Tonight the breeze blows
softly through the leaves,
The trees laugh back.
The night is dark and graceful
Like a young lady behind the veil.
Silence spins a mystery.
The moon is glowing, in the clear sky.
No one can equal its beauty and pride.
Hiding behind the rustling leaves,
It has a mischievous smile.
Without a doubt, it is it’s own rival.
Looking at the moon I am thinking of you.
I know that you are perfect for me.
I even dare to believe, tonight
That I am just perfect for you,
Waiting for the perfect time to meet.
There is a tiring journey ahead,
Focus on your destination
As hope excitement fade,
And there comes a diversion.
Aimless challenges lure you
Torture follows when you crave,
Without surrender, there is no bliss,
Know “to be patient, is to be brave.”
To have left things half-done
Dismissing grand possibilities,
You are the impatient one
Doubting your own abilities.
Follow the path, your duty
Keep alive undying courage
The world conspires to realize
And unveil your true image
An object, caught between many uncontrolled flows, moves in random directions. It goes nowhere in spite of the great churn. The opposing forces are competing. No one wins. What is the meaning of this chaos ?
No worries!! Even though, in the narrow scope, the object seems to be going in a certain direction, in the bigger picture, it is carried by the overriding force in yet another direction. The strongest force prevails all.
Interestingly, the grand design includes our small picture within it.
Yesterday I was helping my son with his spelling homework. He had the following 15 words.
He had to make a story out of it. In the process of helping him, I learned something very important about writing stories.
I suggest you give it a TRY just to appreciate the problem a little better.
Here are the words:
My super motivated daughter wrote a story herself. If you compare the two you will see some differences. I learned something new from her too.
See their stories
The leaves were shimmering in the wind and the sunshine. It was midday, almost time for lunch. Luckily, lunch was going to be at my uncle’s house. My uncle lived close to my hostel. It was a ten minute walk, when one took the short cut through a cluster of small houses, shared by multiple low income families, typical in Navi Mumbai about fifteen years ago. I had an umbrella to protect myself from the scorching sun rays. The fad of sunscreen had not caught on there in a big way then. I was heading towards my destination in a light pink cotton salwar kameez, wishing that my aunt had cooked her signature chilli chicken that was so delicious. On my way through the narrow winding path between the houses, I could hear Bollywood music, floating down from cheap transistor radios, probably sitting on bed-side tables. Most people were relaxing inside at this time, with their curtains down, the ceiling fans rotating at the fastest possible speeds, their bodies plopped on soft cotton sheets. Ignoring the heat, I made it to the sidewalk of the big main road where my uncle’s apartment building stood and hurried up the few flights of stairs that led to their door. “Ding Dong.” Continue reading …..
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