One Stop Destination

There are days when I want to rave and rant, cry till my eyes turn puffy. Today is one of them. 'Turn to your friends,' my mind says. 'I can't,' I reply. Its not that I dont trust them. Oh, yes I do. I trust them with my life. Yet, a part of me wants to do it alone. With nobody asking questions and me not wanting to reply. I don't want to answer. In fact, I have no answers. And then...I hear a familiar sound. 'Pitter patter, pitter patter,' it goes. Sounds like the nursery rhyme I had learnt in my childhood. Smiling to myself I run to open the door and step out. 'Finally,' I mused to myself. Standing there getting drenched, my tears run down my cheeks. All my pent up emotions finding an outlet in the open. No judgements, no bias. Only me, my pain and raw emotions. Who says that only humans can be friends? I found one...RAIN. P.S: The illustration is by an amazing artist called Pascal Campion and this

I feel like the townsman in Pearl S Buck's book by the same name. Packing my bags, moving on and thereafter, settling down in a new place. Not that this is something new. Thanks to the travel shoes I wear, I start getting the traveller's itch after every two years. Coming back to the book, it may sound cliched but this book has been one of my all-time favourites. And now, with my current job, I am able to relate to the central character.  For those  who have migrated to a new place, well...this story is a must-read for you. It deals with apprehensions, of doubts whether the  new place and its people would accept a  stranger into their fold. This story is also for those contemplating a shift, because, it is all about hope and goodness prevailing over everything else. And as it is said, its hope that inspires moves. Well...coming back to my plight as I struggle with packing, unpacking, winding up, settling down, right now, hope notwithstainding, I feel like taki

      It is a season of colours for Indians. With festivities around the corner, this year let us think of playing with a different kind of colour. No gulal or dry colour, no water balloons, just colourful threads.....colourful threads that entwine to make our memory cloak.        Some say memories are the mental scrapbook that our mind designs and maintains. Some say, it is a patchwork of various events. There is also a theory that memory is responsible for the way one behaves and I am not referring to the process of remembering and forgetting here. I simply believe that memory is a cloak that we weave with colourful threads. Each event is a yarn - the happy days resembling bright colours and the not-so happy ones becoming the dull or darker shades. We weave our cloak with these yarns that are (lovingly or maybe otherwise!!!) produced at the end of each moment in our life.       One thing that can't be denied is the fact that memories, good or bad, stay with us for ever

   I had always been interested in metaphysical topics and para-psychology. Am I following the footsteps of the Ghost Busters? Or into Witchcraft? Well...no..Its just that like any other person I have been curious about what happens after death. I needed a Proof of Heaven.  It goes without saying that death of my husband definitely added on to my explorations.      Does a person truly live after dying?  Is life just a transitory phase ??? I don't know. Or should I say I didn't know. It was only when my husband died that I asked these  questions. I didn't know whom to turn to for answers. Afraid of the darkness slowly engulfing my mind and unsure of people's views, I resorted to books.   Read through lots of books which included:- Life After Life by Dr Raymond Moody Laws of the Spirit World by Khorshid Bhavnagri Proof of Heaven by Dr Eben Alexander The Quest of the Overself by Paul Brunton Books by Nan Umrigar Books by Dr Brian Weiss       Read through book

      My husband had never been the kind to delve into books bearing any resemblance to metaphysics. Neither he believed in gifting me, a bibliophile, a book because for him it was a sheer wastage since I was not only surrounded by books (literally!!!) at my work place, I could order for the ones of my choice. Yet, just before leaving for his one last trip, he gifted me of all the choices in the world, Brian Weiss's Only Love is Real.        Though I took the book with a bemused look on my face, one that had both shock and astonishment, I simply could not comprehend why I was being given this. I took it and after a quick read decided it was one of those metaphysical kinds that do not have relevance. I kept it in my treasure trove without being vocal about my feelings lest I hurt him and wished at the back of my mind that he should have gifted me a Thomas Hardy or Charles Dickens instead (one is never satisfied with what one gets right???).       It was a month after his d

    As per Wikipedia the book  is about a son who gets to spend a day with his mother who died eight years earlier. Charley “Chick” Benetto is a retired baseball player who, facing the pain of unrealized dreams, alcoholism, divorce, and an estrangement from his grown daughter, returns to his childhood home and attempts suicide. There he meets his long dead mother, who welcomes him as if nothing ever happened. The book explores the question, “What would you do if you had one more day with someone you’ve lost?”    I am not ashamed to say that while reading every chapter which brought out the times the protagonist had hurt his mother or disappointed her, I have cried. Not because I am  a sentimental fool, but realization of the fact that there have been times in my life when I have been in the protagonist's  shoes  automatically brought tears into my eyes.Have we taken for granted the people who have loved us the most? Have we ever snubbed at their endeavour to make us feel bett