The old legend says, that when the forest dwelling Hermit dies a seed is planted in his mouth. He is buried vertically in the earth from where an ancient tree begins its life all over again…But what if the soul of old Hermit reborn in a place, where are no roots?
I hesitated for publishing this story quite late, but there’s a beauty in rewinding. Makes me appreciate how all those days have become of me. The clever fall of dominoes of life events that led me to still standing. A very happy new year to all!
Thoughts inspired by Atheena Wilson's booty shaking anti-bachelorette tea party with wine. The journey of womankind from being ripe for the marriage market to become the Goddess. All in Frida Kahlo style with blessings of Her Highness Princess Gouri Parvathi Bayi.
Growing up with someone brutally honest, I knew she always wanted to teach us beauty lay in how content we were with ourselves not the one that thrived in compliments. Another person’s opinion of how you look never mattered if you don’t know how you look.
Ten years from now, we would remember how we set off to Pondi one summer. Sometime again I suppose, I would be sauntering in eye-clashing clothes in another city, but my first one would always be Pondicherry.
Usually during Onam, I used to see pavements lined with flower markets in Kochi. I grew up hearing tales on how flowers were transported from Tamil Nadu, but this was another world. The stalls were divided by stunning velvety rose garlands.
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