Gardens also put an indelible stamp on my heart from the books I read. First and foremost among them was The Secret Garden. Then there were the gardens from Daphne Du Maurier's novels. If you have read Rebecca, you will forever remember the gardens of Manderly, and especially the 'Happy Valley' where rhododendrons and azaleas are pleasantly fragrant even in the rain, in colors of “salmon, white, and gold.” Again in My Cousin Rachel by Maurier, you would witness two different types of gardens. The Italian one in Rachel's Villa Sangalletti in Florence, and the English one in Cornwall (Remember the 'sunken garden'?) I am still enamoured by both of these 'literary' gardens.
My kaka (a term Gujaratis use for their father's brother) had a garment factory in Dar-es-Salaam, and he would often get some swatches of synthetic fabrics. My mother would fashion these into frocks, curtains, covers for my writing desk...Sometimes my dress and desk cover would be from the same swatch of fabric.
This book doesn't offer you 'answers'. Like Jerry Pinto says in the introduction, "The stories in this book do not seek to hold out answers. They tell you what happened and how it was dealt with. You may often disagree with what was done or how it was done... There are no moral lessons in this book, or easy stories in which everything comes out right in the end. There will be questions you will want to ask: How did you deal with the molestation? Where do you think your father is now? Did you ever forgive your mother? Did she marry someone else? Your questions should reassure you of the veracity of these narratives..."
We went to the counter, and paid for them. I was a bit hesitant about our purchase at first; I thought the mugs were rather expensive. But I knew that these were handmade and unique, and thus we were paying for the craft and their uniqueness. When the woman at the counter handed the cups/mugs to me, she put them in a paper bag that was fashioned out of a newspaper. The font looked very familiar. This looks like Hindi, I said to my husband.
In Istanbul, the Süleymaniye Mosque, located in the old district is a place of worship as well a testament to great passions that rule ordinary men and emperors alike. I came upon a board with text: …Throne of my lonely niche, my wealth, my love, my moonlight. My most sincere friend, my confidant, my very existence, my Sultan, my one and only love...
A lone donkey grazed in a large filled full of yellow irises and other flowers that appeared like buttercups. You could see the backdrop of a mountain, and trees in the horizon. The donkey did not seem like he was in haste. He looked like he was at peace. Neck bent, head down in haze of green and yellow, he seemed far removed from the miseries of the world, and the unfairness, death and grief that rocked the world in the past year and more.
The husband had clearly fallen for the stories, and the characters - liking Dobby, disliking how he was treated by the Malfoy family, getting angry at Snape and later feeling deeply for him, hating the romance between Hermione and Ron ("why do we need romance in everything?"), cheering for Harry and also for Dumbledore... And this past month, about five years or so after he first stumbled upon Nagini, and the world of Harry Potter, he bought all the books, albeit the Kindle editions.
Two travellers, after an eventful trip, ponder over a pivotal issue – what is behind our innate ability to trust strangers?
Husband: But why are they so unhappy with their lives? Me: Why is anyone unhappy with their life? Aren't we all unhappy in our own individual w
As one writer shared: "Which brings me back to the original question – is there a Hindi word for kindness? Maybe there is and maybe there isn’t. It doesn’t matter. From the doctor who treated my family for free to the folks in the Jain mandir who gave us nutritious meals – it is our common humanity, our innate kindness that held us together. There was no reason for people to open their hearts at a time when all of us were stretched, but everyone still did."