Flowers from the beach

It is almost as if yesterday that I gave her flowers. I never did, in real, when I actually could have. Payal is a friend from twenty years ago. About her, I don’t remember much.

All I know is that she was a good friend. She did get me flowers and that should tell you more than anything about a friendship, right?

Every morning, her father took us to the beach and showed us the changing waves. They never failed to surprise us, getting higher on Monday and lower on a different Tuesday. And, all I see now is the motion, to and fro. To and fro. To and fro.

What must have changed? Did Payal fail to be my friend? Or, me to myself?

Her lilies smelt like the blue candle my mother used to burn during Diwali. Every Diwali, it reminds of the days we watched the sea with the man who taught us the tides. And yesterday, I got the bittersweet gift from my assistant. Lilies from Mary’s.

And, it smells like the ocean in here.

I clicked this photo yesterday, on my way back from the old-age home where my aunt lives. It is taken from the grounds of Nrupatunga Betta, the city’s only mountain within. These times are weird, and it seems like we are getting used to it. Even better, some of us are finding them okay. Be whatever you feel like, I hope you find peace wherever you are.

When I won’t be living

The day after I stop living, I wonder if we’ll still be here. We have to be somewhere. Or, is that what we want?

I don’t care about the rumors on death. Only what is dead would know how to even care about it. And, I won’t really be dead. My words will remain here as long as the language seems to make sense. We will find a way to remain eternal.

When I won’t be living, I won’t be dead. I am more than the flesh, the words and just what remains at their end. I am here to remain, to put glory in the eyes of darkness and to sing a song of love to the hateful eight.

Until death, I am living the story. And, when I won’t be living, I want to be the story.

Burn a candle with your….

I wrote that title. If you were wondering “Why did Shreyas do this? Why did he not complete it? Has he forfeited all the privileges of a good title? What will the real-estate on moon be like? Will Delhi survive another emperor? Why won’t Donald Trump sing karaoke?” – well, well, well you could go on and on. But seriously, what even, I got distracted and kept the title incomplete. “But you have the control over what you publish. Why would you still leave it incomplete when you could change it to better?”

Holy Macarena, hold your wits. I am, by Sergio’s will, here to tell why.

I didn’t want to write “Burn a candle with your focus!” as previously the title was planned for today. When I just came back from a distraction I could easily not be a part of, it’s a little not so easy to keep writing about focus. Is it?

So, here’s what we’ll do.

of focus out Let’s go !

Tempo Mama

Today’s word, be it whatever to the world, is “tempo” as in the school-van in my city Hubballi. This most probably applies to the whole country. I surely wouldn’t want to snore the prestige drums of DPS students. Damn were they so rude when debating, or at least their vocabulary made me feel so. It’s probably the vocabulary. In today’s post, let’s perform the anatomy of “Tempo Mama”. Sorry, not sorry, if I sound experimental.

The PFC, prefrontal cortex, voxels in me right now depict weird signals as my project on fMRI seems to be getting out of hand. Mostly, I have it under control. GitHub plug.

Even the “mostly” comes under my prefrontal cortex. Mostly.

Coming back to the anatomy of our title today. It comes with two words. A two…. you know what? Anatomy is best done using images.

Two words

tempo
mama
Mixed language
Their meanings