My life, these days, all of a sudden, appears to be a tapestry of decisions
of tiny physical stature, draped in personal warmth. Like what to prepare
for Saturday breakfast table, not to get distracted by recipes for Spaghetti
and Lasagna in the book, resist the temptation to prepare Spinach and
sun-dried tomato pasta sauce or to fix a pair of sandwiches with a thin
layer of mildly fluffy scrambled eggs with cheese or to stand near the
kitchen window staring blankly at the picture frame or to think about
the man who sent me a picture of his breakfast – sausages, fried mushrooms
 and onions with feta cheese, creamy baked broccoli;

 breakfast.jpgjust to lie in the bed
 graffitising the wall with the messages about a revolution that escaped
 from the softest spot of my heart, or to crawl out of the bed to grind fresh
coffee, fill my frail lungs with its fresh aroma and sit around waiting for
the pot to boil and then sit down at the window-sill with the strong brew
to watch the performance of the sky glowing warm and pinkish orange
even after the sun sank below the horizon ; or to look back over my shoulder
at the dreams arrived at the old dilapidated station, as the darkness fell around
them like a blanket; Where to go, should I take that tree-dense street to feel
the cool wind on my face, or should I sit around with little children immersed
in a street-game that I played when I was a child; or to stand in front of the
old street-musician with my eyes pleading silently  for a sweet sidewalk song
on me;  or should I forget driving down to my meeting, stand wordless to
watch the beams of sunlight lancing through the trees; should I strike up a
conversation with that bunch of a half dozen squirrels chomping berries on
the high branches ; or should I slide under the branches drooping low under
the weight of raindrops, to cry out that dull throbbing pain scrubs my face every
night? Should I go against the DNA that defined my core so far in this life,    
*a sentimental fool who tends to murmur “I feel that our paths are beginning to
part” at times? or retain certain flavour of it, but walk down the narrow lanes 
of local baazar to acquire a hard-bodied mask that simply say “we are tired of each other”

*both the distinct philosophies are drawn out from Turgenev’s finest work “Fathers and Sons” . I have been a Sentimental fool, and the world has been taking me out for a grand ride in the skies, over the Mother loam, and I enjoyed it as a “Celebrity who so ridiculously believes that everything is designed for her happiness, which in reality is not so”  

{link takes you to Abhishek who interrupts everything, albeit with a pleasant touch  :Within my reach, I could have touched that dew drop sauntering soft across the purple skin of a bloom}