The Pajama Fit


I see my pretty little red dress hanging in my wardrobe, reminding me of the few  (and far in-between) “wow” moments.  It has not been picked up for a while now- not because there wasn’t an occasion to wear it, but because it’s a high demand relationship with my little red dress. I need to be  in my “best shape”, else we do not go well together. This high maintenance relationship demands me to “handle it with care” and “dry clean” only. I  also need to make sure to wear the right co-ordinates that goes well with it – the right shoes and the right accessories.  As I flaunt it, I consciously or  subconsciously stay away from any “spillage causing agents”, and that sometimes includes my own kids.

When I get back home, the first thing I would want to do is to get out of this “high maintenance relationship” with my awesome pretty little red dress . I am eager to be back in my pajama, stretch out, take a deep breath and just be me.

Aren’t the most enduring relationships like the pajama fit – one that you always want to get back to? The one that gives you enough breathing space, and accepts the fact that as a person you may not be your perfect-self everyday. The one that is not pressurizing you to “always” handle it with care. But for some reason we also tend to take our “pajama fit relationships” for granted.

Those pictures in the pretty little pricey red dress is guaranteed to get a lot of “likes”,  but at the end of the day we all yearn to go back to our pajamas.

Move On, Let Go

We are all less significant in this world than we think we are. Life moves on, people move on with their lives. My most loved ones will move on with their lives and that is exactly how it ought to be. No one is indispensable. The concept of apocalypse and end of world theories are manifestation of the “fear of insignificance” of human life & existence. In the bigger cosmos we are just so significantly insignificant. This isn’t a negative thought – it’s the acceptance of the impermanence, and the beauty of impermanence.

What if the lily in my garden wilt away?  The day of its bloom brought joy to my soul and I experienced its beauty every moment of its existence. Its fragrance swept into my room each day. But eventually it wilted and fell. Did I mourn forever? I waited for another bloom that recreated the whole experience all over again.

Everything moves on – and this realization makes it easier for me to let go and not getting stuck.  So, then like the lily in my garden – I am here, I am now…putting my heart and soul to the “here and now”. When its time for me to move on – I need to whole heartedly let go.

Thought – O – Sphere

My sensory experiences evaporate to form my thoughts. The thought vapor condenses into my actions; my actions drench the world around me leading to more experiences that would eventually evaporate to form thoughts.

While I am in my thought-o-sphere, I first see it without my physical eyes, zoom it for the intricate details, feel the touch, listen to the feeble sound, and taste the unique mix of flavors.  Aaah! I am in my thought-o-sphere. The colors, the flavors, the shapes, sounds – all float around  in my thought-o-sphere. The real world around me is a subset of my thought-o-sphere.   My life can be as rich as my thought-o-sphere or as bland as my thoughtlessness.

The Eden

Eve my Mother, intrigued by the reasoning serpent, opted to risk her comforts to taste the fruit of knowledge. Became conscious, self aware and was pushed out of her comfort zone. Rather than being provided she owned up to bear the pain of creation and owned up her life.

Was Eden indeed a state of bliss or a state of ignorance, a state of being unaware, non pondering and dependent? As a mother who loves her dependant infant and her innocence, my happiness in not in her remaining dependant but growing up losing her innocence to be aware of her responsibilities towards mankind and herself and take up the ownership.

From an Eden of being provided I grow up to be pushed out to create an Eden and provide the next generation.

The writer’s pen

The expensive pen in the golden case looks stunning and I say to myself how elegant it is. Her owner picks her with a pride but picks her rarely to sign an important document or a bank cheque. Here she lies in her golden case again with the same sparkle that had stunned me.

But I would rather be the pen of a writer,  a pen he can’t live without, kept in the stinking pocket close to his heart. He picks the pen and pours his heart on to the paper. The writings touch a million hearts and the words become immortal lingering even after the writer and the pen has perished.