An aura of mist kissed them, as I wondered, What’s beyond the blue mountain?

I saw a guitarist on stage strumming the chords of his instrument, singing his song that is upbeat and nonchalant, and with his music I found him embracing his openness. The other day I walked across the street and entered a painter's studio. I saw the maestro at work, with his paintings I found him embracing his openness. A teacher with her teachings, A businessman with his dealings, A sculptor with her carvings, With their living I found them embracing their openness. You and I are no different, We too are trying to find our openness, the one that lets us make peace with our deepest core and murkiest truths. The openness is your true form, its the reason you were put on earth, to answer the question "Why are you here?" some may embrace it with you and some may not, it's cool either way as long as you follow your pole star. One day out of closed openness, and a few trickled drops of tears, Intuitively I got a paper and a pencil, wrote