Feel loved, feel happy, and feel good about yourself. Go, flaunt that list of books you have read, share the movies you watched, post those travel pics of yours and the life recaps, make that resolution (well, again), dance your way into the new year or sleep your way into it, arrive gracefully waltzing or embarrassingly tripping, in your senses or completely sloshed, be loud or quiet, take in the morning sun or bathe in the moonlight, cherish the moment with your loved ones or savour your solitude. Do whatever the hell you want, whatever brings you happiness. Be upbeat, be unapologetic!
Author Archives: Somesh Katyayan
Silver Surfer: We never get to go home!
We’re all stars, in our own galaxies. And at the heart of each star that now so brightly twinkles, is a passionate fire that’s feeding on it. The fire that burns, makes it a star. The fire that’s not going to let up until it consumes it completely. The star wants to show gratitude to the people it loves, but now all it can do from afar, is burn a little more and twinkle a bit brighter. Such is the life of every star. It burns, it shines; it cools, it dies.
The Still Life of Oranges
Sitting cross-legged, basking in the dappled sun, sunlight falling on, off leaves, spilling, splashing, us peeping out the balcony bars, teeth sunk into the tangy pulp of oranges, spitting out the small pips, smelling citrus and reading the book in front. Orange, the colour and the fruit. Scents and images often stir sensibilities and evokeContinue reading “The Still Life of Oranges”
खत, Chitthi: The lost “art” of letter writing
There was an entire emotive experience attached even to letter reading. The agonizing wait, the anticipation, the excitement and the satisfaction. The thrill of tearing the envelope open, pulling out the letter and carefully unfolding them, passing them from hand to hand, the tendency to peek and huddle while one read them aloud. The touch, the texture, the scent of paper and the ink used. The papery smell, at times musty and damp, at times dry and dusty, weather worn and bearing traces of their journey.
Nanima and the Endless Summers
When you are a child, there are days of endless summer, the slow summer of dreams. Same as the year before, same the year after. Familiar people, familiar places, abundance of warmth and love and laughter, endless run across the faraway fields, small fists and in them endless clumps of grass and stars. Then one morning you wake up and the lingering long summer ends, sudden and abrupt. You’ve grown up, the places are left far behind and the people you loved so dearly have suddenly grown old.
Turning 31, on the clock!
Mine is usually a quiet neighborhood. The bell strikes for the third time like a huge hammer on a gong and I finally bolt out of bed, eyes still shut and crusty, head heavy and mind dazed. I hurt my toe as I fumble my way to open the door, let my maid didi inContinue reading “Turning 31, on the clock!”
Something beautiful about the people I do not choose
There’s something beautiful about the people I do not chaseThe people who find meThe people I am not looking forThe people I let go, the people who stayThe people who think of meThe people I am unmindful ofThe people who like my companyThe people I do not make much time forThe people who have meContinue reading “Something beautiful about the people I do not choose”
Summer Mornings, the Days of Old and Old Spice
Crusty eyes that woke up to childhood summer mornings always had a lot to look forward to. Out the frosted window, wind and wishes, cheeping birds, a heart full of small fluttering desires, the setting moon, the breaking dawn, things to do, always the same, always full of surprises.
Wish You A Happy New Year
I would also be the one to tell you to disobey, to break pattern, to not conform, to go out in the rain and tap dance, be loud or quiet, the way you are, the way you like it. Build and break and fail, put together and take apart, draw horribly, write terribly, notes and poems and love letters, croon songs in bad pitch, dance the way I do (it’s really bad), put on some heels and step on some precious toes, make mistakes, a lot of them. There’s no one proper way to do it, nobody has it figured out. There’s just that kid in the playschool and all else is posturing.
Words mean more at night
Some among us are in the habit of stealing nights and words, sounds and silences, people and places. We cannot always help it. We bottle them all in and stow them away in the cabinets of our memory, where forgotten they lie ageing like fine wine, only to be taken out and sipped on cold and cruel days, when its warmth stirs our soul.
Somesh | Katyayan 