Wordsmith at work

Hello there! I’m your humble zip, holding things together as you get on with your day. I’m but two rows of perfectly lined-up metal or plastic teeth waiting to meet. I’ve been tested quite a few times before I’m fitted with your clothes, bags, pouches, and other belongings. I’ve travelled the world stitched to your essentials. A jacket zipped against the cold, a dress fastened by someone for someone, and a suitcase packed and zipped (secured) before a journey. I hear you curse when I get stuck or rejoice when I slide smoothly on trousers, a bag, or a dress. I’ve been tugged in haste or yanked in frustration, or you’ve almost died of embarrassment when you realise that I’ve been left undone. After considerable use, I may get worn out. My teeth are misaligned, or my track comes loose. Then you choose to discard and replace me or repair me. Such is life. So the next time you tug my little head, remember, I’m holding on for you, one tooth at a time, giving you comfort and confi...

  Youth   It’s me, 'youth,' visiting you. I see that you’re not doing too badly even after I’ve left. Good for you. My earliest memories are of living with the cherub that you were. I was your first cry, your first steps, your babble, and scraped knees. I lived in your curiosity and your chatter. Then I grew into an adolescent. I’m rebellious and difficult to control. Emotions rage within me—pride, anger, delight, and embarrassment. I’m always searching for an identity of my own. It’s me, youth at my difficult best during the adolescent years. I’m also fast, bright, and energetic. It's when I live in you that you may make mistakes and be given some life lessons. On the whole, I’m meant to be lived and enjoyed. All too soon, I slip through your fingers. One day I’m there, and the next I’m gone. I’m just cherished memories, nostalgia, or stories you tell. You may desperately try to cling to me, but I say, “Age gracefully." There’s a beauty and charm to agei...

    Hello! We’ve met on a few occasions. Hope you are well. I’m your X-ray machine, stationed in hospitals and diagnostic centers. I’m a silent observer, seeing and revealing to human eyes what human eyes are unable to see and reveal. I’m a web of wires, connections, plates, and invisible light. I may appear cold, clinical, and metallic to you, but I bring clarity and healing. Every day, I watch people walk in. Some are in pain, others anxious yet hopeful, some utterly nervous, and a few are trying to be brave. If I could, I would tell them that knowing is always better than not knowing. I’m just a machine. I cannot speak. As they stand before me, I do what I was made to do. I capture the irregularities; sometimes there are none. I capture that, too, and reveal it all to the doctors. I ask you to be still to get an accurate picture. Bones, lungs, joints.I see them all.  Nothing misses me. I don’t judge or comment. I simply state the facts. I’ve been help...

      It’s summer, so you must be getting thirsty quite often. I’m here to hydrate you and have a little tête-à-tête with you. I’m water. I have existed for a very long time and have no beginning. I’m not sure about my end, either. I’m the silvery odourless liquid that flows through your taps and with which you cannot do without. You require me to cook, wash, clean, bathe, and quench your thirst. I’m food for your plants and crops. I’m also your tears and sweat.   I have no shape and carry the shape of whatever holds me—the clouds, lakes, rivers, pots, and pans. As for sounds, I burble as a stream. You can hear me trickle from a tap, babble in a brook, bubble in a pot, roar as the ocean, and rumble as a waterfall. I can be gentle and calming or angry and destructive. I’m a giver and taker, creator and destroyer. I change from liquid to vapour to ice, a cycle that connects the sky, earth, and sea. You panic when you don’t see me flow from your taps; ...

    Life happens. As we navigate the storms and sunshine, we are often faced with choices between right and wrong. What principles and values do we choose to live our lives by? Here, values talk a little about themselves.  Hello! It’s us, your values, calling on you! A child is born, and she is raised. As she grows, we enter her life through the gentle yet firm voices she hears, the hands she holds, and the stories she is told. Stories about courage, honesty, resilience, and integrity. She is encouraged to live by us and to practise us. But we are not truly real until life tests us. To tell that comfortable lie or be plain honest, to cheat on the test and pass, or to simply bear the consequences of not studying enough. It is in these moments that we come alive…because in the end, it is not what you believe but what you practice that matters.    The little girl changes as she grows. Does she discard us or keep us close? Her actions and words will ...

  Hello! It’s me, your umbrella, popping in for a chat. We never see each other until the monsoon arrives or you can't bear the sun in May.  I was born in a factory, stitched together with fabric, and stretched over eight slender ribs of steel. I was created to protect you against the blazing sun and the rain. I'm your constant companion in the monsoon.  I have siblings in varying sizes and colours, and we are all foldable. We are also known as a parasol, or fondly as 'brolly.' You station me behind a door, hang me on a peg or tuck me away in your bag, and I wait to be of service to you. When you unfurl me, I open up into a canopy of safety, protecting you from drizzles, downpours, or the blazing sun. I dislike the wind because that naughty chap plays games with me. He turns me inside out, and I feel sorry to see you struggling to make me right. I feel humiliated, and there is nothing more pathetic than an umbrella turned inside out. I feel so touched ...

  Trust builds the bridge that carries every relationship.   I’m trust that invisible thread that you humans weave among yourselves when you believe in each other’s goodness and don’t expect betrayal. I’m built slowly. One action, promise, or secret at a time. Then, when you reach the required comfort level, I’m present between you. I’m all about connectivity, reliability, honesty, and protection. Once present, I must be nurtured because I’m fragile. A wrong word or action or lie wounds me deeply and may eventually kill me. There are times when you place me with the wrong people, and then you are disappointed or wronged.   I’m built into friendships, families, workplaces, love, and even in yourselves. If you keep me strong, I can take you through the harshest of storms. I’m the hand that you reach out for. Once I’m lost, finding and rebuilding me is difficult. Yet I observe you give it another shot. I’ve watched you rebuild me slowly and steadily.  I’m ...

  Hello, User! Your smartphone’s here. Buzzing you into a new day, Hoping it goes your way.   I keep you connected. Help you stay abreast of news and views, Weather forecasts and gossip, too.   You set reminders. Plan a meet-up, Book a table At a diner. I’m your encyclopedia, map and diary, And your ever-growing picture gallery.   You download a dozen apps, Fill your carts, Read a book, Hum a tune, Or scroll your worries away.   Losing me Is like losing your soul. But beware! I can be an addiction And a distraction.   So hold me close. But let me go When your mind needs rest. I’m here to help. Not be a pest.   This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge2026

  I’m rumour. Don’t confuse me with gossip. Gossip is generally an unkind conversation about a person in their absence, while I’m an unofficial story that could be true or invented. I come from no specific place or person. I’m nobody’s child. Once I’m in circulation, I travel quickly, often leaving the truth far behind. Truth is evidence, context, hurtful at times, and boring. I generally come from hearsay, an incomplete or misunderstood conversation, a half-heard sentence, no clarification, or an overactive imagination. As I gather momentum. I grow spicier and longer. However, I cannot be vouched for. You humans just love passing me on. You give me legs and wings and wheels, and I speed along through offices, canteens, street corners, boardrooms, and classrooms. My endings are quiet. I die a natural death when something more interesting comes along, or, to everyone's shock and embarrassment, I’m disproved. I would advise you to refrain from passing me on, as I might br...

  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 Cart...

  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 ...

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,...

  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 you...

  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...

    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 st...

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 simpl...

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. ...