Sunday, September 3, 2017

The Butterfly Dream

butterfly dream.jpg
I am changing. I can feel it everyday.
I knew it when I changed myself in the past. I grew into something beautiful. The memories are still there like in a dream.
I know I am changing again. I can see the signs. I am expressing again. I am being myself once again. Here I am blabbering once again.
Every day we change in small ways, unseen to the eyes, unseen to the mind. Something changes in our heart and we are not even aware of it. It happens everyday, a bit at a time.
What we see, hear, and experience adds to our changes. I am not the same person you met yesterday. I have changed. I can feel the wings poking under my skin. I know they will make me fly one day. I will not be crawling in the dust anymore. I will spread out my wings and fly out into the sun rays. I will be a butterfly then. I will be the butterfly again.
November 23, 2015

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

The Cycle

48 posts since 2008

Read my blog after ages. Refreshing. Got introduced to myself. Feels like inheriting someone's blog, someone I used to know. How things change. But I have come back to this beautiful blank slate; creation waiting at my fingertips. Stories ready to pour in - a blank sheet as tempting as a blank canvas. A promise to return again... to complete the cycle of birth and rebirth of the writer in me.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Remembering that day

While describing my experience with the dog that came to me at the bus stop, I had forgotten why I was upset that day. But when I saw the date I remembered it was my redemption. You had saved me by hurting my feelings. The dog was a reminder of that.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Life and Death

They say that the pain of childbirth is closest to the pain of dying.

The dark room was echoing with the cries of a woman when suddenly the cries of a newborn child resonated against the walls of that room. The woman fainted while her man in another part of the house breathed his last. Wails of women could be heard throughout the house. It was a large, rich household; a house with long corridors that connected the numerous rooms and a courtyard where all members of the joint family were gathered, some mourning the loss of the favourite son of the house and some mourning the arrival of his daughter into this world just as he passed over to another realm. The year must be 1932, the place Bengal. My grandmother was only four years old at that time. She had no idea that life would never be what it could have been if her mother was not a widow.

Saturday, November 8, 2014

Alu bhate, musur dal, postor bora

Yummmmm...when it comes to ma ke haath ka khana, there is nothing better than the simple Bengali food she cooks. Had this after a long long time. My tummy cried in happiness.