Skip to main content

Stations

I cry for my lost loves
For career
For principles
I left them behind
Cities
People
Friends
Lovers
All memories
Fading slowly
Until they are only a shadow
That looms large
At the brightest hours
But you're too busy to notice
That you left a part of you behind
That you lose yourself every time you go
Only to find a new you

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Indias

  There is not just one India. And what I have been privileged to experience on my recent travels, there won’t be for a long time. What is it that we do every day in cities? We wake up to an alarm, not the sun or our body clock. We rush to get dressed for work or the gym or whatever is the first appointment of the day. We spend our day in a controlled, man-made environment – air conditioning, phone screens, buildings, traffic, emails and meetings. Two weeks away from this showed me something that I never truly knew about myself. I don’t dislike travel. Everyone is so gung-ho about travel and I always found it overrated. But that might be because for the 10 years I lived in Germany, travel for me meant visiting the city centre of another European city. Cute streets, a pretty church, a peaceful river flowing by, in essence a little “same same but different”. Without a car or a driving licence, those were the only trips I managed to plan. Of everything that I saw in two weeks of...

Behind the Sightscreen (Part 2)

It was my greatest fear that the stadium lights would go out – plunging the ground into darkness and basically broadcasting this (power) failure to the entire world. I can now safely say that this did not happen. Unfortunately, everything else did. Among the many bombs that had been casually tossed around the South-East basement offices, the first that exploded was the one where a last minute ‘request’ was made to provide baggage handlers to carry the players’ luggage. Seeing the stretch on manpower, my tomboyish, feminist colleague immediately offered to lend a hand. I, failing to come up with a quick excuse, found myself accompanying her in stumbling around under the weight of the heavy kit bags – the sizes of which were comparable only to the size of the heads of their owners. Now I am not one to shy away from attention, but the sudden deluge of comments and flashes from cameras disconcerted even me. I looked out from under the bag to see shocked faces all around me. Some of th...

The Middle

 The folly of youth to the wisdom of old age. Passion to practicality. Erratic speed to steady progress. Tortured love to deep bonds. Anger to acceptance. Somewhere in between lies the resilience of middle age. (I hope the early stage of middle age, but as I count the grey hairs in my mirror, I know this battle could go either way). I play pickleball with my team, try to keep up with their youth, the energy. Does it make me feel younger or just old? I can’t drink like a fish anymore, my body knows it even though my mind may forget it sometimes, especially post 4 drinks. Routines now not only excite me; they are like the best friend that my body needs to feel its mediocre best.   Back pains creep up if I skip more than 3 days of the gym. Being a woman is a cruel fight against a “ticking clock” of what society thinks I must have achieved by now. But oh, the resilience of middle age gets me through! I may not be wise yet, but I am wise enough to know that if...