The Window Pane

You're driving a car.

Or simply sitting by the window looking out at the garden. 

You suddenly notice that the window pane is dirty - it has all these smudges.

And then you realize it. If you're too busy focusing on the smudge, then you really don't see where you're going; you cannot appreciate the beauty of the blooms. And if you're focusing on the road ahead, or the lovely sight of the flowers in that garden - you don't really notice those smudges on the pane; you don't quite "see" them.

You can focus only on one thing at a time. You always have that choice. 

So, what are you looking at - the smudge, or something beyond?

Quote - Unquote

Since it's New Year and all, just wanted to post my favourite quote of all time:


I always wanted a happy ending... Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity.


~ Gilda Radner


Love that phrase - 'delicious ambiguity'.
Happy New Year!

The Wall

You smile at many. You share with a few.

You talk with many. You connect with a few.

Your eyes come across many. But few make their way into your heart.

You’re not comfortable letting too many people into your life. You don’t want many. You want only a few. And you want those few because they mean a lot to you. And you hope they know that (and feel the same way too).

Noticed

She always noticed him. 

He noticed that she noticed. 

She also noticed that he noticed that she noticed him. But that never stopped her.

Her eyes. That look. Not a stare. Not a gaze. Something more. Like she wanted to tell him something, but had made up her mind not to. He never could really unravel what they were trying to convey.

She smiled every time she saw him. Every single time.

He reminded her of someone. That was it. That was all.

Little Things

Little things upset me. They do.

The funny part is - I’m not aware of the exact reason most of the times. It might be something I came across in passing. Something I happened to hear. Something I saw. Something I just happened to realize. It probably sets off “something”.

Twelve Days

He tapped on his laptop nervously as he signed into his email account. He was beginning to get worried. No reason to, perhaps. All he expected was a reply.

A Suitable Boy

I remember this one time we went shopping with Dad when we were kids (eight years old, I believe). As I passed by the books section, a particular one caught my fancy. It had this bright red cover (hardbound, I think) with golden lettering. And it was a FAT book.

"Buy me that", I insisted. He checked out the book (and the price, of course). No, he said firmly. He still does not understand why I would buy books - fiction, that is. His idea of book-buying is for 'general knowledge' (as he puts it). As kids the few books he did buy us were - an edition of the Encyclopedia, 'More Tell Me Why', Wren & Martin, Oxford English Dictionary and 'Who said What'. That probably explains a lot of things, including my love for quotes.

Anyway, I did not get that book, and had to settle for a couple of Archie comics.

It's funny that years later the one thing that eludes me is precisely that - a suitable boy.

(Of course, I don't mean the book. Also, I am yet to read it.)

Office Bus-Ride

Most people I know complain of travelling to the work place. It’s too long. The roads are bad (no, positively horrible). The drivers are rash.

 

Neglected...

... That is how this blog must be feeling.

I do realize that the blog count has fallen miserably. Is it work? No, not really. 

Somehow all my enthusiasm to write a post dies a rather quick death. Some thought or the other usually hits me on my way back from office, in the bus (provided I am NOT sleeping, that is). And then I get associated ideas. I’ve almost got a structure and know what I want to convey. At this point I’m literally talking to myself, where I can all but *hear* myself (internal monologue it’s called apparently). I *will* pen this down, I tell myself.

Wishes

She wished upon her eyelash. Blew it right off the back of her palm. She hoped it would come true. Not that she ever remembered the fate of the others. But too many ‘first stars’ had been spotted. And catching a shooting star, for real, seemed close to impossible.

Nope. Eyelashes will have to do.