Confessions of a Writing Freak

While most people find peace in the morning rush—through meditation, yoga, infused drinks, sunrise strolls, —my rhythm flows the other way. For me, it is the golden twilight hour that brings solace. When birds trill their way home, the crescent moon quietly appears against a crimson sky, and the harsh sunshine softens—I step into my sanctuary. That one hour of my evening walk in the adjacent park is my true ‘me time.’ Thawing out in the park ,the familiar faces, trees, and shrubs greet me like family, though we seldom speak. I notice every detail—the fresh golden blooms of the chandelier-like Amaltas, the shy stunted Champa blooms-new leaves sprouting and the old ones withering , the mulberry tree at the entrance waving its leafy hello, and the two cats that cross the pavement each day with their predictable meows. The environment is so familiar that even blindfolded, I could still feel the warm breeze, hear the rhythm, and sense every presence around me. Not seeing someone for  fe...

--- On a recent flight from Bhubaneswar to Delhi, after a divine visit to Jagannath Puri, Nisha (my *bhabhi*) and I slumped into our seats. She put in her earphones, and I was ready to immerse myself in my book when a dusky, dainty, smallish girl plopped into the aisle seat next to me.   Her beauty caught my attention, and we exchanged a smile. Outfitted in a skimpy, snazzy denim dress, with dangling flip-flops on her delicate feet and a phone and tablet in her petite hands, she had eloquently expressive, gazelle-like eyes. In her dulcet Bihari-accented voice, she requested to sit by the window at the time of landing. I figured she was eager to capture aerial pictures of dazzling Delhi at night, just like my daughter does. Nisha, generous as always, swapped her window seat with her at the outset of the journey.   Striking up a conversation with routine topics, our unfamiliarity quickly dissolved into a casual and warm exchange. She was curious about me and my family ...

Sundays usually pass in a blur of household chores. While wiping the specks of dust from the trove of trinkets in my living room, the tribal terracotta lady mask fell with a crash and shattered into smithereens. My wanderlust ensures I always set aside some money for trinkets and souvenirs as tokens of memory. (Mimo Magnetist is my name.) This mask was one such treasure, bought from the bustling markets of Coorg in Karnataka way back in 2016, during a family mini-vacation—perhaps the last one the four of us took together. Clutching the broken terracotta lady in my guilty hands, a rush of memories flooded me, transporting me to the utopian land of Coorg, nestled in the cozy folds of the Western Ghats. The mask unleashed memories I thought I had left far behind—a nostalgic mix of lovely moments and emotions now resting between the broken pieces. The car journey of about 100 km from Mysore to Coorg was a delightful drive through misty, dreamy terrain. The lush greenery, pleasant climate, ...

It takes just one festival to flood you with precious memories, to bring back the image of a seven-year-old visit to a shopping store. Festivals are the strongest triggers. It was way back in 2017 when we went Diwali shopping at a nearby mall. While sifting and winnowing through the outfits hanging there—after many tsk-tsk moments—something caught his eye. My husband quickly chose a yellow-and-blue floral kurti and, without a second thought, asked me to pick it. As luck would have it, the generous L size was conspicuously absent. I tried to fit myself into the modest medium size, but the seam line didn’t flinch to accommodate me. With a twinge of disappointment, I randomly picked another suit. Sometimes, luck runs out just when you need it the most. Yet, the yellow kurti stayed in my mind. Since then, I’ve always tried to find a similar pattern but never succeeded, eventually relinquishing hope of ever finding the same design. This Diwali, too, we went on a shopping binge and embarked ...

Spending a few odd days grieving and mourning the demise of my uncle, watching his three beautiful daughters bawling their eyes out, gashed my heart. Evening and early morning became my solace, when I would go for a stroll in the compound amidst the leafy lanes of their Gurgaon apartment, especially along the Parijat trees, also called Harsingar or Shiuli, dotting the streets. The beauty of this night-blooming tree was previously unknown to me—a dull-looking shrub bearing such magical, enchanting foliage. As the sun sets, small white blooms with orange stems unfurl, filling the air with a subtle yet powerful fragrance. This aroma enriches the senses and feels all-encompassing. As dawn breaks, before the warm sun rays kiss the earth, the Parijat flowers wither and gracefully fall to the ground, swirling like Sufi dervishes in a mesmerizing dance. In no time, the ground beneath becomes a carpet of white and orange blossoms, with residents collecting the fallen flowers to offer in worship...

By the end of the year, as the nip in the air is felt, Delhi boasts an array of events—trade fairs, lit fests, musical shows, and food festivals. What stands out at these events is the outfit most women are donning: Kashmiri pherans. Women, both Kashmiri and non-Kashmiri, carry this traditional garb with sartorial panache, exuding oodles of oomph and style at every event. At Jashn-e-Rekhta, a recent celebration of the rich Urdu language and literature, the female crowd displayed the vibrant tapestry of Kashmiri pherans in myriad hues and intricate embroideries. Some paired them with high boots, adding flair, while others styled them with trousers, leggings, pants, or palazzos. Kashmiri pherans, hands down, are the outfit of the day (OOTD), carving a niche in fashion circles. Even panelists and anchors on various TV channels are often spotted wearing pherans, looking effortlessly gorgeous with their glam quotient on point. Personally, I eagerly await the onset of winter to flaunt my env...