Moments of Kindness : When strangers are kind

 Moments of Kindness: When strangers are kind.

 

 

I have never met Gemma (name changed), but I am connected to her virtually. We occasionally speak on the telephone. Gemma and I were members of a Bible study group, and she was the leader of the group. Gemma is prayerful, supportive, and kind.

I published a book of poems in December 2023 and shared the good news with the Bible study group. Gemma, being the kind of person that she is bought copies of the book for all 16 to 17 members of the group. I was dumbstruck. This was the greatest act of kindness that I have experienced in the 61 years of my life. We have yet to meet in person.

Kindness costs nothing. In fact, it said, “If you can’t be anything, be kind.” There’s something beautiful about kindness from strangers. It is a reassurance that the goodness of humanity still exists and that the thread of human connection still holds.

Kind gestures from people we may never see and who don’t know us or our stories leave an indelible footprint in our hearts and minds.

Kindness from strangers is unconditional—they do not expect to be paid back. They ask for no applause or recognition. The act comes from pure empathy and a sense of duty.

These gestures may seem insignificant and ordinary—a person offering you his seat in a bus or train, a driver waiting that extra moment until you cross the road, a door being held open—but they are not obliged to help you. Still, they do, and that restores your faith in humanity.

We forget faces, but the kindness received from strangers or otherwise leaves behind a lingering warmth, and we are moved to do the same for others.

They are little beacons of light that shine in the dark and are remembered for a long, long time. 

This post is part of the the BlogchatterHalfMarathon2025

Image credit: Pixabay. 

Hitting The Wrong Notes and Enjoying it.

 Hitting The Wrong Notes

 

I grew up listening to Dad’s baritone as he sang his heart out. He loved to sing and sang at home, in church, or even as he rode his red and white Lambretta scooter. I cannot sing, but I sing anyway.  I enjoy listening to music. I may turn up the sound and dance like no one's watching when no one is watching! That I have two left feet is a story for another day. The joke in the family is that I sing falsetto.

Walking down memory lane, I remember our singing periods in school—learning ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’ (I can’t recall the names of the other songs now), but I also have good memories of singing in rounds and singing Hindi classics like Yeh, Sone Ki Hai Dharti, and Malik Tere Bandhe Hum. We even had a Hindi singing exam until grade 7. I passed! I loved going carol singing and even today sing in church. My voice blends quietly into the voices of the congregation.

I don’t really care that I cannot sing in pitch, though hubby opines that there are times when I sing correctly.

It is rather ironical that I married into a family of music lovers who sing and play instruments. My husband and older son are pianists and guitarists. Growing up, my husband never wanted to learn the piano but was pushed by his mother and rewarded or bribed 25p for every extra hour he practised.The money was used to buy kites. Father and son have both played in bands, and the son has been part of the youth choir in church.  Sing songs are  a regular feature in my marital home. A baby grand piano occupies a quarter of our living room space, while musical equipment and keyboards lie scattered around the house. Music books compete for space with my reading material. The classical music my husband plays doesn’t always appeal to me, but the other foot-tapping numbers are sure mood uplifters.

Music and song for me isn’t about hitting the right notes—it’s about being alive enough to sing, even if I’m mostly hitting the wrong notes, and enjoying myself. 

This post is part of the BlogChatter Half -Marathon 2025

Image credit: Pixabay

If Love Knocked On My Door...

 

If Love Knocked On My Door

 

I imagine love not as an abstract feeling but as a living presence. What would it say to me? It comes carrying appreciation and warmth, reminding us of the goodness inside us.

Here’s what I think Love would say to me:

 Hey you!

May I come in?

Open up, it’s me, love, the emotion you humans can’t stop talking about. I’m in your song, your books, your poetry, and your films.

I bring laughter, warmth, comfort, and hugs. I can see that you’re already spreading me around pretty generously. I’m so proud of you.

I see myself in the patience you have with your aged parents and the care you give to your spouse and children. Your empathy and compassion is born out of your love for mankind.

I’m so happy that you talk about me and encourage others to make room for me, given the amount of hate that exists in the world today.

I see you encounter difficult people, and it’s really hard for you to show even an atom of me towards them, but I can see that you make an effort, and I appreciate that.

So allow me to remain in your life and continue to share me in your words and actions. It’s through hearts like yours that I grow.

P.S. Your bhajiwala’s WhatsApp status reads: “Love you all.”

Lovingly yours,

Love.

 

This post is part of the BlogchatterHalfMarathon2025

Image credit : Pixabay. 

 

Where Spice Meets The Soul

The kitchen has always been more than a space to cook. It's a space where flavours and aromas stir up memories, love, and laughter. My poem is a tribute to this magical space that blends love with spice. 

"For your every dish is a poem," said my father to my mother.  

The kitchen is my domain.

Queen of all I survey—

Pots and pans,

Spoons and knives,

Jars of spices in proud array.

 

Turmeric, Chili, Cumin and Teel

Flavouring every dish at every meal.

Each a different, vibrant hue,

With hidden powers,

Meant to comfort and heal.

 

The sizzle of onions, the clatter of spoons

A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper—

A beautiful harmony

On a warm sunny afternoon.

 

Chop and blend.

Bake or fry -

There’s an ounce of love

In every pastry and pie.

 

It’s here where soups simmer

And pots bubble,

And spice meets the soul—

That the heart is happy and whole.

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025

Image credit: Pixabay. 

Spectacles: Between Focus and Fog

I began using spectacles in my mid-forties or early fifties when I squinted to read the names of the lipsticks on the tubes, and they’ve been perched on my nose like two little watchdogs also helping me focus. 

My spectacles are not just a medical necessity.  When I first started wearing them, I felt awkward, but now they’re me—an important part of my persona.

Choosing a frame is an emotional journey and can be quite a time-consuming task unless you’re not particular about colour, size, shape, and how well the frame suits your face. You’ve got to decide whether you want the nerdy look or to go with what’s trending. I’ve worn the square and rectangular frames, the steel frame, and currently sport a hexagonal plastic frame.

Contact lenses? That was never an option for me. To find them I would have to wear a pair of spectacles! The doctor gently told me that I would have to continue wearing spectacles even after cataract surgery, and that makes me a life member of the bespectacled tribe.

There have been a couple of occasions when I’ve forgotten my spectacles at home or have turned the house upside down searching for them only to have someone point out that they’re resting on my head or turn up in the most unlikely of places. 

Life for the bespectacled tribe is a little different:

Hide and Seek

You wake up and look for your extra pair of eyes patting down surfaces on your nightstand, shuffling papers until you uncover them beneath the book you are reading.

 

Smudge

Smudges have this uncanny knack of appearing mysteriously from nowhere and blur your vision. You haven’t touched your face or your spectacles. You try wiping away the smudge with the corner of your T-shirt, and the smudge grows larger. Argh!

 

The Steam/fog effect

Spectacles tend to fog up the moment you start sipping hot chai or your cup of joe. They give you a hard time when you step out of an air-conditioned vehicle. The world appears misty and blurred. My spectacles were at their foggiest best during Covid each time I donned a face mask.  I sought Divine intervention every time I walked on the road wearing a mask.

 

Life can be a little misty sometimes, and that’s okay as long as you’re wearing the right frames to see through.

 

This post is part of the BlogchatterHalf Marathon 2025.

Imagecredit :Gemini. 

The City Where Memories are Currency

 The City Where Memories Are Currency

 

I visited the city of Memoryville, where memories are used as currency, and headed to the Memory Market, a square lined with cobblestone streets and vendors selling memories in little glass vials in lamplight. 

Here was a market where you could trade sadness for joy, the memory of the time when you were ill for good health, your heartbreak for a fresh start, and your tangled thoughts for peace of mind. The wealthy traded their fame and success for laughter and nostalgia, while the poor sold the few good days for a little comfort.

The next day, I felt a little lightheaded and empty. I couldn’t remember the faces of my parents, nor remember the earthy scent of petrichor that  I so loved nor the name of my favourite comedy show, the fun vacations that I’d enjoyed at my grandparents’ homes. I was in tears. I’d wish the thief had taken away the bad ones as well- but they were in a separate vial, locked in my closet.

I raced to the market and inquired at the security department. The officer checked records and found that there was no record of any theft the previous night. I was desperate –Who could have taken away my memories?

I rushed out, wandering through the streets and alleys looking for someone who might have my memories. Suddenly, I spied my friend Rachel, sitting in a cafe looking quite woebegone. I entered the café and before I could utter a word, Rachel exclaimed,

“I have them, your memories.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Why?, I whispered

“I’m going through a wretched time, Nina, Rachel sadly. My marriage has broken down, I have no money, and I must find a job. I needed something—anything—to cheer me up.

She handed me the glass vial, which contained my childhood.

In the real world, relationships break down because one partner may discard shared memories, and injustice prevails because witnesses forget they were even present.

We strive to have the perfect past, present, and future, but life is not meant to be blemish-free. Our memories, even the painful ones, are threads of the same fabric.  

The lesson from Memoryville is not to erase the past completely or to trade it but to treasure it with all your heart. The joy, laughter, sorrow, hurt, loss, and grief are not currency to spend but a story to keep. 

This post is part of the BlogchatterHalfMarathon 2025

AI generated image. 

Unexpected Teachers.

 Unexpected Teachers.

 

We grow up being taught by teachers in a classroom, our parents, friends, mentors, and books, and we believe that they have the answers to all our questions.

Then life comes along, bringing lessons wrapped in  pain, joy, grief, loss, illness, silence, heartbreak,our bodies,  creatures of the earth, and it's time to take notes again. These teachers don’t stand at blackboards or wear titles and labels. You don’t look out for teachers such as these; they come to you.

Nature teaches you the art of patience. You develop patience while waiting for a flower to bloom. I learnt about grief when I lost my parents. It taught the value of what I had. It has taught me to continue living and survive the loss and not break down. It has taught me to cherish the memories.  Who can teach you better about failure than failure itself? Failure is cruel but brilliant.  Failure imparts lessons in humility, resilience, and the ability to start anew.Our bodies impart lessons on nutrition, illness, rest, and the consequences of neglect. 

A dog will teach you about loyalty and unconditional love, and children, besides teaching you about living in the moment, also give you lessons in patience, forgiveness, and curiosity.  Joy teaches you gratitude, and boredom helps you tap your creativity. Pain gives you lessons in empathy. You can understand another’s pain and not just sympathise. Strength reveals to us the depth of our own hidden strength that surfaces and helps us survive. In a cacophonic world, silence helps you connect with yourself. It soothes your nerves.

Learning doesn’t end with a book or in a classroom. It continues with every sunrise and sunset, pause and breath. These unexpected teachers are the ones that we wish we could avoid, but they turn up imparting valuable lessons and it is for us to listen, ask, or hear and allow them to change us for the better. 

This post is part of BlogChatter Half Marathon2025

Image credit: Gemini.