Spirit, art and life unfolded

What gains, what losses? An empty balance sheet. Nothing's left to pick up, only shattered remains. Broken ribs, bent and searching, Scattered dreams scurrying around. Who's left in this merry-go-round? A solitary figure who lost the ground

What in the end that matters Heart full of love and gratitude For the stars that stare The spinning suspended earth that bore The Sun to care So many not mentioned They that gave all the things defined and undefined Only gratitude should be with you As everything lies behind

All things fae and wide Proceed with insouciant mind as guide One day you'll arrive where love won't fade You'll find a shade where great sages wade In mystic waters, wisdom is made You'll wake up as nothing, free from need Thank you for catching that!

Every time I bloom, a new story unfolds, Though familiar eyes have seen me many times told. My color, complexion, structure, and brief life span, The leaves, the stem, the roots from which I began, All these together weave a narrative so fine, Familiar yet new, a tale that's forever divine.

A simple life, once uncomplicated, becomes complex, a tangled web created. The aroma of filter coffee fills the air, lifting spirits, a momentary reprieve. But what is filter coffee, really? What are these spirits that rise and fall? A good book, a melody, a conversation, or news, can elevate my mood, but do I need these crutches? Is there not something within me, constant and true, that can sustain my spirit, unshaken and anew? Should I not seek this inner source, this wellspring of peace, that renders external props unnecessary, a fleeting release?

We believe we're changing, constantly evolving, yet, in truth, nothing changes. Only our thinking shifts, our perceptions fluctuate. The flux we experience is but a product of our imagination. The world, itself, is an imagination. In the whirlpool of life, we think we're transformed, but beneath the surface, reality remains unaltered. Change, a mirage of the mind, a trick of perception, the world, a canvas of our collective imagination. We don't come and go. We merely think so. Many seem dead and gone, and we fear our own fate. But where do they come from, and where do they go? Everything is imagination. There is no arrival, no departure. In the tapestry of life, we weave a narrative of birth and death. Yet, beneath the surface, reality remains unchanged. Where do we come from? Where do we go? The answers dissolve in the mist of imagination. The relentless drumbeat of pain, the nagging doubts that persist, the difficulties that seem insurmountable – all creations of the hum...

A friend shared a poignant experience with her mother, who's struggling with dementia. Her words, though laced with humor, deeply touched my heart. I'd like to share that heartfelt moment with you.  "Humor of the day! My mom is furious with her caretaker... for turning on the sun and making her legs feel hot! When I laughed, she scolded me, saying she doesn't appreciate being laughed at!"

Shri Krishna Devaraya, when his court convened, posed a question: "What happens when all troubles come at once?" Tenali Raman's poetic reply painted a vivid, chaotic scene: Gurus arrive, seeking hospitality's shade Maid's sudden demise sparks domestic dismay Bandits on horseback launch an external attack Son-in-law's tantrums and clumsiness add to the pack Neighbours demand debt repayment, voices raised high Earache throbs, a persistent, nagging sigh Drumbeats, dance, and folk revelry fill the air Wife labors, giving birth, as life bursts forth to share Funds for another daughter's marriage dwindle and fade Seeds await planting, but resources are delayed Famine prevails, a backdrop of scarcity and woe Tenali Raman's masterful response weaves a rich tapestry of chaos, showcasing his wit, creativity, and poetic flair in capturing the mayhem that unfolds when troubles converge!

Suspended in the air, Swaying to the breeze, a crimson mandara, Not the variety I knew before, Brings me back to base, a humbling reminder That there's so much I don't know, May never know. What's there to know when so much lies unknown? Is it thirst or quest that drives me to explore? A poignant question that echoes through my soul.

Today, I spent a while watching the Areca palm in my garden. The palm sits pretty in its pot, its slender leaves fanning out like a verdant crown. A small wooden piece keeps it company at the base, a quiet companion to its gentle beauty. Delicate, vein-like branches stretch out from the stems, arising from the base like nature's own work of art. Each plant, it seems, has its own tale to tell, its own story unfolding like the palm's majestic spread. Sometimes, you can return to your original nature simply by being what you are. The beauty of nature lies in its effortless unfolding, free from negative vibes and struggles. Unlike us, plants don't strive to find meaning or sense; they simply unfurl themselves, content in their existence.

Memories of curry leaves take me back to my childhood. I only knew that rasam wouldn't be the same without them. Growing up, curry leaves were an integral part of our food, and their absence would leave a dish incomplete. In those days, we'd buy them from the market. In the heart of Indian cuisine, particularly in South Indian and Sri Lankan cooking, lies a humble ingredient that has been a cornerstone of flavor and tradition for generations: the curry leaf. For many, the aroma and taste of curry leaves evoke the warmth and comfort of home-cooked meals. Growing up, I remember the scent of curry leaves wafting from our kitchen, a familiar and comforting sensation. My mother grew a curry leaves plant in our Nellore home, filling our home with its fragrance. To this day, the smell of curry leaves transports me back to those carefree childhood days. From Childhood Memories to Timeless Tradition The presence of curry leaves in traditional dishes like Sambhar and Rasam is not just a ...

Exploring life's transitions and moments of awakening, symbolized by the painted eye and text, celebrating awareness and growth through a vibrant, organic medium.

The Indian shot plant boasts a striking combination of textures and colors. Green, spiky spherical seed pods sit atop a stalk, adorned with dried, papery bracts. Meanwhile, bright red flowers with elongated, smooth petals emerge from a separate stalk, accompanied by narrow, pointed leaves. The dynamic interplay between the plant's spiky, green pods and soft, red petals, a captivating visual display.

I discovered a new flower in the garden and immediately captured its beauty with a close-up photograph. This vibrant hibiscus flower boasts petals with a soft orange hue, subtly gradating to pink towards the center. Its natural beauty is so exquisite that it seems crafted, yet the distinction remains. Is it not all maya?

I watched the sunrise after the sun was up in the sky and now, during my evening walk, I saw the sun setting - a white ball with orange rings, alone in the sky. My thoughts shifted, and I began thinking: what if I just ignore all that happened during the day and focus only on the sun's journey? Its contributions to the world, how the world benefits from its presence, how many people notice, appreciate, or are impacted by it. This reflection leads me to consider my own importance and journey in comparison to the sun's celestial path. How things unfold, how life gets impacted in so many ways. It's an invitation to slow down, appreciate, and look beyond my own experiences, finding meaning and perspective in the sun's enduring presence. It's an invitation to obliterate myself and feel the stillness and emptiness. How am I all the time tied up with myself, my thoughts, my concerns, my relationships, my needs and most important my journey. In this space, I may find a sens...

Who is this paradoxical force that shapes me? It builds me up, yet tears me down. It crafts a towering personality, yet reduces me to insignificance. It sings my praises, yet whispers criticisms. It ignites hopes, joy, and greatness within me, yet sows doubts, fears, and unease. Who continuously analyzes without direction? Where do thoughts arrive and dissolve? My mind is not alone in doing all this. Can the guiding forces that have accompanied me since childhood help me navigate this inner conflict and emerge with clarity?

Nature's rhythms and artistic vision converge in a dynamic dance, giving rise to cycles of transformation. This symbiotic union echoes the eternal themes of growth, renewal, and the intricate interplay between chaos and harmony.

 Friends are the flowers that bloom in our lives, their presence alone a source of delight and warmth.

This leaf once thrived, carrying the message, "I spread like a virus happiness." Over months, it endured, sharing its positivity while gradually transitioning with drying edges. Now, as it nears the end of its journey, it serves as a gentle reminder of life's fleeting nature and the lasting impact of small acts of joy.

We are complex tapestries of contradictions, woven from threads of good, bad, and ugly. Within us, profundity and magnificence coexist with darkness and wickedness. When these aspects are selectively highlighted and stitched together, they can create a distorted image of ourselves. This is often reflected in the public's perception of individuals. Some portrayals focus on assembling the darkest elements, casting a person as entirely wicked. Conversely, others curate only the most virtuous qualities, elevating the individual to an unrealistic pedestal of divinity.

I am the same, I am the same Whatever might be the frame Frames may be many, types may be plenty I am fixed, unchanging I am the same, I am the same Places changed, people changed, seasons changed But I remained the same Unchanged, like a photograph

As I sit in the warm sunlight on this cold winter morning, I close my eyes and slip into contemplation. My focus turns inward, and I become aware of the subtle changes unfolding within my body. From the base of my spine to the crown of my head, I sense a transformation taking place. But are these changes limited to my physical form, or do they extend to my consciousness? Is my awareness expanding, merging with the universe, or is it simply a product of my bodily sensations? As I breathe, I allow myself to settle deeper into this inquiry, inviting insight and understanding to arise.

Certain journeys cannot be ended, Nor do they have to begin. Especially when insanity's threshold is crossed, And the fabric of reality spins within. As morning lifts its ethereal lids, And Bhaskarudu (the sun) emerges in gentle strides, The flow transforms into melodic movement, A symphony of madness, a dance of the absurd. Yet, this flow is discontinuous, fractured and free, A kaleidoscope of moments, fragmented and carefree. In this realm, time loses meaning, And the traveler becomes one with the eternal.

My mind brews fictions, blended with frictions, Endless concoctions, a maddening mix. Drinks that keep me heady, but not steady, Until the emotions turn bloody, tears exhausted. External forces join, fermenting the turmoil, Creating an intoxicating blend, increasingly potent. The bottle's always full, a never-ending supply, Casting me into a lasting, dizzying fix.

Whenever I see things flowing, flourishing, I smile. Stagnation, being stuck, troubles me. How can a stone, fixed to the ground, move millions? Inspire music and art? Some boulders stagnate, yet seem to throb with life, Only the sculptor and one attuned to form and space Can sense the vitality within. Then there are turbulent things, moving, evoking fear, Reminding us of life's uncertainties. Their language is difficult to interpret, Not a carefree song sung on the go.

How nice to be nowhere, nowhere Free from disgorging notions, twisted codes to decipher No need to tackle, adjust, manage everything No tricky affairs, prickly fairs, or pejorative fears This is the song of life, a pang of suffering Where evil goes unpunished, and the righteous die Trampled under the feet of the loud and proud

A single mosquito bites, smashed to death. Many others bite and escape, Some continue to harass. Is killing the solution to the bite? When countless ones cause harm, Powerless to stop them, I'm left with little choice but to retreat. Escaping into a net is our reality, as annoyances and atrocities persist. Often, I silently suffer, bearing the weight of the day. In the face of many injustices, I'm reminded that sometimes, there's little I can do except find solace in my own sanctuary.

The green bee-eater is well-known for its strikingly vivid green plumage and slim, pointed beak, perfect for catching insects mid-air. These birds thrive in open habitats, often seen perched on branches or wires, scanning for prey. Their elegant appearance and behavior make them a delightful part of nature's palette.

Not crying over fallen leaves or bleating sheep, A season to let go, a reason to give and to keep. A witness till wings flap free, Nothing here to rue, only moments to phew.

A regu pandlu seller's familiar shout would echo through the streets. I'd send our maid to buy some, and she'd return with a smile. This rustic fruit has been my childhood favorite. As kids, friends and I would venture into the fields, discovering regu pandlu in abundance. We'd pick, pluck, and relish the sweet, tangy taste of fresh, juicy fruit. Years passed, and the seller would occasionally appear with small-sized regu pandlu, just the way I liked them. But then, he vanished for three years. Recently, he returned and told our new maid, "Sir used to love small regu pandlu, so I brought some." He waited to meet me, reconnecting and reminiscing about my love for this fruit. His thoughtful gesture touched my heart. Reflecting on that moment, I wish I had shown more warmth and appreciation to the physically challenged regu pandlu seller. Could I have offered him a seat, a glass of water, or a kind word? Perhaps a small gesture of gratitude would have made his da...

Don't pour any more, It's time for no more. Before it turns sour, Let the cup remain empty. The thirst turns quest, Rest, pursuit of the best.

I penned a verse on a leaf so fine, But when I sought to read it, the leaf was lost in time. Now, I wonder, does the verse recall the leaf, Or does the leaf remember the verse's gentle relief?

Why the distress, discontentment's ache, Craving, quest, unrest, for our hearts to partake? Why part of existence, this perpetual plight, Uncertainties shrouding delight, happiness, and exuberance in night? Why does joy's continuation seem uncertain and frail, Leaving us searching, with hearts that forever sail? Is it inherent in the nature of existence, To be fraught with negative dimensions' persistence? Do these aspects inherently drive humanity, To seek answers, look beyond, transcending certainty?

In the delicate contours of a decaying leaf, a story unfolds—a man frozen in awe. His wide eyes, etched by time and enhanced with bold strokes of black, mirror the wonder of witnessing something beyond comprehension. The vivid red across his face speaks of emotions raw and unfiltered, an overwhelming blend of admiration and humility. The jagged cracks running through him do not diminish his presence; they amplify it, as if his very awe has fractured him, exposing his fragile essence.  A swirl of whimsy near his temple suggests a lingering curiosity, a playful tug of thoughts amid the weight of revelation. The leaf itself, a witness to time and change, becomes his stage—a fragile canvas bearing the marks of its journey, now intertwined with his astonishment. Together, they capture a fleeting moment: the delicate balance of nature’s impermanence and the human capacity to marvel at it, without needing words to explain why.

Many things that make no sense Lead to unbearable nonsense Sometimes nonsense that's unbearable Creates cheery sense It's the ability to keep sense In all seasons that makes the ride smooth Easier said than done

Are they issues or tissues, easily cast aside? A quest for peace, put to rest, yet can't subside. In annoying engagements, best pursuits take a seat, As issues assume prominence, like a camel at our feet. They displace our persona, a constant, nagging test, A trial by fire, where taking control is the quest. A lifetime spent settling them, a never-ending plight, Leaves us searching for calm, in the dark of night.

My only urge: to purge and surge, To gain the verge. This is not a dirge, but an emerge, Where spirit and universe converge.

A torn, worn leaf, Never in grief, Privy to the sheep, This story in brief Is very deep In memory keep

Maid Jyoti's handiwork shines bright in 2025! Her exquisite New Year muggu conveys heartfelt wishes, crafted with love at 4:30 am while the world slept. It's moments like these that remind us to appreciate the thought and effort people put into making others happy. Her dedication is a testament to the beauty of human connection. 

Writing on a dried leaf, with its natural texture and imperfections, conveys a rustic and organic touch, blending personal feelings and wishes into the "Happy New Year 2025" message. The holes and tears in the leaf not only add character but also provide a perspective on the passage of time and life's fleeting nature. The hand-drawn text reinforces the intimate and heartfelt tone, making it a unique and meaningful expression of celebration and reflection.