Better A Late Bloomer than Never a Bloomer: My gardening journey

 

My excitement knew no bounds when I spotted the first bud on my hibiscus plant, and it was sheer joy that I felt when, a few days ago, I woke up to the beauty of a white hibiscus in full bloom. It’s been about 6 years since I became a plant parent, and I am enjoying every moment of the journey. My heart skips a beat every time I see a tiny new leaf or a plant I'd
given up bloom again. There is no destination here—it’s simply a process of learning, planting, enjoying, and growing.

Growing up, I watched my mother tend to her potted garden with so much love and care. It was her little world. Yes, I liked looking at pretty flowers, but I never took much interest in the gardening process. Mom retained her love for gardening until she passed away.

I was well into my fifties when I felt a stirring as I looked at pictures of the most beautiful gardens, plants, and flowers posted by friends and folk on social media. Friends encouraged me to give it a shot. “Growing plants is therapeutic.” “Getting your hands dirty helps your health.”

Slowly but surely, I took the plunge – I was eager to grow flowering plants but did not know the first thing about how to grow them. Hence, I started with a few crotons and succulents and added a few easy-to-grow flowering plants like hibiscus.

Some thrived and some died, but my enthusiasm began to grow by leaps and bounds. Even to this day, I do not know the nitty-gritty of gardening and rely on YouTube videos and tips and tricks from friends.

Currently, I’m a proud plant parent to a money plant, syngonium, jade, hibiscus, peace lily, Monstera deliciosa, and a coleus, or flame nettle.

There is something so satisfying and joyous in watching your plants grow, and so sad when they wilt away. I even feel a twinge of guilt when I have to trim them.

I don’t have many gardening tools, and my go-to plant tonic is soaked vegetable and fruit peelings, a kind of rudimentary compost (especially onion skins), and my plants are doing well.

I believe my plants are quietly teaching me patience, the joy of nurturing and consistency, staying firmly rooted, and learning to bloom wherever you're planted. I grow as I watch them grow.

What is your gardening journey like? Do you have a favourite plant or memory from your own garden?  

This prompt is part of the weekly Blogchatter blogprompt challenge. 

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. 

12 Years - My messed up love story

 12 Years: My Messed-Up Love Story

 

Book Title: 12 Years: My Messed-Up Love Story

Author: Chetan Bhagat

Number of Pages:  413

Genre – Contemporary Romance

Publisher - Harper Collins India. 

Story:

There is chemistry and a connection between 33-year-old, recently divorced finance professional turned stand-up comedian Saket Khurana and 21-year-old equity analyst Payal Jain.

Payal and Saket meet at a comedy club in Mumbai. What’s age got to do with it? Saket is glad to have a second chance at love, and inexperienced Payal, from an ultra-conservative Jain family, sees it as an adventure. Their relationship is messy, passionate, and often painful, spanning Mumbai and Dubai. 

Themes:

Age Gap

Bhagat explores the complexities of nurturing a romantic relationship amidst a clash between tradition and modernity, as well as a significant age difference.

 

Modern Love

The book examines the idea of love and romance in today’s digital age. In a time of dating sites and virtual communication, “How do you know if someone is the one—especially when everything says they’re not?”

Friendship

Saket finds a 4am friend in Mudit who supports and strengthens Saket from beginning to end. 

Tone and Style:

12 Years: My Messed-Up Love Story feels like a Bollywood film and is an easy, breezy read.  Written in a conversational style, the book is fast-paced with a splashes of humour.  However, the story tends to drag here and there. 

My Verdict:

If you’re after something light and simple, then '12 Years' is the ideal choice. Yet, the issues Bhagat explores are genuine, serious, and highly relatable to Indian culture and society—including caste, community, money, mental health, friendship, and career.  There is a little too much of Saket's escapades with Tania and Pauline. I would rather have Bhagat cut to the chase a little faster. 

Rating : 3.5/5

Buylink:amazon.in/12-Years-Messed-up-Love-Story/dp/9369896872

This post is part of the Blogchatter Book Review Programme

A five minute walk in my neighbourhood

 Taking a Five-Minute Walk

 

 

I prefer walking to any other form of exercise. I don’t much care for structured routines, so I step out as often as possible—walking to the grocer, laundry, chemist, cobbler, bank, and even the salon.

Once upon a time, I enjoyed walking in my neighbourhood. A friend once said, “You have the privilege of living in the city, without really living in it.” Far from the maddening crowd, tucked in a quiet corner, it was mainly residential, with quaint cottages and low-storied buildings dotting the landscape, a plethora of shady trees, a few old-fashioned grocery stores, parks, and a few tried-and-tested places to eat or simply hang out.

In the past two years, the face of my neighbourhood has changed drastically. It now resembles a construction site. The older apartment blocks, cottages and bungalows are being demolished and replaced by towers that almost touch the sky. I look at them and pray that the residents in the towers remain safe and have access to essential amenities like water and electricity.

Civil authorities are constantly digging up roads to lay cables and pipes or to resurface them. I find myself doing a jig, or some nifty dance moves, as I navigate traffic that is always in a hurry, trenches, potholes, and piles of rubble, in addition to the menace of stray dogs.

Just when the roads look all smooth and travel-worthy after what seemed like ages, I step out, only to find that one has been reopened and another is being dug up. Currently the road in front of my apartment block is being dug.

A couple of roads are semi-open to the public, as work is still ongoing, and one must stay alert as traffic and pedestrians share the space

 Beauty salons, each promising to make me more beautiful than the next, have mushroomed from nowhere. I’m amused by the number of new salons that have sprung up all over the place. From Beauticlious to Claws, which I mistook for a pet clinic but was later told is exclusively devoted to nail art, I feel my neighbourhood is definitely in the running for an international beauty pageant winner.

The eateries have increased by leaps and bounds.  From Good Flipping Burgers and Pop Tates to the idli–dosa platter, I’m spoilt for choice.

The only peaceful places are the gardens and parks, which are regularly visited by the health-conscious, the senior citizens, and the laid-back alike, all seeking a chat and a breath of fresh air.

As I become accustomed to the changing face of my neighbourhood, I'm happy to hear the birds still chirp outside my window and to soak in the greenery around me. All is not lost.

 I miss the cottages and bungalows and feel quite exasperated as I watch my step and long for the old-world charm of my neighborhood, but again, change is the order of the universe. 

 

 This post is part of the Blogchatter HalfMarathon2025

Imagecredit:My personal gallery. 

The Last Tree on Earth Tells Its Story.

 The Last Tree on Earth Tells Its Story

Imagine a world, parched and barren, a silent world where you never hear the chirping of birds or the rustling of leaves, and in the midst of this depressing landscape stands a lone tree, weathered and wise. If it could speak, what would it say? The tree would tell a sorrowful tale.

 

“I once belonged to an endless grove of trees. Tall and sturdy, with thick woody, leafy branches and roots firmly grounded in the soil, our leaves were different shades of green, forming a magnificent sight.

We were the lungs of the earth, the source of balance. Children climbed and swung from our branches and played in the shade we provided. We were home to the birds, and squirrels happily scampered up and down our trunks. Our wrinkled bark held the secrets of lovers.  We witnessed the changing seasons—the joys of spring, the warmth of the summer, the freshness and cleansing of the rain the golden splendour of autumn, and the quietude of winter. Life was good.

Slowly but surely, the winds of change began to blow as man’s greed came to the fore. He wanted more and more, and so an eerie silence began to fall as the sounds of the chainsaw echoed over the land, and one by one, like a pack of cards, my friends began to fall and disappear.  

The air grew heavier and hotter; the rain ceased, the rivers dried up, and the land looked parched and bare.  I know they will come for me, too, but I still hold onto hope.

I miss my friends, the rain, the chirping birds, the rustling leaves, and the sounds of the children’s laughter.  I try hard not to drown in despair.

I’m not mere wood and leaves but a memory and a sign of hope. I entreat you not to focus on what has been lost but on what can be saved. Plant seeds and watch them grow. Every seed planted is a promise and a step towards healing and resilience."

"You take care of me, and I will of you." 

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half -Marathon 2025

Image credit: Personal pics and AI

A Goodbye letter to Writer’s block

 

 

 

Dear Writer’s Block,

It’s time we parted ways. Kindly make the break that you’ve taken permanent.

You’ve been like a thorn in my side, sneaking into my brain, eating into my time, and stealing my thoughts, words, and sentences, leaving me as blank as a blank piece of paper. I love to write, and here you are depriving me of one of the greatest and most precious joys of my life. You make me believe that the ink has, for all intents and purposes, dried up, and I hate you for it. 

I admit, for a while, you were the rest I needed when my thoughts were a tangled mess, but I’m okay now, and it’s time you left.

I thank you for teaching me patience because the rest did me good. You cannot stop me. You are simply the pause I needed. I reiterate, "Do not return."

I’m moving forward. I’m kick-starting the Blogchatter half-marathon with a farewell letter to you. My thoughts are flowing freely, and I wish to express them honestly.  I’m bound to make mistakes or write badly, but I’ll rewrite and get it all out.

P.S. I even completed an 11-day handwritten letter-writing challenge in your absence. Adios!

Unfaithfully yours,

Marietta.

This post is part of the BlogChatter Half Marathon2025

Image credit: Google Images

 

Emotions in Verse.

 Love

Your heart and mine

Are gently entwined,

Journeying together,

Your hand in mine.

You’re the friend, the lover

I longed to discover.

 

I love you

Just the way you are:

I know

I will never find another you.

 

 

Fear

The little voice in your head,

Your trembling hands,

Your clammy palms—

You’ve sensed a lion on the prowl.

You’ve chosen to stay away from it all.

 

Fear twists the spoke in your wheel.

It plants the thorn in your rose.

Fear is the dragon you dread;

You would rather lie all day in bed.

 

Look fear in the eye

Until it shrivels and dies.

Fear must not survive.

 

Anger

When anger strikes,

You unleash the beast inside.

He’s either raging mad

Or cold as ice.

 

Anger does you little good.

Control it if you will—

Only let a little spill.

 

 

Happiness

Happiness is…

The twinkle in your eye

When she says hello, not goodbye.

 

Happiness is…

Sunshine and moonbeams,

Rain cascading down your windowpane.

 

Happiness is…

That smile when we meet

Kind words and dancing feet.

 

Happiness is…

A book and chai

Ma singing a sweet lullaby.

 

Happiness is…

The little joys

That makes life so complete. life so complete.

Image Credit  -Pixabay