Wordsmith at work

  The girl in the picture is seven years old, and the woman is 61. The years in between have been filled with learning and unlearning.  I’ve started to age. It’s inevitable, and nothing truly prepared me for it. One day, you’re a lively adolescent, and the next, you wake up with stiff joints. Now in my salt-and-pepper years, I’ve come to accept certain bitter and hard truths about life, especially regarding relationships.  I no longer try to impress others. You’re free to like me or not. My circle of friends has shrunk, and I’m okay with that. I cherish the few good friends who stay with me through thick and thin.   I’ve realised that judging others is unfair. Everyone lives through different and possibly tough situations. Showing empathy is the way forward.   Age brings wrinkles, aches, and nostalgia, but it also brings wisdom and mellowness. I try not to complain but focus on my blessings. Good health is a blessing at any age, but as I gr...

  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...

 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 stor...

  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 hub...

  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...

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 cre...