Enthralling Trails

  It is ten days since I stopped receiving Neeta Mayi's Good Morning messages on WhatsApp. She would send witty puzzles, beautiful Philosophical notes, inspiring messages and sometimes meaningful videos and pictures of captivating nature. I would often ask her about the beautiful flowers and landscapes that she used to share. She would say they were sent by her son, daughter or one of her siblings in Nagpur. The last photograph was a drooping Brahma Kamal that had blossomed on Janmashtami. I was curious to know why she had not clicked a picture of the blooming Brahma Kamal that night, but she never spoke about it. That morning, we had blossoms of red roses in our tiny green space. I clicked a photograph and sent it to her with a Good Morning message. I did not notice whether she had read it as mornings have always been hectic. Neeta Mayi was not my biological aunt but was my friend. She was my husband's aunt's colleague. She shared a youthfulness in her demeanour

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.” ― Edith Sitwell Raj pulled the cardboard box full of toys towards himself, and Diva pulled it back towards herself. The toys that were neatly bundled spilt out with their laughter. Diva was seven and was dressed in a green frock with leggings to keep herself warm this winter morning. Raj ‘s hair sported a crew cut, he was tall for his four years, both had snub noses and dark eyes, their hair was brown and skin tanned. They lived in a shanty with cemented walls having twin doors and an asbestos roof lined by bricks to prevent it from flying off. The shanty lay in the centre of a 2 km long field of agricultural land. It was a prime spot layered by the main road on one side, a multi-storied building complex on the other and the famous Engineering college on the third side. The fourth side was a long walkway till the gate whic

Focus on your blessings, not your misfortunes.” ― Roy T. Bennett,  Another Sunset edged its way through the garden. Meg sat next to me in the garden feeding roasted lotus stem bites to her infant grandson. Her old neighbour staggered towards the path on his bent knees and his wooden walking stick, she watched him steadily till he disappeared. She spoke vehemently, 'I wish Rosh could walk like this gentleman, but he has given up on life.’ There was agony in her voice, fear in her speech, and her moist eyes depicted the love for her husband Rosh through a mixture of meandering emotions.  Meg was clad in a pale pink sari with sky blue flowers. It was worn carelessly, her plaited hair could not catch the locks of hair that were set free by the cool breeze. She was short and plump, her face was red with emotions, the kohl in her eyes had spread out of her eyes. A tiny red vermillion bindi was stuck on her forehead between her eyebrows adding charm to her elegant perso