The Joyful Ritual of ReunionA Symphony of Souls in Celebration

The Joyful Ritual of Reunion
A Symphony of Souls in Celebration

There exists a certain enchantment in life that is neither born of routine nor solely tethered to spontaneity — a quiet but soulful ritual that kindles joy in the recesses of the heart. It is not an indulgence, but a communion — a gathering of kindred spirits beneath the gentle canopy of laughter, warmth, music, and memory.

Of all the habits that shape the architecture of my days, one stands out with a sparkle in its eye: the habit of reuniting with old friends — an act that transforms time from a tyrant to a troubadour.

A Habit of Heartbeats and Harmony

In this ever-accelerating world, where silence gets lost beneath the hum of machines and the ticking of deadlines, the habit of reconnecting with familiar faces serves as an elixir to the weary soul. These are not merely social engagements — they are spiritual interludes, where we uncork the bottles of our lives and pour freely from the vintages of yesteryears.

There’s a sacredness to the rituals — the planning of the night, the clink of glasses raised not just in celebration but in honour of shared histories, unfinished jokes, and the comfort of being understood without explanation. In such moments, the world pauses, and what is real begins to play its quiet symphony — of glances exchanged, shoulders leaned upon, verses recited through the jukebox of memory.

Conversations: The Echoes of Eternal Youth

A long discussion — perhaps over dinner or between musical interludes — is no less than a sacred text. We meander through topics, laugh with abandon, sometimes mourn what is lost, and often marvel at what remains. These dialogues are not mere words strung together; they are bridges of becoming that stretch across time.

Philosophers have long spoken of ‘Eudaimonia’ — the deep, satisfying happiness that arises from virtue and meaningful connections. In these reunions, I find that rare, profound joy — where no performance is needed, and one is free to simply be.

Music, Dance, and the Metaphysics of Movement

When the music rises and the room sways with rhythm, something ancient stirs. Dance is no longer just a motion; it is the celebration of freedom, the letting go of life’s polite burdens. As bodies move, spirits rise — not in rebellion, but in harmony with the universe. Even Plato would agree — when the soul hears music, it remembers its divine origin.

A Philosophical Reverie

Why does this habit bring such joy? Because in those hours, we are more than our names, jobs, roles or age. We are selves in full bloom, fragments of the eternal cosmos held gently by shared understanding. We laugh not to escape the world, but to embrace it more gently. We drink not to forget, but to remember more beautifully.

Let the night unfold like velvet dreams,
With vintage thoughts and moonlight themes,
Where hearts converse and silence sings,
And joy is found in simple things.

A clink of glass, a favourite song,
Old stories that still feel so strong,
A table set with laughter’s glow,
And souls that dance in ebb and flow.

This is my habit, old yet gold,
A warm ritual, a story retold,
Where joy takes root and blossoms wide,
In friends, in feasts, and hearts allied.

For in the celebration of old friendships lies a timeless truth: we are never truly alone, when memory, music, and merriment meet.

“The Lantern I Carry: Verses of Curiosity”

“The Lantern I Carry: Verses of Curiosity”

What am I curious about, you ask?
Not just the sun, nor just the mask.
But all that hides behind the veil,
The silent wind, the untold tale.

I wonder how the shadows feel,
When moonlight’s kiss begins to heal.
What murmurs dwell in mossy stone,
What dreams the twilight holds alone.

Do rivers hum their childhood songs,
While rushing bold through rights and wrongs?
Does jasmine sigh before it blooms,
In fragrant notes through dusk-filled rooms?

What paints the pause ‘twixt joy and ache,
Where the stars in the slumber gently wake?
Do fallen leaves, before they rest,
Whisper regrets upon Earth’s chest?

I’m drawn to tales in tongues unknown,
To thoughts in seeds not yet full-grown.
To every book I’ve not yet read,
To poems time has never said.

I do not seek to tame or bind,
But to unchain the sleeping mind —
To touch the face of mystery,
Through soft-lit paths of reverie.

I crave the truth behind a smile,
The silence stretched across a mile.
Do echoes cry when not returned?
Are sacred fires by doubt still burned?

Is God a voice or just a breeze?
A sacred hush among the trees?
Do prayers take shape like falling snow,
Or drift in realms we’ll never know?

I do not seek a throne of facts,
But the embrace the question lacks.
A child, I sit beneath the sky,
Not asking “how?” but simply “why?”

Let not the world grow dull or still,
When wonder calls from every hill.
The soul is vast, the heart is wide,
There’s magic where the questions hide.

And so I walk — not just to see,
But to become what I shall be.
A seeker with no need to own,
Just cradling stars that are unknown.

“The lantern I carry,” I said,
“Is not to chase the night away,
But just to dance in twilight’s hue —
And let the questions journey through.”

In the Quiet Corners of Curiosity”

“In the Quiet Corners of Curiosity”

What am I curious about?

Ah, what a gentle question — not demanding an answer, but rather inviting a silent meandering through the corridors of the soul, like a whispering wind brushing past half-opened doors of forgotten wonder.

Curiosity, for me, is not merely a spark — it is the eternal lamp that burns, flickers, and glows in the darkest corners of existence. It is the secret chord that connects the seen and the unseen, the known and the unknowable. I am curious not just about what lies beyond the stars, but also about what breathes beneath the surface of a smile, the meaning behind silence, and the stories trapped in a grain of dust.

The Unseen Threads of Being

I am curious about the space between moments — the intangible in-betweens where time seems to hold its breath. What colours do memories wear when no one is watching? Does a tree cry when the axe forgets its father was once a seed? Do echoes ever get tired of returning?

These may seem like abstractions, but in them lies a raw, poetic truth. Curiosity, after all, is not the thirst for information — it is the longing for intimacy with life itself. It is the soul’s way of reaching out, asking the universe, “Will you let me in?”

Of Nature and the Nameless

I am curious about the stillness of stones and the murmurs of moss. What do mountain peaks whisper to the clouds at dusk? How do rivers remember their origins while dancing wildly through bends and falls?

The fragrance of a jasmine bloom, the exact moment when dawn quietly overcomes the night — these fascinate me more than the mechanics of machines. Not because the latter are unimportant, but because the former hold a magic that resists explanation.

Curiosity, to me, is spiritual. It is a form of prayer — wordless, yet intimate. Like a seeker gazing at the stars, not to map them, but to feel them.

The Pages Unturned

I am endlessly curious about books I have not yet read, languages I do not speak, and cultures I have never walked through. Not to own them — no — but to let them transform me. To feel what it means to be someone else, somewhere else, with different dreams, fears, and faiths.

The unfinished manuscript of history, the paused sentences in ancient scriptures, the blank pages of a child’s imagination — all call to me. Not to be solved, but to be embraced.

The Eternal Why

I am curious about the divine — not in a ritualistic sense, but in the wild, uncontained sense of wonder. What does the soul remember that the mind has forgotten? Where do all the unspoken prayers go? Do they fall like dew on the petals of a higher truth?

Like the sages of old, like the wide-eyed child, I sit beneath the tree of time, not demanding fruit, but watching the dance of light between its leaves.

In silent awe, I seek the skies,
With ink-stained hands and dreaming eyes.
Where time dissolves and winds confess,
I chase the shadows thought forgets.

Beneath the veil of worldly noise,
I hear the hush of deeper voice —
A song unsung, a path unseen,
Between the stars and soul’s ravine.

Oh let me never cease to ask,
To lift the veil, unlearn the mask.
For what is life, if not the art,
Of holding wonder in the heart?

Curiosity, for me, is the soft hum of the cosmos reminding us that we are both question and quest.
Let it not die in the comfort of answers. Let it bloom — eternal, fragrant, and free.

And so I walk on, not to arrive, but to awaken!

“A Candle in the Fog: One Act, A Thousand Lights”

“A Candle in the Fog: One Act, A Thousand Lights”

There are moments in life that come unannounced—subtle, almost whispering in their arrival—yet they leave behind ripples that widen across the pond of existence. In the grand theatre of this world, where we all play fleeting roles, it is often the unscripted gestures, the unrehearsed acts of kindness, that illuminate the darker corners of another’s journey. One such moment remains etched in the ink of my memory, soft yet unshakeable.

It was a monsoon-drenched evening in a small hill-town where the rain wrote verses against tin rooftops and fog played hide-and-seek with the valley. I had gone seeking solitude—my usual companion on tired days—and paused under the trembling shelter of an old tea stall. The aroma of chai mingled with the earthy perfume of petrichor, and the world, for a fleeting second, felt musical and melancholy all at once.

She was there—an elderly woman wrapped in a tattered shawl, eyes clouded not just with age but with a quiet longing. Her palm trembled as she reached out, not with words, but with silence. Around her were scattered half-worn books, some missing covers, others missing entire endings—like her, perhaps, abandoned by those who once found value in them.

Something stirred in me—not pity, not sympathy—but a shared solitude. I sat beside her, bought her a cup of hot tea, and listened—not to tales, but to the eloquent pauses between them. Her story was one of quiet survival: once a teacher, now forgotten by her students and time alike, selling used books to make ends meet.

I returned the next day with fresh notebooks, pens, and a warm woollen scarf. I bought the remainder of her books, though I didn’t need them. I simply wanted her to feel read again, to be seen as someone whose pages hadn’t yellowed, whose chapters were still worth revisiting.

Weeks later, she was gone. The tea stall owner told me she had moved—someone took her in, an old friend perhaps. I like to imagine she found a home where her stories are told again, where her presence isn’t just tolerated but treasured.

We often think of kindness as a grand display—a public act of generosity. But real kindness is often invisible, intimate, and unrecorded. It lies in the sacred act of recognising the divine in another’s suffering and answering it not with noise, but with the soft hush of compassion.

In the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna says, “He who has no attachments can really love others, for his love is pure and divine.” And in those quiet moments of giving, when one expects nothing in return, love finds its most authentic expression.

And so I write, in stanzas soft,
Of moments when the world went aloft—
When silent tears met hands unasked,
And kindness wore no gilded mask.

A scarf of wool, a cup of tea,
Can birth a bond as vast as sea.
No trumpets sound, no banners fly,
Just souls that meet and softly sigh.

To be a candle in someone’s mist,
A warmth that sorrow can’t resist—
Such acts don’t shout, they merely shine,
Unseen, unheard, yet so divine.

Kindness need not announce itself. It only needs to be.

The Unseen Me: A Portrait in Verse

The Unseen Me: A Portrait in Verse

I am not the shade of skin I wear,
Nor the silver in my autumn hair.
I am not the frame that time has bent,
But dreams I’ve chased and days well spent.

I am the hush of morning dew,
The echo of a thought once true.
A fading hymn at vesper’s call,
A silent oath, a whispered sprawl.

I’ve taught beneath a banyan wide,
With chalk in hand and heart in stride.
In dusty rooms where futures bloom,
I planted hope and swept out gloom.

I’ve watched the sun through glass panes fall,
While poems rose on classroom wall.
My voice has held both truth and tears,
Warmed by youth, and cooled by years.

You cannot see the scars I hide,
But feel them in the words I bide.
From childhood lanes to starlit bends,
I’ve walked alone and called them friends.

I am the rain that kissed dry land,
The tremble of a reaching hand.
The laughter shared on twilight’s edge,
A prayer once carved on window ledge.

A book once lost and found again,
With notes in margins inked by pain.
A letter never sent nor read,
But cherished still for what it said.

I’m pages dog-eared, worn but wise,
A pilgrim under changing skies.
I’ve searched for light in darkest fears,
And learnt the weight of silent years.

I’m music played on rusted strings,
Yet still it soars, yet still it sings.
The scent of old forgotten tunes,
The dance of dusk beneath full moons.

Though you may not behold my face,
You’ll find me in a quiet place —
Where thoughts are soft and spirits true,
And silence paints what sight can’t view.

For I am not a man you see,
But soul and story — endlessly.
So feel the breeze, not where I stand,
But who I’ve been, and what I am.

“Some people are unseen, not because they hide —
but because they dwell where depth resides.”

The Unseen Me: A Portrait Beyond the Mirror

“The Unseen Me: A Portrait Beyond the Mirror“

If I were to introduce myself to someone who could not see me, I would not begin with my height or the colour of my eyes, nor the way my hair has silvered with time. For the essence of a man lies not in the contours of his face but in the contours of his character, not in how he appears under sunlight but in how he endures through stormlight.

I am the sum of my thoughts and the scent of my memories — a traveller of time, quietly walking through seasons of laughter and solitude. You might think of me as a river, not always rushing, not always still — shaped by the valleys I have passed, carving meaning through the rocks of routine and uncertainty.

If you touch my words, you will feel a texture of sincerity, sometimes wrapped in silence, sometimes rippling with resonance. My voice holds echoes of dusty classrooms, of chalkboards and young dreams, of philosophical debates under banyan trees and long walks beneath the stars.

I am a seeker — not of riches or renown — but of understanding. I find poetry in the rising mist and philosophy in the fading light. I believe in the gentle rustle of leaves as much as in the heavy weight of truth. The world, to me, is not just what is visible, but what vibrates within — a spectrum of feelings, ideals, faiths, and fragile hopes.

I would tell you that my gait may be slower now, but my will is no less fierce. That though years have crept upon my shoulders, they haven’t dimmed the fire in my belly nor the curiosity in my eyes. I am aged like autumn — crinkled, golden, and contemplative. But within, there still beats the song of spring.

You may not see the colour of my skin, but you can sense the colour of my kindness in my words. You may not observe the lines etched on my face, but you may read the lines I have etched into time — in the lives I’ve touched, the lessons I’ve taught, and the stories I still carry.

If I were music, I would be a soft hymn at dusk. If I were a tree, I’d be one with low-hanging branches that invite the weary to rest. If I were a book, I’d be a dog-eared volume of musings, both weighty and whimsical, annotated by experience and edited by grace.

I carry with me the bruises of battles fought within, and the balm of blessings received without asking. I have walked alone in crowded halls and found company in quiet corners. I laugh easily, cry rarely, and forgive often. I know the fragrance of loss, the music of hope, and the silence of surrender.

I am the unseen me — neither masked nor marred by the eyes that cannot see, but naked in my truth, robed in reflection, and adorned in dreams.

So, if you wish to know me, close your eyes and feel — for I am not the image you behold, but the soul you sense. And that, dear friend, is the truest way I wish to be known.

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” – Marcel Proust

Echoes I Did Not Answer

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Echoes I Did Not Answer

There are traditions that arrive like the morning sun—inevitable, warm, and full of ancestral glow. Passed through gestures more than words, these customs once painted my childhood with hues of incense, chants, whispered prayers, and silent reverence. And yet, as time advanced like an impatient tide, many of these rituals were left resting like unopened letters at the threshold of modernity. This is a reflection on the traditions I did not carry forth—those tender inheritances that faded into memory, like fragrances long dispersed.

The Slow Vanishing of Ritual Time

I recall how days once revolved not around the clock but around the bell—a brass clang marking morning offerings, the lighting of a lamp at twilight, the aroma of sacred herbs dancing with the wind. There was a serenity in repetition, in the cyclic cadence of devotion. Now, in the hurried pace of contemporary life, where dawn is chased by deadlines, that sacred slowness has grown rare. The lamp sits polished, perhaps admired, but often unlit. Not out of disbelief, but due to a misplacement of priorities. Time, once a sacred ally, has become a hurried taskmaster.

Songs Unsung and Seasons Unmarked

There were songs sung not for entertainment but for alignment—with the seasons, the stars, the harvest, the rains. These tunes tethered one to the soil, the skies, and the stories of the land. I no longer remember their exact melodies, only that they soothed the tired heart. Festivals, once anticipated with weeks of preparation, now arrive as mere calendar entries—reminders, not revelations.

There was a rhythm to the seasons, and with it, a harmony of action—fasting not for weight loss but for inner clarity, abstaining not as denial but as an honouring of cycles. Those meanings now lie like ancient scripts unread, covered by the dust of convenience.

The Language of Reverence

There was once a language of greeting where hands met in humble prayer, not just in gesture but in spirit. Today, communication is abundant, but connection feels thin. Reverence, once the bedrock of every interaction—with people, trees, animals, and gods—has turned performative, or worse, forgotten. The bow of the head, the silence before a meal, the gratitude before a journey—all were quiet rituals of belonging. Now, they flicker like candles in the wind of modernity.

Philosophy Now Muted

I was raised amidst metaphors, where rivers were goddesses and trees were sages. Philosophy flowed not from books but from everyday observations. A fallen leaf, a crow’s call, the steady flame—they all meant something. The world was a text to be interpreted with the heart. But slowly, that instinct to philosophise has been shelved, replaced by facts and figures, analytics and outcomes.

In this forgetting, something more than customs was lost—perhaps the soul’s compass, which once pointed not north, but inward.

Yet, Not All is Lost

To admit these absences is not to dismiss the past, nor to grieve it beyond repair. The spirit of tradition, I believe, is less about duplication and more about essence. Though the outer forms have faded, the inner yearning for meaning remains. I may not perform the exact rituals of old, but I seek their spirit in quiet meditations, in the turn of pages from wisdom texts, in the silent acknowledgement of dawn’s beauty or dusk’s mystery.

Perhaps traditions, like rivers, change their course yet remain rivers. Perhaps what I lost was not the entire ocean, but the shore I once stood on.

A Whisper to the Ancients

To those whose footsteps I no longer exactly follow: I have not forgotten you. I carry you, not in practice, but in pulse. I may not recite the same hymns, but I look at the stars with the same awe. I may not light the same lamp, but I yearn for the same light.

And so, while some echoes have gone unanswered, I still listen. I listen deeply.

The lamp may sleep, the chant grow faint,
The sacred thread now loose and quaint,
Yet in my heart the fire stays bright,
A quiet flame in modern night