Of Compartments, Conversations and Connections.

One of the most fascinating things about travelling by Indian Railways is how effortlessly people open up to complete strangers. People you have never met before, and are unlikely to meet again, seem to have no hesitation in telling you all about their lives, their families, where they come from, what they do for a living and even the reason for their journey.

Before long, conversations flow as though you have known each other for years. Food is shared, political and religious views are exchanged, and personal experiences are recounted with the ease and familiarity one would normally reserve for family or close friends. By the end of the journey, it is not unusual to exchange phone numbers and addresses, with genuine promises to stay in touch. 

It makes one wonder what it is about train journeys that inspires such trust in strangers.

Is it the comforting thought that they will probably remain strangers, people we may never cross paths with again? Is it the assumption that whatever we share will remain just a passing conversation, unlikely to be remembered or used beyond the journey? Or is it simply a way of breaking the monotony of a long journey and making time pass more pleasantly?

Perhaps this is also what sets train travel apart from flying. Air journeys are often too short and hurried to allow such spontaneous friendships to blossom. A train journey, on the other hand, gives people the luxury of time - time to talk, listen, share and connect.

Yet, the almost complete absence of hesitation when it comes to sharing personal information with strangers continues to amaze me. Perhaps it is simply human nature to reach out, to communicate and, above all, to be heard. There is something liberating about talking to someone who has no preconceived notions about you, no history with you and no expectations of you.

Perhaps that is the real joy of these fleeting encounters. For a few hours, strangers become companions, conversations become connections, and an otherwise ordinary journey becomes memorable.

After all, in an increasingly connected world, the warmth of a conversation with another human being remains irreplaceable.

15 Years. A Million Footprints. Endless Gratitude.

'The Little Princess' is 15 today! 

This blog started as a tiny space to hold my short stories, but over the past fifteen years it has grown into a repository of my thoughts and words. From poems to travelogues, from blogging challenges to book reviews, from parenting experiences to masking my goof-ups with humour, I've let my words run amok on my blog - not that I would have it any other way! 

People often told me to find a niche and stick to it, but I guess I had too much to say! Afterall, this was my space, and I didn't need rules to breathe. I never quite figured out SEO or all the things that supposedly make a blog successful. I was just content doing what I love the most - writing. 

To see these 'one million' footprints is a wonderful surprise! I never expected so many people to read what I wrote, though I always hoped they did!

My heart is filled with gratitude for all those who stopped by to read, shared their thoughts and kept coming back for more. 

I am especially grateful for the wonderful blogging community I found in my early days. You helped me become a better writer, encouraged me when I doubted myself, and inspired me to keep going.

Thank you for being my light!  

I often revisit my older posts and find joy in reading them, remembering why I wrote each one and reflecting on how I feel about them today. Some make me laugh, some make me think, and some even make me cringe a little! But more than anything, they remind me that I found my voice here.

I hope I continue weaving the thoughts in my head into words for many more years to come.

Happy 15th Blogoversary, my little blog! 

Here's to fifteen years, a million footprints, and countless stories yet to be told.

 

All Over Again?

Would you choose to live your life

All over again?

How far would you rewind it to?

At what point would you know

This is where I'd return to?

Like pressing backspace on a keyboard

Would you want to go back letter by letter

Or would you wipe the slate clean?

Start afresh on a new page

Does it sound too distressing

To wash out every memory?

To dismiss as a mistake

Every moment of your life?

Would you rather edit

The unsavoury bits instead?

A clip here, a cut there,

Dusting off the specks of time,

Picking at the imagined lint

Of that worn coat called life.

What parts would you rewrite?

What colours would you choose

Would you stop to ponder

The why, the how, the who,

The if and when-

Or would you rather

Stand up tall, dust your self,

Square your shoulders, 

And walk into the sunset

Never to look back again.

Some Days I Wish..

Some days I wish,

I wish I could run away.

Run away and breathe,

Breathe in the fresh air-

Air, cool and rejuvenating.

Away from all that's mundane,

Mundane, routine and prosaic.

Prosaic, yet drawing me in,

Into duties, into responsibilities,

Responsibilities, where I lose  myself.

There's no place I can escape to.

Escaping my fate is no easy task.

It's easier to dream, to disappear-

Disappear into another world,

A world that isn't, but could have been mine.

And so, I close my eyes and breathe,

Breathe in what little freedom I can find,

Find in the stillness that that comes from unrest,

Unrest, that tells me I must return,

Return to myself, one breath at a time.

Where longing dwells...

Crouching by the golden window,

I peeped in for a closer look,

A curd-churner firmly held in hand,

The dark-skinned one, quietly stood.

A girdle beset with gems,

Adorning his tiny waist.

A glowing emerald pendant

Resting softly on his chest.

Watched me with his Lotus Eyes,

As my own eyes filled with tears.

Is this the child with whom

The Gopikas fell in love?

Whose touch became the wandering breeze

That lingered on their skin?

Whose footsteps they saw

In every grain of sand,

In the gentle crunch of leaves,

Across hills, through meadows, beside the river?

Whose anklets tinkled in the distance

Each time they milked their cows?

Whose words they heard

In the humming of the bumble bees?

Who were never together,

Yet never were separate,

Not for the space of half a breath.

And yet, their yearning for a glimpse

Of the one who owned their soul

Could never be quenched –

How could it be?

For now I too stand at his window,

Asking for one more glimpse.