.a written note.

Reading your own old writings could be so relaxing. It’s like you’re having a conversation with yourself. **As I come out of the shower, I see my granny sitting outside and actually enjoying the hot air specially after a cold Indian night, knitting a purple sweater, probably to gift someone. The way her wet shiny white hair form a coordination with one another, letting the fresh air dry it. The way she knits without her spectacles on. The way that Purple coloured something seems to be forming a new big shape every two minutes, having started from just a woolen thread and now turning into a cloth. A cloth that’ll provide someone with warmth and her love in cold, inspires me. Despite everything.** I read this prose as I go through my old writings. Automatically, my mind compared my granny back then and now. I miss her. She’s been one strong pillar in our lives, my life. I recall the times when she stood by me in the same bedroom when I studied for 10th grade board exams, how

Summer afternoons are at times tough. They’re usually filled with idle sittings in your bedroom and if something really strikes your mind, a little bit of artwork. Apart from this, there are constant winds driving your mind to the good ole days when summer used to be an exciting thing. I really am not trying to sadden this post or the day for that matter by giving my thoughts a finishing touch of nostalgia. But you know what, they’re thoughts. They’re unplanned. They’re natural. At least one of the very few things that remain untouched by the manual work of a human being. Getting back to the topic, home, it’s quite fitting to one’s mind how the picture of your home is always there resting somewhere at the back of one’s mind. The walls, the familiarity of the wall-paint inside and outside and its warmth. Whenever I visit home, i.e. once every two months or sometimes more, I take along with myself the invisible shelter above my head that the home had gifted me when I left

What are we if not a coincidence?

When will I recover from this longing that takes me to a third world which I never thought existed.. I am by now quite comfortable staying here in this in between road leading me towards God knows where. It must be your place, your own universe it is, in fact, yours. I know it now. Turning back is too harsh and unfathomable to this soul, for it’s always always wanted to reach here, feel the warmth of this playground to the heart, this presence of yours, up and above the rest of the world. And do you know honey? I no longer want to recover.