A Taste of Gold: The Meal That Cost More Than Money

A Taste of Gold: The Meal That Cost More Than Money

In the tapestry of life, there are moments stitched in silk and others in jute — each adding its own weight and worth. One such moment glistens still in the folds of my memory, not because of its extravagance alone, but because of the unexpected revelation it brought along. The most money I ever spent on a meal did not merely empty my wallet — it quietly questioned the balance between taste, value, and meaning.

It was a dinner at a renowned fine-dining establishment nestled atop a gleaming tower in a city that never truly slept. The setting was opulent — candlelit tables with ivory linen, a panoramic view of glittering lights stretched like a necklace of stars below, and waiters moving about like silent actors on a stage. The menu read more like a poetic scroll than a list of food: “Compressed melon with rosewater foam”, “saffron-infused sea bass on a bed of whispering quinoa“, and desserts adorned with edible gold leaf.

The bill? Astronomical. Enough to fund a week of simple living, or a modest donation to a child’s education. Yet, I paid it with a sense of wonder — not pride. Was it worth it?

The answer lives in the shadow of the question.

For what I tasted that night was not merely cuisine but craftsmanship — art born of patience, discipline, and the timeless quest to elevate necessity into celebration. Every bite was a testament to someone’s dream, someone’s passion plated with perfection. But was I full? Not entirely.

Philosophically, it reminded me of the Stoics — who believed the soul is fed not by abundance but by moderation. That richness without simplicity is mere noise. I realised that while I relished the textures and techniques, what I truly hungered for was warmth — the aroma of mustard seeds crackling in a humble kitchen, the crisp bite of a street vendor’s fritter on a rainy day, the laughter echoing in between morsels shared in silence with dear companions.

The most expensive meal, then, became a mirror — reflecting not indulgence but introspection.

We dine not only to survive but to savour. Yet, when the pursuit of the exotic overshadows the essence, we may find ourselves lost amidst gold dust, longing for the fragrance of home.

The silver spoon fed more than taste,
A fleeting joy, a lavish waste,
Yet in that hush, I saw so clear,
The meals that mattered linger near.

A bowl of broth, a loaf of bread,
With soulful tales quietly said,
Outshone the glint of gilded dish,
And served far more than one could wish.

So eat with heart, not hungry pride,
For meals are more when love’s inside;
And though I paid with notes that night,
I learned that warmth gives true delight.

In retrospect, the priciest meal I ever had was worth it — not for the flavours alone, but for the reflection it served. It was a reminder that sometimes, the richest tastes are not the rarest, but the most remembered.

Would I do it again? Perhaps. But I would always return to the simple plate — seasoned with love, humility, and soul.

The Beauty of a Pothole Dispute: Small‑Scale News, Big‑Hearted Reflections

The Beauty of a Pothole Dispute: Small‑Scale News, Big‑Hearted Reflections

In the midst of earth‑shaking headlines, I found solace in something thoroughly unremarkable: the UK’s longest‑running 70‑year pothole dispute on Whitebarns Lane in Hertfordshire  .

A motorist and carer named Sarah Wright has spent eight relentless years petitioning her council to fix a road that connects residents to local shops and services. The cause? The county council insists it’s merely a footpath, not subject to resurfacing obligations. Meanwhile, drivers—and at least one partially sighted resident—navigate a crumbling lane, one pothole at a time  .

A Blog on the Banality That Speaks

1. The Uninteresting Core

At first glance, this story is devoid of spice: no scandal, no conflict, no politics—just tarmac, council bureaucracy and slow‑motion civic inertia. It’s unexciting by design—a familiar fixture in local papers, destined to be ignored by national headlines.

2. How It Ties to My Life

I once lived in a quiet suburban street where a single week of resident complaints persuaded the council to repaint faded white road markings. Observing how small, mundane civic acts can ripple through a neighbourhood felt akin to Sarah Wright’s quiet persistence. In my case, a few emails led to clarity on parking lines—hardly earth‑shattering, yet deeply satisfying.

3. A Philosophical Lens

This is a tale of Sisyphean perseverance in miniature. Unlike the tragic absurdity of Tantalus or Sisyphus, Sarah’s aim is narrow yet noble: a safe access road. Her efforts echo Camus’s reflections on revolt—steadfast even when the odds are small and the audience smaller.

The pothole dispute becomes symbolic: the path we inhabit, whether literal or metaphorical, may deteriorate over time. We might patch things with letters, calls, or quiet civic engagement—but often the change is glacial, and yet meaningful.

4. Poetic Imagination

Picture the lane as a scar across a quiet cul-de-sac. Each pothole, a bruise on the skin of everyday life. Sarah’s letters are gentle stitches—one after another, imperfect, sometimes invisible—but persistent.

In my imagination, cars bounce down this lane like softly tumbling stones, reluctant participants in a slow dance over rough asphalt. Streetlights cast elongated shadows at dusk, accentuating each crater, each crack, as if punctuating the passage of small, uncelebrated time.

5. Sensitive Orientation

This is not just about potholes—it’s about accessibility, dignity, and small community members whose voices often go unheard. The partially sighted resident, the social‑housing tenants, even the kindly carer—they live daily with each bump. Sarah’s fight is theirs too, and perhaps mine.

Why Celebrate the Uninteresting?

It invites slow reflection. In a world hungry for sensationalism, noticing the mundane can slow our pace, centre our thoughts, and help us reconnect with everyday challenges.

It affirms quiet agency. A single person’s persistence—Sarah’s eight‑year journey—reminds us that change isn’t always sweeping; often it’s stitch‑by‑stitch.

It nurtures empathy. We may never meet those affected by Whitebarns Lane, but their struggle is a mirror—for anyone who’s ever felt ignored by bureaucracy, or small in the larger tapestry.

This quiet dispute over road status doesn’t threaten the pillars of society—but it holds space for reflection. So I raise a glass to the uninteresting, knowing it is precisely there that small lives continue, that voices persist, and that meaning may whisper rather than roar.

In a way, our lives are full of these potholes—small obstacles, minor irritants. Yet each time we write, speak up, push for clarity, we perform our own gentle revolt. In that sense, the uninteresting becomes quietly profound.

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.