Inkblot

I hate my mind for giving ideas and inspirations at the wrong time. The strongest urge to write always comes when I’m in the shower, when I’m updating something urgent for office work, or when I’m in the middle of a conversation with someone. I try to jot them down in a word or two on my phone notepad, but it never works well. Some days I even end up with headaches from the rush of ideas I can’t manage. And then, when I finally sit down to write, I go blank. The feeling is not easy, not good. I was very low this week. Feeling pity for yourself is so depressing. I have a story contest deadline in two days, and I haven’t even started. I’m stuck in confusion about what to write. I had to make a decision for myself, just a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’, and yet I ended up overthinking it for days. For me, overthinking always comes with endless walks, and this time I crossed 13K steps each day for two days, until my legs were sore. Sigh! At work, we also bid farewell to one of the founders, and I was sa...

When I was a teenager back then, this pondered my mind. Now, it has become one of the principles that I’ve adopted and been following in my life. Not too much philosophy, chill! Dating back to 2014—this is a story of teenage Namrata who wears a white blouse and a sky-blue frock uniform, has two tiny, short braids tied with white ribbons, carries a 22-kilo (or probably heavier) school bag, and is a student in 8th grade. You ask which school? You’ll know during the course of the story, but at the moment she says she studies in a school under Kanara Welfare Trust (KWT). Because she loves KWT and has a huge respect towards this education trust. So, given a chance, she never misses saying she’s a baby, kid, a teenager being shaped by KWT. Namrata was always curious to check the notice board. Frequently. Extra-curricular activities had a magnetic effect on her—except sports, in which she was a zero. She always looked out for opportunities in debate, elocution, prose and essay writing—and t...

We are all the same species—with a pair of hands and legs. We eat with our hands, we think with our minds, and we call ourselves intelligent beings. This is the bird’s-eye view. But when you come closer, you’ll notice that within this single “species,” there are curious sub-species—human-like shapes leaning more towards jackfruit, chameleon, or chilli . There are many others, of course, but these three fascinate me the most. Jackfruits are easily encountered. They take their own sweet time to ripen. Until then, they give no hint, except for pricking you if you wander too close. But when the time is right, they cannot hide their presence. They announce themselves boldly: an aroma that is irresistible to many, repulsive to a few. And once you taste them—sweet, rich, and unforgettable—you almost forget the scratches and pricks they gave you earlier. Jackfruits are endlessly resourceful; flesh for a feast one day, seeds for a snack the next. So do not dismiss them too soon. Who knows! ...

A mellow, warm aroma covered the whole house, and Mr. Dmitri rested on his easy chair with a feeling of deep contentment. He wore a thin, loose white cotton shirt and brown bermuda shorts. Who could be happier than Dmitri, now that his dearest daughter Ivannah was home after a long while? The house seemed alive again. She was also busy preparing delicious idlis! The cheerful crackle of mustard seeds and curry leaves spluttering for coconut chutney added a homely melody to the atmosphere. In no time, breakfast was ready, and Ivannah set the table with practiced ease. Dmitri, ever the doting father, appreciated his daughter, "Dear, you bake the best idlis, just like your mom! Very soft and delicious," he said, raising his hands in the air. Ivannah laughed wholeheartedly, her laughter bright and free, "Papa, idlis are steamed, not baked. Our scientist knows nothing about cooking." The warm banter wrapped itself around the house, and they ended the breakfast with a goo...

Hello there! It's Wednesday already, and you've been waiting for me at the window? Well, what do I say this time? I don't have any stories to share. Last Wednesday, I left a story here on the window and I slept. Since then, I have been sleeping. And sleeping more. I didn't write any poem either. I did not paint or doodle. But I slept. I slept for the whole week, I can say. How much sleep is too much sleep? Sleeping for 10 to 12 hours a day, does that count? If yes, I slept too much. So, my brain couldn't brew anything. The whole week felt like a dream. Still, I haven't recovered from the darkest 'sleep cloud'. I might find this piece of my journal later and be surprised, "When did I pen this?" I'm following my office work and routine strictly, and the rest? I'm on the cloud. I've been flying. Floating. Or waving. I’m not even sure which. Let me ask you this: What do you see when you are asleep? "See"? Sorry, that isn'...