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The two of US

  The month of March is dedicated to my late grandmother. Just like March brings everything to life, she would add beauty and grace to everything around her. It is also her birthday month. Here’s a piece that brings back memories of my relationship with her. It’s the two of US There are times when I think she is me and I am her, Two peas in a pod, Two friends on a picnic, Two granddaughters playing board games, Two daughters on a stroll, Two mothers in prayer, Two artists soaked in inspiration, Two singers hitting the same notes in the song, Two minds with brilliant ideas, Two hearts overflowing with love, Two writers with unfinished novels, Two cooks with the same secrets in our recipes, Two creative souls with the same amazing genes, It’s true, I am HER and she is ME!
Recent posts

Five tips for aspiring writers

The joy of holding my fountain pen and writing a few lines of poetry, in my pretty, cursive handwriting was one of the most fulfilling things for me as a child. I loved and still love any kind of writing. Starting with a grocery list, journaling, to writing stories or personal essays, getting the word to meet a blank piece of paper or a blank screen, excites me. For me, writing started out as my passion and later, turned into my profession. If you are like me, and love to write, here are a few ways to develop this passion into a hobby.  Reading Good choice of books and consistent reading lays the foundation for good writing. As a child, I was an avid reader and used to drown myself in any book available. My love for books and reading has added a lot of value to my journey as a writer and I think it does the same for a wide majority of other writers as well.   Write it down Sometimes, ideas come to you in unexpected ways and in unexpected places. Always keep a notebook or a de

Welcome 2021

  A shimmer of light is crawling in, giving us hope to break free from the darkness that has engulfed us in different ways, since the start of the pandemic. This was a year when illness, unexpected death and hate raised their ugly heads, shocking me beyond belief. The year 2020 is finally reaching its end. 2021 is gently tiptoeing into our lives, carrying the promise for better things. I have been struggling for the best words to describe this hugely challenging year. I recently learned about a carinaria shell through Anthony Doerr’s book, All the Light we cannot see. A carinaria shell is simultaneously light and heavy, hard, and soft, smooth, and rough. This is exactly how this year has made me feel.  I feel like I have turned into a carinaria shell: heavy with pandemic fatigue and yet,  wearing a  light smile, thinking about the possibility of the bringing in newness, I feel  rough around the edges and still soft enough to soak in the goodness that brightens my days.   It has not be

It is enough

The waves kiss my feet. I love the way they run in and out of my toes, letting the froth form designs on my skin. I revel in their graceful patterns, reminded of a dance of delight. They seem happy for no reason. Slow whispers, carrying thoughts that nobody else can hear. And at other times, they lash at the shore with a frightening aggression.   They sound like the roar of a hungry lion, wanting to attack anyone in sight. Sea gulls are having a field day, chatting amongst themselves, unaware of the mood swings of the waves, while few others look for a wholesome meal, basking in the view and savoring the moment. Waves are relentless. Each time they come running to the shore, only to go back again, to come back with more force and beauty, discovering more about themselves, listening more carefully to their own pulse and heartbeat. They fall and rise again, like everything around them is in harmony, their happiness, their struggles, their losses, or their gains. Shimmering lights adorn

New blessings

  Trees are beginning to feel a little lighter. Leaves are changing their costumes, putting their make-up on, getting dressed to leave their old lives, making place for the new to take shape.  I try to add a spring in my step, crunching the dried leaves resting on the sidewalk. Patches of orange and green leaves, specks of yellow on a few others, deep reds peeping from the fresh greens are a welcoming sight for me. I am amazed at the way in which fall walks in year after year, accompanied by a quiet grace, making for gentle celebrations. There is a common thought that crosses my mind at the same time every year. Have I changed? What parts of me have I let go, fall away like the dried leaves that I just stomped upon? Where are my branches leading me? How much longer can I hold on to the green leaves? Am I prettier when I change color? This year is astonishingly different. The virus has changed nearly everything. It has taken away so much from us, including loved ones, jobs and the

The magic of writing groups

Writing is a solitary activity. I have seen, read and heard this line many times over and over. I have also met writers who need total silence and shut themselves away from devices and people and keep themselves open only to their thoughts and ideas. I agree that if you have quiet time and no distractions, you can churn out good content and meet burning deadlines. In today’s piece, I am going to walk you through quite the opposite of this. Writing groups. For the past five years, I have been actively participating in writing groups. When I first started out, I had no idea how helpful and inspiring it would be to write with a group of writers. Creative writing groups in public libraries and other avenues in the writing community in Charlotte have given me a taste of how it works. Though awkward and shy initially, I slowly realized that it was a community with a purpose. The purpose was to get your thoughts out on a paper or on a device. Prompts and the ways in which writers in the

My Not So Favorite Pupil

Teaching Surinder English was a nightmare. His handwriting was like ants doing a cabaret, pronunciation was a mystery since he avoided speaking to me in English and his marks were stagnant, like the puddle of rainwater, that never dried up. I dreaded correcting his test papers. His spellings, lack of structure in the sentence and the empty words filling up the page was no less than a horror movie. I was more than just worried and worried for myself, more than him. If he did not score well in the mid-term exams this year, the principal was going to be upset with me again. I would be beyond upset, not able to forgive myself for not being a good teacher. Honestly, I was doing my best. He was an average student, scoring fairly well in all subjects, except the horrifying ENGLISH. I stayed back after school hours, trying to make him read story books meant for younger kids, encouraging him to watch cartoons with English dialogue and sweated over translating every word in English from the