Money Talks

 

Hello! How do you do!

'Tis the crisp notes, plastic in your wallet, and the jingling coins dancing in your pocket, greeting you.  

You humans, you obsess over me, you almost worship me; to some of you, I’m the centre of your universe. I’m flattered, but remember there are things I cannot buy, and you will do well to keep that in mind. I cannot buy you good health; even the richest folk cannot escape illness. However, I can buy you healthcare. I cannot buy you friendship, but I can help you maintain friendships. Love, respect, and time are definitely out of my reach.

 In my early days, I was a bag of salt or grain. I’ve evolved from the barter system to metal coins to paper and plastic. I lived in leather pouches and chests, but now, besides your wallets, I also live in your phones and computers. You cannot see me or touch me, but you work hard for me. You’re always looking for bargains and looking to spend as little of me as possible. Well, thrift is a good habit, but don’t get too miserly—like that Scrooge. On the other hand, don't get carried away by sales and discounts. You actually end up spending more than saving. 

I see you joyful, crying, celebrating, fighting, and arguing because of my presence or absence. I’m embarrassed when you flaunt me and saddened when you waste and abuse me. I’m so proud of you when you use me for a good cause—when your generosity enables comfort, dreams, and safety. To some of you, I'm a means to an end, and to others, I'm the end. 

It is said that I’m the root of all evil. Well, that depends on how you use me. Use me wisely, and I can open doors and windows for you. The lack of me is also said to be the root of evil. It may cause you to turn devious, ruthless, and even murderous. That again causes me great sorrow.

I’m neither good nor bad. It’s about how you view me and what you make of me.  

Does money control you, or are you in control of the money you have? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026. 

Light: The Bright Side

 

 

I’m something that you desperately miss during a power outage. If you’re a bookworm, be it natural or artificial light, you can’t do without me.

I’ve been around since the beginning, ever since God said, “Let there be light.” I travel fast, faster than you running to catch the last bus. You humans adore both the natural and artificial me. I’m in the functional light bulb, tube light, and streetlamp. It’s the gorgeous me in the chandelier and lamp.

You love me dressed in gold at dawn and in weaves of silver at night. I live in the stars. It was I who guided the three wise men to the stable where the little babe Jesus was born.

I can shimmer like auroras, glow like fireflies, and strike like lightning. You’ll see me twinkling on the Christmas tree and in the steady, tranquil flame of a diya. In fact, Diwali is also known as the ‘festival of light’ because I symbolise good and drive away the darkness of evil. How do you love fireworks? It’s just me strutting my stuff. Plants love me and use me to make their food. You are constantly advised to feast your eyes on the natural me when you wake up and not glue yourself to your phone. I’m so important when you click your selfies and pictures. Good luck with that!

Lighthouses fascinate you. Well, it’s me guiding the ships to safety and informing you that your home is dusty. You, humans, also love making a crack at me when you say, "Don't be a tubelight.” I don’t feel offended; I can take a joke.”

Then again, I don’t just physically provide illumination; I’m also used metaphorically, and that’s quite a feather in my cap—I stand for positivity, hope, truth, and guidance. I may also be used to describe a romantic interest or someone you love dearly.

And how I love this little quote by Marianne Williamson,

“Light is to darkness what love is to fear; In the presence of one, the other disappears.”

So I’m always busy, dispelling darkness in your rooms or reporting for work at dawn, painting breathtaking sunsets shining down from the moon and stars. When I dance on the waves, the ocean sparkles.

And the rainbow? That is definitely a showstopper. I collaborate with a few raindrops and some sunshine, split into seven shades, and stretch across the sky, looking so stunning that you can’t take your eyes off me. Naturally, I lap up all the attention I receive.

Have you ever hummed this cute little song?

This little guiding light of mine

I’m going to let it shine

Let it shine, all the while

Let it shine….

I’ll always be shining, racing and creating beautiful pictures and patterns and used metaphorically. Enjoy me, but don’t waste me.

 

 Has there been an occasion in your life when my appearance or disapperance has upset you or put things in order? 

This post is part of the BlogchatterA2Z 2026 challenge. 

Keys : A bridge between worlds

Key: A bridge between worlds.

 

I’m your key, small enough to disappear into the darkest recesses of your pocket and cause a mild panic.

Once upon a time, I was new and shiny, not worn and scratched like I am now. I was assigned to one particular lock. Then you came along and bought that lock, and we’ve been together ever since. You fitted me to a keychain and carry me everywhere. You made and have kept a copy of me with your neighbour, just in case you leave me at home or change bags and purses in a hurry and forget to carry me. As the years went by, I grew duller, and the keychain grew heavier with the weight of other keys. Still, we are all happily keyed in together

.I travel with you everywhere, and before you set out anywhere, I notice how you make sure that I have been safely tucked into your bag or purse.

Despite the care you take, there have been occasions when you’ve left me behind, or I have fallen under the sofa or between the cushions.

You simply hate it when you can’t find me, and I look on in amusement from my hiding place as you storm heaven. Eventually, you discover me in some odd place; you’re relieved, and your face is wreathed in smiles.

You curse and swear as you sometimes turn the house upside down in search of me because you just can’t remember where you placed me.

I don’t own the house you live in, nor do I walk in and out, but I work as a bridge between the noisy outside world and the sanctuary that is your home beside security and protection. One small twist and one small click and you’re in the space you belong, or you've secured your home. 

You may change the lock and retire me, but until then, I remain in your service, as you hear that familiar click that tells you, you’re home. 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026

Jar of Things

I'm a clear glass jar. When you brought me home, I was full of sweet, flavourful strawberry jam. When the last of the jam had been scraped out and finished, I thought my fate was sealed. I would be trash. However, like many Indian homes, you decided to keep me, and just like that, you saved my life. Ah! Sustainability and reuse!

However, I feel like a nomad. One day, I’m sitting on your kitchen shelf, filled with some aromatic masala or pickle; the next, I’m chilling in your fridge full of homemade hummus or letting your oats have a good overnight soak. Then I find myself in your closet in a piggy bank avatar. Who am I? I’m suffering from a full-blown identity crisis.

Then I get pushed to the back of beyond for months, lost and forgotten, and suddenly, when you’re on a cleaning mission, you rediscover me and hug me like a long-lost friend and give me prime importance in your kitchen. 

On the kitchen shelf, when I'm labelled neatly, I feel important and organised. Without a label, I feel disoriented and am left guessing like you. You expect chilli powder, but it's 'bottle masala' (your signature community masala). They share the same fiery red hue. I watch you and say to myself, "Well, it's not my fault." You keep me away from the reach of the kids. I’ve heard you hiss, “Be careful," more times than I can count.

I like being useful. I don’t complain, even when I’m empty. I know I will be filled.

I may be simple and transparent, but I hold things that are important to you, and that makes me happy. 

Is there an object in your home that follows the same fate as the jar?

 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z 2026 challenge

 

Ironing out the Wrinkles

 Ironing out The Wrinkles

 

I’m an iron, a cold, heavy wedge of metal and plastic, sitting at one end of your ironing board, waiting to be picked up and put to work.

My job is to iron out the wrinkles from your clothes so
that you may take on the day dressed in your confident best.

I work only when I’m heated. When my cord is plugged in, the little light in me glows. You wait patiently until the light stops glowing. Then you know that I’m ready for work.

I love being glided over fabric, smoothening one crease at a time, from collar to cuff. I know how important wearing well-pressed clothes is. Children also need to wear well-ironed school uniforms. You just can’t show up in the world in creased and crumpled attire.

I hear you mutter in exasperation when a stubborn crease refuses to give in or when you’re running late. I’ve seen you tackle school uniforms and hurriedly run me over clothes that don’t even need ironing, either.

Am I dangerous? Yes, if you’re careless or absent-minded while using me. I’ve been left plugged in and forgotten, or dropped and blamed for burns I had nothing to do with.  

On a lighter note, you may recall that episode in the sitcom "Everybody Loves Raymond" where Raymond’s mother, Marie, “accidentally” burns Raymond’s brother Robert's lucky suit because she did not want him to go for an interview for a new job. We, too, get dragged into family drama.   

I may be unglamorous, but I’m an integral part of your home, and without me, you would look like a crumpled heap of laundry.  

And yes, there’s something that makes me a little sad—when you feel lazy and simply dump unironed clothes at the laundry. I’m sensitive too, you know.  

So here I am, dependable, at your service, waiting for the next pile of laundry. 

When was the last you paused to appreciate the little things that helped you look your best? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z2026 challenge.  

Go Green.

 Green

 

I’m green, the fourth colour of the rainbow. You see me as the colour of leaves on plants and trees, as well as tiny sprouts emerging from the soil. I’m associated with nature because the pigment chlorophyll, found in plants, is green, and if you are a skilled gardener, you might be called a ‘green thumb.'

I live in emerald, jade, mint and moss, to name a few. I have more shades and variations than any other colour.

You humans associate me with hope, relaxation, and freshness. But you also see me in an unflattering light. Ever heard of the green-eyed monster? Yes, jealousy. That dark side was given to me in the 16^th century by Shakespeare in his play, The Merchant of Venice.

I’m also the colour of money and the “go" on your traffic light. I’m constantly encouraging you to move forward. I love how you adore me during the monsoon, when I paint the trees and plants with a fresh, new coat of green. Yay to me!

I’m proud to be featured in the song, The Green Green Grass of Home, and figure in the title of a book—Anne of Green Gables. I can be found in your flags and faith and even your movies. Did you enjoy the movie, Shrek? No prizes for guessing why I ask you.

To the Irish, I’m the colour of good luck. Their country is called the Emerald Isle, and the Chicago River is dyed green during the feast of Saint Patrick in March.

I’m everywhere, in your homes, your gardens, and celebrations. Whether you look up to me as inspiring, relaxing, or guiding, I’m delighted that you return to me again and again.

 

What does the colour green remind you of? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z2026 challenge

Home Sweet Home

 

I have been home to you for the past 31 years. ,I can vividly recall the day when you walked through my doors as a nervous, blushing bride carrying your dreams with you.

Slowly and steadily you embraced your new role as a homemaker. Within 15 months, your first son was born, and your second son arrived within two years of the first.  Motherhood was a completely new experience for you, but you did your best. I watched you struggle, and I’ve seen you both broken and whole.  I’ve heard your banter, your whispered secrets, your laughter, and your arguments.

The boys in their teenage years drove you and their father round the bend, and I still shudder when I remember your ‘encounters’ with them during that difficult time. The slamming of my doors almost unscrewed the hinges, and the cold silences turned me into an igloo. I understood that it was a passing phase. Now I watch you deal with the empty nest syndrome; you’re not alone, because I, too, feel a little empty. 

I know you’re proud of me. You love the sights and sounds outside my windows. Never mind the leaks, cracks, and peeling paint, I’m still a refuge, companion, and comfort zone to you.

You wish you could spruce me up a little more, clear out the clutter and junk.  But don’t stress over it. Hearing your laughter, seeing you create memories, and watching you care and share with and for one another is all that I need. 

I do not speak, but I feel everything. The order and disorder both make me feel lived in. If you were to let me go, I would miss you to the moon and back. 

What stories would your home tell if it could speak? 

This post is part of the BlogchatterA2Z 2026 challenge.