Quill :writing my story

 Quill: writing my story

 

I’m an ancient writing instrument of great magnificence. I’m a quill. I was born in the 6^th century in China and existed until the 19^th century, whispering words to parchment.

I was usually crafted from goose, swan, or turkey feathers. Goose feathers were common, swan feathers were considered superior, and crow feathers were used for fine lines. I either had a blunt end or a pointy one. Thomas Jefferson kept a flock of twenty geese so that he never ran out of feathers.

The feathers, preferably from the left wing, were cured by heat and dried to harden them. The tip was cut and shaped to form a point.

It was all exciting in the beginning, being dipped into an inkwell and dancing across paper. I felt important to be used to sign decrees and poets to express their love and longings and scholars to record their learnings. I was also privy to secret thoughts in diaries.

It’s quite a feather in my cap that I was used to sign the Magna Carter, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the Declaration of Independence.

Life was not easy. When my tip wore down with use, I was reshaped with a knife and ouch! That hurt. Unlike your modern keyboards and pens, you had to be patient when using me, holding me gently and work me gently, because I was very pressure sensitive. I brought dignity and authority to the art of writing.

Time brought change and convenience. I was replaced by the fountain pen in 1827 with its inbuilt inkwell, and yes, it works faster, but not quite up to my page. Just so you know, I’m still proudly used by calligraphers, keeping alive the art of beautiful writing.   

I abhor the ballpoint pen. So cheap and graceless, with no personality at all. Ha-Ha! I guess I’m still entitled to opinions at least.

I’m now more than vintage. I’m nobility. I sit in antique shops or in a drawer, bringing on waves of nostalgia and watching parents explain to children my heritage.

\

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z 2026 challenge. 

 

Plant : All I need is tender, loving care.

 Plant

 

Hello there, my plant parent,

It’s me, your green, well-behaved cutie, lighting up your day. I’m sure that you’re grateful that I never argue or pick a fight. I‘m just a quiet little fellow thriving on sunshine, your affection, water, and positive vibes.

I fondly recall the day you decided that you needed a plant in your life, went out, bought me from a handcart, planted me in a pot, and assumed the role of plant parent.

I’m aware that you were never a plant person and are a 'late bloomer.'

Though I wouldn’t call you a ‘green thumb,' you take care of me pretty well, and I’m grateful for that. Your gardening skills and knowledge may not be world-class, but you never shy away from learning, trying, and improving.

You talk to me, try to water me regularly, make sure that I get the right amount of sunshine, feed me with homemade fertilisers, and generally try to make my life comfortable. I notice everything.

I shall not dwell on the occasions when you have neglected me, overwatered me, or have forgotten to water me. Yes, my leaves drooped and my spirits too. I forgive you and remain positive, stretching towards the sunlight. I decorate your home, purify the air, and am a quiet observer of the happenings in your home.

I thoroughly appreciate the fact that when you go on a vacation, you place me in a tub of water and hope for the best.

My favourite part?

The delight and excitement on your face each time you spot a new leaf. You post and share pictures of me on social media. You’re one happy person, and I feel loved

So here’s to me and you.

Let’s grow and thrive at our own pace—slowly and steadily, taking one leaf at a time.

Thank you for my siblings. I love the company. 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026

Onion: tears and layers

I’m the onion, the root vegetable with a papery skin that brings tears to the human eye. Hey! I don’t do it on purpose. I’m just made that way—layered and strong. LOL. I come in 3 colors—yellow, red, and white.

Do you know the real reason why I make you cry?

When you cut me, you begin to cry because cutting releases an enzyme that converts amino acids into a gas called propanethiol S-oxide that generates tears.

I begin my life underneath the soil. Hence, I’m covered in moist mud and grow in the dark. One fine day, I’m pulled out, cleaned, thrown into sacks and taken to the markets to be sold. You buy me and take me home to use me in your cooking. I can also be consumed when I’m not fully ready. I’m then called scallion or spring onion.

Once I enter your kitchen, I know my days are numbered. I avoid looking at the chopping board. Each time you peel me, tears begin to stream down your cheeks as if I’ve broken your heart. Sometimes, you even leave the kitchen for a break. Sorry, I don’t mean to cause you so much distress. Again, it’s just my DNA.

I’m the most common and widely used ingredient in your dishes. I’m the backbone of your kitchen. You slice me, chop me, puree me, saute me, and roast me. Fry me to a crisp brown and then puree me. There’s hardly a dish in which I don’t feature. You use me in your curries, dals, pulao, chutneys, burgers, soups, and salads raw. Yet you don’t give me due credit when a dish turns out well. You're busy singing the praises of the new spice powder that you tried or the rosy red tomatoes that you used. 

I’m laden with health benefits, like promoting heart health, reducing inflammation, reducing the risk of certain cancers, etc.

Soak my skin in water overnight and feed your plants that water and watch them thrive.

I may ruin your breath and bring tears to your eyes, but I know my worth. Your dishes wouldn’t taste the same without me. 

Which other item in your kitchen deserves its own story?

This post is part of the BlogchatterA2Z2026 challenge. 

Newspaper narrates

 Newspaper

 

I’m your newspaper. I’m delivered to you early in the morning by an enthusiastic delivery boy who drops me outside your door.  

I come bearing news from all around the world. I‘m generally white, sporting the news in black ink and put together at unearthly hours, as you slumber.  

I’m amused by the riddle that you humans have created around me—What's black and white and read all over?

As you know, I’m divided into sections and columns—national news, international news, local news, business news, sports page, obituaries, crosswords, word games, and comic strips. My cousins the tabloids arrive with all the latest gossip. 

In the good old days, I was respected, even revered. Whatever I said was the gospel truth. Your dads, uncles, and grandads began their day with me. How awesome is that!

I watch many of you reach for your cellphones as soon as you wake up and I feel a little abandoned. You seem to get all that you require from your glowing screens or what you fondly refer to as the 'idiot box. I feel like a misfit in your digital world.  

Once in your hands, you skim through me; on rare occasions, you might read an article in full. A few of you are still old school and believe in me. Thank you.

I’m not just your news provider. You find a dozen other uses for me. By the evening, the news I carry is considered stale, so you use me to line your shelves, clean your mirrors, and mop up your spills. I’m shaped into conical bell holders, and you even sell me.

One thing that makes me proud and happy is that Indians observe January 29^th as Indian Newspaper Day in remembrance of James Augustus Hicky, who founded India’s first newspaper, namely Hicky’s Bengal Gazette.

People don’t think much of me anymore. Still, I’m hanging in, doing what I do best, giving you your daily feed of Taaza Khabar. 

THis post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z 2026 challenge. 

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