Skip to main content

The Unknown...


Believe...
when you walk to the unknown,
nature will guide you
and love will strengthen you.


Smile...
because no road is difficult,
no path is arduous-
every journey is made simple
when you have love in your heart.


St. Bartholomew's Hospital 26/01/2019 6:20am

Comments

Anonymous said…
Touching poem...nicely written.
9:00 pm
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Bit of Amma, A Bit of Appa

Every time a writer writes, she reveals a bit of herself... just a bit. The rest is purely imagination.   I still see her — clear as day, though it's been years. Amma at the wooden table, her back slightly hunched, hair pulled into a tired bun. The house would be quiet by then — dishes washed, clothes folded, lights dimmed. The smell of coconut oil and cumin lingered in the corners. Midnight. Maybe later. She’d sit with a chipped cup of coffee, the steam curling into the silence like a quiet ritual.  And she would write.  Not for fame. Not for money. Just... because something in her had to be put into words. It looked like breathing, almost — the way she would pause, stare into the distance, then bend her head and begin again. Her stories were filled with emotion — layered, subtle, steeped in the textures of everyday life. Women with untold stories–who never got to speak. Moments of quiet rebellion. Love that waited, sometimes too long. Dialogues borrowed from overheard...
2 comments
Read more

My Spice Dabba

  My Spice Dabba In the serene village of New Village, Beruas , where the rain tapped zinc rooftops and chickens wandered like old gossip across dirt lanes, my kitchen whispered stories—stories that began with a round, dented brass box: the spice dabba . The gilded casket sat like an heirloom moon on the corner shelf, above a gas stove that hissed with the tired breath of age. The dabba had crossed oceans from India, tucked in the arms of my great-grandmother, who arrived in Malaya with a suitcase of silence and a soul full of spice. Among rubber and palm oil trees and dusky roads, she found a home—and in the heart of her home, she placed her flavours. The brass dabba was nothing grand—just seven little tin cups tucked into a timeworn circle, glowing softly with the patina of years. There was manjal (golden turmeric), kaanja milagai (fierce and red), natchiragam (cumin’s soft sigh), kadugu (tiny mustard seeds that orchastrate in hot oil), venthaiyam (bitter fenugreek), malli ...
1 comment
Read more

When Sons Play Golf: A Mum’s Walk Through Fairways, Thoughts, and Quiet Joy

  The duck was there first. Standing at the edge of the pond, calm and completely unbothered, it faced the water as if nothing else in the world existed. The surface reflected the sky so clearly it blurred the boundary between above and below. It was quiet—one of those still moments that feels almost sacred. Yesterday, during my sons’ practice round at Belton Woods, I found myself pausing there longer than I expected. Not because of the game, but because of everything around it. A little further along, I noticed a tiny beetle resting on a blooming leaf. So small, so still, and yet perfectly placed within the vastness of the course. I took a photo, quietly, while the rhythm of golf carried on in the background—the soft strike of a ball, the murmur of voices, footsteps on grass. I’m not a golfer. Not really. I don’t carry a handicap. I don’t own a polished set of clubs, and I still hesitate when someone asks me the difference between a draw and a fade. And yet, over the years, standi...
2 comments
Read more