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.

Freedom Speaks.

 Freedom

 

I’m freedom. The dictionary defines me as a state of not being held prisoner or controlled by somebody else.”

(A few years ago, I penned the following lines on freedom.)

Oh! To be free

Just to be me

To say as I please

To stay or to leave.

 

To hold on, to let go

To say no.

To learn and to discern

To marry or to live alone.

 

I live as a hope in the hearts and minds of those shackled by the chains of oppression and injustice.

Children longing to be freed from the horrors of war and other evils hanker after me, longing to live as children should.

 

I’m sought after by women denied their rights and subjected to inhuman treatment.

You’ll hear my name whispered in prayers, poems, speeches and songs of protest.

You’ll get a glimpse of me every time the oppressed dare to think of a better life.

Nations have borne long struggles to make theirs. 

I’m often bruised, beaten, buried, silenced, or delayed, but I grow stronger when you summon the courage and come together to speak up against any cruelty or injustice that you may witness.

You must never give up, never lose hope, and continue to fight for me, and I will rise like a phoenix and be yours. Everyone is entitled to me. 

 

Where does freedom show up in your daily life? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026.

Envelope Tales: An autobiography.

 Envelope

 

I'm but a simple sheet of paper, folded and fashioned into a paper holder or cover for documents, money, greetings, letters, etc. 

I’m usually functional and plain and not someone who would attract a lot of attention. You’ll find stacks of me in stationery stores and in your homes. I also usually live quietly in drawers, cupboards, or shelves to be picked up and used. 

As I mentioned earlier, I have been created from paper and come in varying sizes and shapes. Some of my siblings are fashioned to be pretty and fancy because they carry gifts.

I feel important and good about myself because I am a means of human connection. I convey both good and bad news, letters of acceptance and rejection, messages of hope, promise, disappointment, and everyday matters. 

I get sealed, stamped, and sent off—I’m quite the traveller too, journeying on ships, trains, and aeroplanes across land, air, and sea. My journeys are not glamorous. I travel in bags and postal sacks.  I get bent and dirty, but more often than not, I bring your news to you. Once upon a time, humans took great pleasure in slipping birthday cards and other festive greetings into me, sealing and stamping me, and trotting off to post me. Virtual greetings have replaced me to a large extent. Wedding invitations also sport a virtual format today. 

On rare occasions, I am lost in transit, and you are deprived of the news you wish to receive. I am slipped through mail slots, and when collected, I am torn open either in anticipation or excitement. Some of you, humans, use a letter opener to open me so that the letter inside remains undamaged. I feel a sense of pride when I finally touch base with the recipient, even though I may be discarded eventually. I have done my job—carrying messages.

Today, I may be a little obsolete because humans are communicating a lot through the virtual world. Nonetheless, I will always be of some use, especially during festivals, occasions, and ceremonies where only the good old-fashioned envelope will do.

 

Some fun facts:

·       The earliest known envelopes were made of clay in ancient Sumeria, dating back between 3500 and 3200 BC. These envelopes were hollow clay pockets meant to carry and ensure the safe transit of money.

·       Since China was the birthplace of paper, it was also the birthplace of the paper envelope, where it was originally used to pay money to government officials.

·       Early handmade envelopes were made from paper cut in the shape of a kite, rhombus, or diamond. When folded, this forms four symmetrical flaps that meet in the middle and could be sealed by a single blob of wax.

·       Edwin Hill and Warren De Lau Rue patented their envelope-making machine in 1845.

·       The pre-gummed envelopes of today appeared in the late 19^th century.

·       The reusable Manila envelope, originally made from Manila hemp, was made in the 1930s. Today, it is made from heavy and durable tan paper and designed to carry large documents. 

What would you want me to carry for you?

TThis post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026

Clutter Gets Candid

 Clutter

 

Clutter is my name, and I bet you aren’t too happy to see me. Well, I

just feel chatty...

As you may be aware, I don’t appear all at once; I grow over a period of time. At first, you are hardly aware of me, or even if you are, you ignore me and promise yourself that you’ll deal with me later.

I have this knack for multiplying. I spread across closets, shelves, tables, drawers, and cartons, weaving myself into your life and becoming a nuisance.

I take up not only your space but a great deal of your time as you sift through me to find your keys or documents or whatever it is that you may be looking for.

I’m the eyesore that you so want to be rid of, but you procrastinate, and when the time comes to throw me out, I bring back a memory, or you remember how much I cost, or I am a gift, or you plan to wear me someday when the time is right.

Then there are days when you declare war on me, and I’m either thrown out or packed for donation. Your busy schedules and workworn days continue, and once again, slowly but steadily, I begin to live rent-free in your home until the next eviction.

I’m not invincible. Once you set your mind to getting rid of me and steel yourself against sentiment, it’s a piece of cake.

So goodbye for now till we meet again. There’s the scent of eviction in the air. 

How do you deal with clutter? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026