Confessions of a Writing Freak

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...

Delhi continues to amaze and at times apall , specially while attending the myriad events and exhibitions going on full blast as we inch towards the new year.. My friend cajoled me to chaperone her to an exhibition , showcasing creative and innovative fashion designs in an opulent hotel in the heart of Lutyen s. So far so good, the hallway was impressive with ornate plush furnishings and a dazzling humongous chandelier… I felt suddenly out of the place in this intimidating hub bub of the dazzle.. an odd woman out amongst the creme de la creme.. I relegate myself to a class of misfits in such vast and sprawling places, I am a neighbourhood shopper kind of a person. The extraordinarily extravagant people and places leave me dizzy, and stifled. Both the sellers and the potential buyers reeked of a fake , jaunty veneer , an artificial smile plastered on heavily plastered faces, their stuff ridiculously pricey. Too much of botox and fillers were quite apparent,as the glib smiles failed to c...

It has been four years of a bumpy ride on the road to grief. Weaving through a maze of emotions—pain, grief, silence, and loneliness—the abysmal darkness is flickered by a glimmer of light from your memories. Sometimes these memories bring a smile, and at other times, tears to my eyes. Grief is strange. The fourth year without you has been as painful as the previous three. I miss my life partner, the kids miss their doting dad, and your old mother misses her caregiving son. Life for all four of us has veered off a smooth track, yet the journey continues. The spring in our steps vanished the day you left us. Any celebration or joy at home is incomplete. The crucial one-fourth is always missing, and it is evident on our faces. Life will never be the same; it has changed forever. I find solace in traveling. Whether it's Andaman, Meghalaya, Kashmir, or Agra, I carry mementos of you—a cap, glasses, a watch, or a muffler that still carries your warmth. These make me feel like...

Barsana is an important historical town in the Krishna pilgrimage circuit. It is the birthplace of Radha rani and a beautiful temple dedicated to Radha _krishna is built on the Bhanugarh hills ,  visited by huge number of devotees specially on Lath maar Holi which falls today. Krishna and men from Nandgaon used to  visit Barsana to smear colours on Radha and gopis ,in return the gopis would hit them playfully with sticks on their shielded heads. And the other day phoolo waali Holi  played in Vrindavan.. Holi is all about happiness, joy, pranks and vibrant tapestry of colours. Spring heralds with fragrant thickets, blooming trees. fliting butterflies and buzzing bees. Legend goes that Krishna would ask Yashoda why Radha was fair as a moon beam and he stark  dark as night to which she replied jovially " go and smear colour on Radha s face to match your complexion" ,hence the trend of Holi celebration started symbolising celebration of love. Purans mention Holi as a cel...

It had really been  a long time no sea...  so took  a jaunt to the magical archipelago of Andaman with a gang of gorgeous girls.The trip  kicked off on a wrong foot because of goof up by an  Air India staff at Delhi who mislabelled my baggage and dropped it at Vizag and I land in Port Blair with just a hand bag ...  But it definitely wrapped up with a baggage of pristine , enthralling, pellucid, tranquil and adventurous memories.... Portblair is a melting pot of diverse cultures of mainly W Bengal, Tamil, Telugu and Bihar ,the islands inhabited by indigenous tribes of Jarawa, Onges, Shamponi, Sentinelese are totally isolated and secluded. They still live in the iron age in the far away islands. The main attraction of Portblair is the colonial prison , the Cellular jai, which is a sevenwinged three storeyed architectural marvel and painful reminder of the atrocities and brutality our freedom fighters have gone through,the light and sound show raises goosebum...

Ciao to Chai Snuggled in the cosy layers, battling the bone chilling cold, I realised that one thing without which I can not function is a cup of unsweetened, steaming hot sepia hue ambrosia called “chai”.. My dawn breaks with a cup of tea, work begins after a cup of tea and reaching back home , first thing my languished self does is brew a cup of energy and reinvigoration . I make no bones about being a tea junkie.. or a tea snob. Infact a cuppa is panacea for me.. bit under the weather, encased in aloneness ,grappling with wide range of emotions,sorrow haunting like a wraith… a cup of tea undoes the ennui.. to bring that joie de vivre with family and friends , cherishing good and chasing away not so good memories , a cup of tea hits the spot.There is nothing that can not be bettered with a chai ka cup.A swig of tea changes the saturnine faces to smiling ones, a swig of tea never fails to perk me up. Chai is infact ingrained in our DNA, no road trip is complete without a pull over for...

  Few days back ,a friend liked one of my write ups and asked to supplement with my picture ,in order to get it published ,I searched frantically in my gallery for my pictures ,but couldn't spot a single one without a pair of sun glasses perched on my nose or head.. that is a testimony of  being a shades aficianado ,though not big on accessories,but I have hoarded quite a few. In fact I don't step out without a pair of shades and a book in my bag, these are like a second skin to me. There is much more to shades than cutting through the blare of sun,snow ,storm ,sand and  style. If aesthetically challenged, they add a oomph of style to the drab persona and a splash of glamour and confidence exudes out. A dark pair of shades are a maven at multitasking, if face is the mirror of the mind reflecting our thoughts no vividly,eyes spill out the secrets of the heart,they display the emotions churning within and effortlessly bring forth the secrets we want to keep buried within. E...