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

Packing Up My Troubles

 Packing Up My Troubles…

 "The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page." — Saint Augustine. 

The travel bug is one bug I’d always love to succumb to, but sadly, it doesn't happen as often as I would like.

As a child, my travel was restricted to Grandma’s house in Mumbai for vacations, and there was that one time when Dad took the family on a trip to Kolkata.

A trip that is firmly etched in my mind is a college trip to Rajasthan because I almost didn’t go. My dearest departed dad was being his protective best and had to be convinced by others to let me loose for a few days. My honeymoon in Goa is a cherished memory. Goa never fails to lose its charm for me. I have holidayed there with and without the boys and have always returned feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. I also loved Kerala, and it was special because it was the last family vacation. I dread motion sickness, which I’m prone to, but lately the episodes seem to have reduced.

Post marriage, I’ve done a fair amount of travelling both overseas and within the country, the only difference being that in the early years, it was the kids' needs and care that took precedence.

                          

Unlike my better half, my packing style is quite the opposite of his last-minute approach. My hubby generally throws in a few essentials, sometimes even on the day of departure, and voilà, he’s all set to go. Mine usually begins with deliberating over the right suitcase or bag, even if it’s an overnight trip. Medicines top my checklist, and I do not carry food. Eating the food served on the plane or train is part of the fun. I do carry a couple of books, hoping to catch up on my reading, but that rarely happens.

Now that the nest is empty, it’s been a while since we took a family vacation, but together with places I want to visit, that too is on my bucket list. 

This post is my entry to the Blogchatter Bloghop prompt

When Technology Took A Break

 When Technology Took a Break

 

Rahul woke up and reached for his phone. He switched it on, but the screen would not light up. Exasperatedly, he called out, "Ma, my phone refuses to work." Suddenly, he realised that the fan too was not working. “What the hell!” he muttered to himself. Rahul desperately needed to read his WhatsApp messages.

He jumped out of bed and went in search of his parents. They were out on the balcony enjoying the fresh air and digging into some papaya. Both sorely missed their morning cuppa, but ‘what cannot be cured must be endured,’ they firmly told themselves.

Expecting a volcanic eruption, Ma broke the news to Rahul. As expected, Rahul was aghast. “Two days!” he exclaimed. “Two whole days without food and water!” Below, they could see people scurrying to buy essentials from the rapidly shutting grocery shops. Pa reassured Rahul, telling him that there was plenty of fruit in the house and they could subsist on that. They would have to be frugal with the water.

Educational institutions were closed, so Rahul did not have to attend college. Ma suggested that it was a good time for him to catch up on his reading, at least during the day. She would take her break from the kitchen and household chores. Ma and Pa planned to cosy up with their books.

Parks and gardens echoed with the sound of children’s chatter and laughter. Neighbours, rather than being holed up scrolling on their phones, greeted each other, saying more than a hello and even shared whatever food they could.

Rahul was growing impatient. The authorities had promised that the power would be restored by midday the next day. He still had to pass the evening, afternoon, night, and the next morning. He had finished reading; he needed more activity, so he unearthed the Scrabble board from his closet and challenged his parents to a game. The family, amid some lighthearted banter, played an enthusiastic game by candlelight. Elsewhere in the town, people were singing and strumming guitars. Everywhere in Happypur, there was a little more communication and conversation.

The Happypurians rejoiced the next day when the power was restored and everything began functioning again. Rahul, too, was beside himself with joy, but deep down, he acknowledged that the detox and discomfort had done him good, as it did the other residents. Some planned a weekly detox and communion.

Though all had understandably been disturbed by the breakdown, it had done them good, and they realised, if nothing else, at least a digital detox was required.

This post is my entry to the BlogchatterBloghop prompt.

Image credit : Freepik and Pixabay

 

Proud to be Left -handed

 

 

On the 13^th of August this year, a friend texted me early in the morning, wishing me a “Happy Left-Hander’s Day.”

“So you’re left-handed” is a remark I’ve heard a million times. It’s been said with disdain, surprise, or mockery. I’m grateful to my parents for not trying to turn me into a right-hander.

Society demands that you give and receive with your right hand. This is one rule that I may break or not adhere to. An autorickshaw driver once refused to receive the fare from me because I was handing the money to him with my left hand. When I sit at the computer, I must transfer the mouse to the left side or learn to work it with my right hand. As a left-hander, I must position my book in a certain way and write. Some left-handers have their hand trailing across the page as they write, and thus, fresh ink may be smudged. Smudge, smear, or not, lefties are there writing their hearts out. The list of challenges is long. From scissors and can openers to musical instruments, left-handers don’t have it easy, but they survive and thrive.

 

International Left-Handers Day:

International Left-Handers Day is celebrated on August 13^th and was founded in 1976 by proud lefty Dean R. Campbell to celebrate the uniqueness of left-handed individuals and to raise awareness about the challenges they encounter in a predominantly right-handed world.

 

Societal Pressure:

Society is curious, apprehensive, and critical of lefties or maybe even amused by them. A “left-handed compliment” or “two left feet” also has negative connotations. The word "left" has been steeped in stigma and misunderstanding in many cultures and may also be considered unlucky or sinister.“Left” comes from the Latin word “sinistra,” meaning “left.” Conservative rural and urban families may force their children to switch hands. Left–handedness is also linked to the performance of unclean tasks.  I’m grateful that my parents did not force me into being right-handed.

 

Southpaw:

"Southpaw" is a nickname for a left-handed person. The term "southpaw" is often used to describe left-handed sportsmen, boxers, athletes, and baseball players, among others. It is said to have originated from baseball, where left-handed pitchers faced west, causing their throwing arm to point south.

 

Fun Facts:

 

Only 10–12% of the world population is left-handed.

 

Left-handers have differently wired brains. They tend to use the right hemisphere of the brain, which is more associated with creativity, intuition, and spatial awareness.

 

Left-handers may excel in math, architecture and music because of their greater ability in spatial reasoning.

 

Research shows that left-handed people are more intellectually gifted and have higher IQs.

 

There exists in Goa, the world’s first museum for left-handers, featuring over 100 statues of famous left-handers.

(https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/goa/a-museum-for-all-lefty-luminaries/articleshow/60039601.cms

The Indian Left-Handers Club celebrates and encourages left-handers. (https://www.indianlefthanderclub.com/)

 

In Morocco, left-handers were once considered cursed or devilish.

 

Some Famous Left-Handers:

Mahatma Gandhi, Jimi Hendrix, Oprah Winfrey, Ratan Tata, Amitabh Bachchan, Saint (Mother) Teresa, Barack Obama, Lady Gaga, Leonardo Da Vinci, Sachin Tendulkar, Steve Jobs, and Mark Zuckerberg.

 

Being left-handed is nothing to be embarrassed about or ashamed of. It’s a trait fashioned by nature. You’re kind of out of the mould but still beautiful.

To every brave southpaw who lives and loves life, continue to live and celebrate your life with flourish—smudges and all.

..org

 

 Image credit: Freepik images.