Wednesday Wonders

What is the funniest characteristic of human being? Have we ever wondered? Maybe you have and perhaps we did have wondered. I read once about a conversation of a famous author's friend with a man who asked him this question, the friend answered, " Our contradictoriness."

Perhaps yes. I never hurried to grow up but eventually time did.

"Many of us are in such a hurry to grow up and then long for their lost childhood. We make ourselves ill earning money and then spend them on getting well again. We think much about the future and we neglect the present. experience neither the present nor the future. We live as if we were never going to die, and die as if we had never lived."

So did the men destroy the nature under the banner of industrialization, development, commercialization and technology and now, the so called 'world leaders' sitting on round table drawing out plan of actions to converse the nature . We destroy and then we find ways to heal, protect and reserve. Funny are men.

We do contradict but we learn. We learn to live in the present. We learn to let go. We learn to move on. If we do not learn, then we are indeed funny.

To end this note, let's wonder about today, Wednesday, the 5th of January, 2022 and be thankful for this life. Every little thing, has a little story. Let's appreciate and be grateful and make wonders for mankind.

Comments

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...

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...

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 ...

Penamoli

Search This Blog