Thirty Sparks of Joy: A Soul’s Ode to Happiness”

“Thirty Sparks of Joy: A Soul’s Ode to Happiness”

In the mosaic of existence, happiness is not a grand palace, but a series of small windows letting in golden light. It dances in subtle corners, hides behind clouds, and echoes softly in the chambers of solitude. To some, happiness is a destination; to others, a journey. For me, it is the gathering of quiet moments — humble, poetic, and profound — each a droplet that fills the chalice of the soul.

Below is a tapestry woven with thirty such elements — threads that brighten the loom of my days and infuse my spirit with quiet euphoria.

Thirty Things That Make Me Happy

1. The aroma of old books in silent libraries, whispering stories of bygone souls.

2. A cup of strong tea on a rainy afternoon — warm, strong, and contemplative.

3. The first light of dawn, like God sketching hope across a darkened sky.

4. A walk on an untrodden path, strewn with wildflowers and whispers of wind.

5. Raindrops on parched earth, a union of sky and soil.

6. Classical music on a quiet evening, where every note becomes a meditation.

7. The sight of birds in flight, untethered and poetic.

8. A sudden breeze, carrying memories uninvited yet welcome.

9. An unexpected smile from a stranger, echoing shared humanity.

10. The sound of temple bells or church hymns, reverberating through ancient air.

11. An honest conversation, where souls undress without shame.

12. Finding a feather, delicate and divine — a signature of serenity.

13. The rustling of autumn leaves, like nature writing a letter in sepia tones.

14. Waves crashing upon a silent shore, the universe speaking in syllables.

15. Writing a verse, where words bleed emotions unknown even to me.

16. The smell of sandalwood and incense, merging memory with mysticism.

17. Seeing an old tree still standing, a philosopher with roots.

18. Watching children play, their laughter purer than doctrine.

19. A sudden compliment, simple yet symphonic.

20. Solitude in a forest, where silence is not an absence but a presence.

21. Finding a lost object, like reclaiming a piece of self.

22. The flutter of a butterfly, reminding me how brief yet beautiful life is.

23. A well-cooked meal, not gourmet, but made with intent and heart.

24. Starry nights, where constellations counsel quietly.

25. Lighting a candle in darkness, the smallest defiance against despair.

26. A handwritten letter, inked in affection.

27. A clean desk, the joy of order in a chaotic world.

28. Remembering a dream, and wondering what it meant.

29. Silence between close friends, more sacred than speech.

30. Helping someone unknowingly, like throwing light into the void.

Each of these joys may seem trifling, almost forgettable — but isn’t that the essence of happiness? It tiptoes in, without fanfare. It doesn’t ask for permission or explanation. It simply is. A child of the now. A grace note in the symphony of life.

In whispers of wind and shadows of trees,
I find my peace, I bend my knees.
Joy is not loud, nor dressed in gold,
It’s found in moments soft and old.

A book, a breeze, a bell that rings,
The hush of twilight when the robin sings.
These thirty sparks — not bought, not sold —
Are treasures more than vaults can hold.

So let me not chase the thunder’s cry,
But gather the stars that blink and sigh.
In fleeting things, my heart shall stay,
For happiness walks the quiet way.

Let us then, not wait for happiness in grand arrivals. It often arrives, barefoot and unnoticed, in the simplest acts — waiting to be named, honoured, and embraced!

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