Bougainvilleas

If you ask me what the elixir of life is, I'd  say,  SLEEP. Truly! You feel reborn every morning, kind of. The cheer, energy, and enthusiasm levels are gobsmacking after just 6 hours of very sound sleep. My definition of sound sleep is not waking up even once in between.  Another thing that contributes to a great day is waking up early. No, not the 5 AM club early, just 7 AM and definitely before 8 AM. You have so much of the day left, and this reduces the constant feeling of running out of time and consequent rush and anxiety. Every move is well thought through in a very natural manner, akin to breathing. I cook better after a good night's sleep because I cook with my head, and that is less tiring than cooking with my heart weakened by less sleep. I optimize all movements in the kitchen by reducing repetitive tasks. Okay, I won't wax lyrical; suffice it to say, it is indescribably enabling. If my day unfurls like a beautifully endless, well-manicured garden at 6:30 AM, I c

The Indian idea of children looking after parents  has to change to be a little  healthier.  I know I sound brutal and uncaring. But in India, one of the primary reasons why a child is borne is that the child will look after you in your old age. When I married at  the age of  45, I  was told  I should have a kid - so that I am "looked after in my old age ". "Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of  Life's  longing for itself.  They came through you but not from you  and  though they are with you  yet  they  belong not to you."  Khalil Gibran I did not think of "insuring my old age" by bearing a progeny because I believe in Mr. Gibran. And I have some romantic ideas about my unborn child.  I think  I love my child so much that I wouldn't bring it into a world where I may not be around to love and protect it. And I also believe in pumping my children with  a lot of  unconditional love and setting them free. And  no  co

  At the risk of sounding repetitive as a parrot, what I really need in my writing arsenal is a recordist of some kind that will capture the alluring waterfall of my thoughts, in its utmost natural flow, in some physical space. Because the minute I sit to write my thoughts down, the water from the waterfall either muddies up or dries up. I moved into a new apartment and borrowed the erstwhile tenant's sewing needle. A couple of them actually. And fabulous needles they are. I have done a large part of my hand quilting with said needles. The needles have achieved their purpose of a countless pokes into cloth. For some reason, this thought fascinates me. A simple, humble, thin, abandoned needle has quietly achieved its life purpose. The best favor you could do to your writing self is to be just you. Doesn't matter if you are boring, inarticulate, and/or have nothing interesting to say. What matters is having your own voice. Croak hoarsely or speak with a lilt, but never mimic

Feels like I might slowly, very very slowly, be crawling back to writing? Not sure if it is a good thing at all for me. Because writing does make me feel terribly inadequate at times. And self-loathsome too. But it sure won't kill, will it? So..... I have decided I am going to write like nobody is reading me. I am going to write like I care a hang. I am going to write like my hands are just typing out my thoughts. I am going to write like I am freeing my chest, emptying my head. I am going to write like I have no friend to talk to except paper. I am going to write without any goal or direction and see where it takes me, what it does for me and not for others. I am going to write to bring a smile to my face. I am going to write because emotion moved me. I am going to write because I moved clutter out of my life. I am going to write to chuckle aloud, guffaw if possible. I am going to write to talk about my feeling of contentment and absenc

 Funerals were always hard Their sorrow obliterated the sunniest of rays We lamented good Lester gone too soon We sent bittersweet thanks Jane is free of pain Funerals are now precious Yes, Tom, Mary, Robert no longer suffer Sure, they went to God But without a loving congregation bidding them farewell.

Some of my latest published work.... https://spillwords.com/over-the-moon-by-rekha-rajgopal/ https://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2021/05/identity.html https://www.fridayflashfiction.com/100-word-stories/routine-by-rekha-rajgopal