Ink & Insight Issue 9 (May 2026).
Dear Crafters ✍️,
Welcome to the ninth edition of Ink & Insight!
With every new edition of this e-magazine, we are happy to share voices, ideas, and creativity of our ever-growing 'Content Crafters Collective'. Yes! Now we are not just Content Crafters but 'Content Crafters Collective'. It means voices coming together and growing together. Because creativity was never meant to exist alone.
This collective carries pieces that are thoughtful, honest and some, deeply personal. From reflective blogs to expressive poetry, from powerful storytelling to insightful quotes, each contribution reminds us why we started. Words matter and so do the people, who write them, with conviction and courage.
With gratitude and ink stained smiles,
Team Content Crafters Collective.
Editor's desk:
Jui Purohit,
Founder, Content Crafters Collective.
Editor, Ink & Insight.
Hello readers!
I'm a published poet and a writer who collects words -just like we collected stamps in our childhood: too many yet not enough! Ergo, my first book of poetry is 'Words became Poetry'. Later, I published two more books, 'Words Became Poetry - All About Love' and 'Echoes of Seasons'. Six online published novellas, numerous blogs added to my kitty, and with a passion of storytelling, I intended to start a community to encourage more writers. In a hope of growing together with them, sharing words and shinning together, I started Content Crafters Collective.
And here, I wear two hats -as the founder of Content Crafters Collective and the editor of this e-magazine, Ink & Insight.
Through Content Crafters Collective and Ink & Insight, my aim has always been to nurture creativity, celebrate consistency and help writers see their words find a meaningful place.
As you read through the pages of this edition too, I hope you smile, pause, and maybe even pick up your pen again. Because Ink & Insight isn't just a magazine, it's a reflection of each of you and your craft.
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Swati Mohandas,
Creative Partner Content Crafters Collective.
Co-editor, Ink & Insight.
Hello readers!
I have always been drawn to words, their power and it is thrilling to see my work take shape. My debut poetry book, ‘Myriad Whispers‘ has been a dream come true and the award is a cherished recognition. I have also had the pleasure of contributing to anthologies, sharing my musings with others.
Content Crafters Collective is a community that celebrates creativity and when the creative partner role came up, I knew I had to jump in!
I am looking forward to reading, sharing and creating prompts that ignite imagination.
Ink & Insight, is an e-magazine that spotlights on the incredible power of words, showcasing talented writers and engaging readers in a shared love of literature.
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We didn't just get a new name this month, but also decided to take a pause from regular weekly prompts, to reflect and relax. So that we can be back with new vigor and more creative ideas for the next month.
We conducted some light activities on our platforms this month to keep the creativity flowing in a relaxed way.
WhatsApp -
#CCPause - Write without pressure.
Prompt: 'The mirror didn't reflect me today.....' Add a line to continnue the story.
Sujata Maggoo - "It showed the girl I used to be, still waiting for me to come back"....only the version of me I had buried years ago stared back!
Anwesha Bhattacharya - "Armed with resilience and courage she forged her way into the future, yet to be unfolded....."
Vanishree Venugopal - "The long curly hair, plaited beautifully with care by amma, the big inquisitive kajal smeared eyes, the permanent naughty smile indicated by a sweet curved lip line, reminded me, "hey come on", there's a lot more happiness and fun to experience, the road goes on!"
Poornima Sivaraman - "You are leading and I'm happy to see you're followed and respected by many".
Shashi Thakur - "but it knows that I'm still that sweet, happy, carefree, giggling, bright-eyed, and innocent soul locked in it forever whatever my age".
Marilyn Evans - "It said keep going".
Medha Joshi - "Perhaps it failed to recognise what I'm today and what I was yesterday".
Charulata Panigrahi - "It wishes me happy mothers day".
Purnima Santhakumar - It showed a version pf me 5 years down the line and ordered, "Pull up your socks and start today!".
Pragyan Parimita Nanda - As my inner child quietly said, "Playing all the roles sometimes, I needed love, comfort not scars and life lessons".
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Facebook -
'CCC Appreciation Letters' -
Prompt: Write a short letter to a fellow crafter, whose work, words, or presence you admire.
Madhu Mehrotra -
Dear fellow CCC,
To pick one as an inspiration would be unfair to the equally important effort of the others. Writing and shining is a common trait. The thoughtful prompts, an opportunity each month to express in long blogs or monostitches displays the skills of the writers.
Each one is a ⭐, first timers, writing continuously or just giving a try, keeps the community warm and close knit.
Enjoy the rest, all the best and continue to better at each test.
😇😇😇💐💐💐😇😇😇😇
madhu💕💕💕
Anu Budhrani -
Dear Poornima Sivaraman,
You are a special writer,
Who makes things lighter.
You use simple vocabulary ,
And yet make your point felt with accuracy .
Keep encouraging us with your writing ,
As we enjoy giving them a reading .
Regards
Anu Budhrani.
Marilyn Evans -
Dear Poornima Sivaraman,
All call you Amma, I will call you, teacher. Your stories are sweet and full of positivity. I enjoy reading them. You are almost the first Crafter and l love your spirit of being an early riser. You teach us especially aunties like me in the 40's to be cheerful and happy with singing, cooking and writing. God bless you with good health and more cheerful days. I am happy to be friends with you through another writing group and see you active in different writing spaces. Keep blogging and keep writing.
Regards,
Marilyn Evans
Poornima Amma -
1. Dear Jui,
Actually it is difficult for me to pick a single person here in our CCC family.
Jui has been kind and I could call or message any time for help or suggestion.
Blessings to each crafter.
Stay blessed.
Poornima Sivaraman ( Amma).
2. Dear shashi Thakur ,
You are one of the writers whose words speak volumes, with a gentle soft deep meaning. Keep penning. Thanks for helping me when I needed them. Stay blessed. Have good health, dear.
Your Poornimna Didi.
Vanishree Venugopal -
Dear CCC❤️team,
I am a new comer here. Gratitude for cheering me and appreciating the little I contribute here.
Its really hard to just pick one member and convey my wishes! Thrilled with each prompt you create, and hats off to all your creativity!
First of all immense thanks to Poornima Sivaraman for giving me the introduction to this page, love you dear, and all that you write too. You have inspired me to participate here, and thanks so much for the motivation too.
Dear Sujatha Maggoo ma'am, all that you write awes me, and I started reading more, just because of your poems and stories. Thanks for that!
Marilyn Evans, Amrin Sathar and many others here, many of whom I actually dont know your ids, its a pleasure reading and travelling this space together with you all. I wish you all good luck.
Happy to be a fellow writer here in this group.
Love, blesssings and regards,
Pushkasmom Smule
Sonika Lowe -
Dear Nibedita Rajguru,
I love your deep and inspiring writing. There's so profound in your writing that makes me slow down to let it sink gradually into my core. Your writing speaks as well as listens to me. Keep writing and keep inspiring!
Love,
Sonika.
Geeta Pattahil -
Dear Marilyn Evans,
Today I would like to appreciate yur writing skills. Though we never met in person and the chances are dim, as I go through your tiny tales, short stories, crafting something from the given prompt, I feel something lights up my mood on a bad day. Your characters are always same as James (SRK for you) and Marilyn (Madhuri Dixit). They give me some light moments. No big words but simple, just to create a small story. Thanks dear. Warm wishes to you, to grow by each day as a wordsmith and a model teacher.
With Love,
GeePee.
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Instagram -
Prompt: 'Writing feels like _______ to me".
Beautifully expressed words -
Sujata Maggoo - A quiet conversation between my sould and my world.
Amoli Bhade - A way to connect with my soul.
Shilpa Chakravarty - A window, that opens into a world where I have the freedom of expression.
Amrita Mallik - Clearing my space.
Nibedita Rajguru - Meditation.
Kirti V - Catharsis and a channel to vent out my feelings.
Poornima Sivaraman - A feeling that I've let out my inner accumulation of thoughts.
Sonika Lowe - Liberating.
Amrin Sathar - Therapy.
Navita Goel - God's gift, that tells me I'm enough as I'm, I don't need anyone's validation.
Sheetal Joshi - Meditation, life and just being me.
Anwesha Bhattcharya - Catharsis.
Purnima Santhakumar - Space where I can express my feelings that I can't show.
Arwa Saifi - Gratifying.
Seema Dhameja - Like creator must've felt when he created each thing....sometimes content with the outcome, sometimes disappointed.
Marilyn Evans - Magoc pen pouring out emotions.
Hema Panwar - Breathing space.
Writa Bhattacharjee - Home to me.
Anuradha Mahajan - Giving my thoughts wings.
Madhu Mehrotra - Breathing.
Vanishree Venugopal - Relief, outlet of emotions, healing, opening, communication, real - no reel, connection, declutter, constructive usage of time, release of anxiety, pausing of chaos.
Pragyan Parimita Nanda - Ventilating the hidden core.
Geetha Pattahil - Where I'm the writer of my hewart's emotions, the lone reader of the same and the judge too.
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Sometimes the hardest journeys create the strongest souls. Born into a strict middle-class joint family, I faced many challenges from an early age, including losing my mother when I was very young. Though I scored excellent marks, I was not allowed to pursue the Science stream and instead chose Literature, where I continued to excel and even secured a government job at the age of nineteen. After marriage, moving from South India to North India brought cultural and personal struggles, but I faced them with courage and determination. My passion for writing began in Class 7, though I was once scolded for it in school. Today, that same passion has led me to become an acclaimed teacher, writer, mentor, and author of books like “Seasons of the Soul,” “Teaching Touched by Graceful Learning,” “The Class That Forgot Time,” and “Unlock Your Brilliance,” a recommended book for school children in Delhi. I have worked in nearly fifteen schools, guided teachers through the British Council, mentored young authors, and received several prestigious awards including the Swami Vivekananda Award, Inspiring Women Award 2025, and the Best Teacher Award. The dreams I could not fulfil for myself, I achieved through my children by supporting and guiding them towards successful lives. "A woman becomes unstoppable when she turns her pain into purpose and her struggles into inspiration".
To watch the 'Member Book Spotlight' video,
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The Crafting Table
Where conversations spark and ideas simmer!
This month our crafters shared what they feel about Content Crafters Collective -
Our Crafters shared their thoughts with us -
Arwa Saifi:
'Content Crafters Collective' is truly a wonderful platform for both upcoming and established writers. It provides a creative space where talent is appreciated, voices are heard, and ideas are beautifully nurtured. What makes this platform special is the encouragement and opportunities it offers to writers from different backgrounds, helping them grow with confidence and showcase their work to a wider audience.
The platform not only promotes creativity but also builds a strong community of passionate writers who inspire one another through their words. Whether you are taking your first step into the world of writing or are already an experienced author, 'Content Crafters Collective' gives every writer the respect, exposure, and motivation they deserve. A truly inspiring platform for literary minds.
Madhu Mehrotra:
A Page for those who enjoy expressing creatively. Appreciating good work and encouraging to carry on. Thankyou!
Kirti V:
An ideal place to hone your writing skills with varied and interesting prompts.
Shashi Thakur:
CCC is one of the best and the most wonderful online writing platforms currently. The core team is highly encouraging and ignites the writers here, to pen down amazing quotes, stories, poems and blogs too.
The prompts given are simply out of the box in terms of imagination, that makess writing so much fun and satisfying. Plus the bond amongst the writing community is strong, supportive and very cheerful.
We thank all the Crafters for their kind words and feedback! These comments motivate us to perform better.
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Community Highlights
Where we relive the buzz of the month!
CC Golden Authors' Challenge -
The Golden Authors Challenge — a monthly creative initiative where our member authors share inspiring prompts and offer their own books as prizes. A celebration of storytelling, creativity, and the vibrant voices of Content Crafters.
Join us 3rd Sunday of every month, in celebrating creativity—pick up the prompt, pen your thoughts, and become a part of this growing circle of storytellers.
Write, create, and stand a chance to win a story while telling your own.
Golden Author of May 2026 - Jui Purohit.
Give Away Prize: "Words Became Poetry - All About Love"
Prompt: Write a story where love is never directly expressed, yet deeply felt.
Winners and their winning entries -
Anwesha Bhattcharya -
Defying the infertility reports, Pratibha sobbed happy tears, as she showed the two pink lines which ascertained her pregnancy, to Rohan, her husband. Rohan was ecstatic as the news arrived after eight long years of waiting. He took the utmost care, making sure everything was in place, to secure the needs of the mommy-to-be and their child.
After an arduous labour, Pratibha gave birth to a bonny little boy who soon became the apple of her eyes. However, the tide turned, and within a fortnight she started abhorring the daily rituals of feeding, cleaning, changing and bathing her little one.
Pratibha would helplessly hold her son and cry inconsolably, as Rohan watched without a clue. The doctor diagnosed her with postpartum depression and offered a counselling session to Rohan. Rohan could go miles to see Pratibha smile, and he agreed wholeheartedly.
With his gentle, nurturing and caring ways, he became a hands-on dad to allow Pratibha some rest from the exhaustion. Pratibha didn't fail to notice Rohan's kindness and gradually came out of her depressive state. She started engaging in the kitchen and tended to their garden, while both took turns to look after their toddler
The storm passed as Rohan anchored their love with thoughtfulness and courage.
In turn, he was rewarded as Pratibha's eyes glowed with admiration and delight, whenever she looked at him! Indeed, love had woven its nest in their abode, and together they pledged to sail through all that was in store...
Marilyn Evans -
Rhea was in the eighth standard when she first saw Rijo during the Easter Mass at the open grounds of Bharat Natyam Mandir. In those days, she was obsessed with Akshay Kumar, and with her perfect figure and secret lipstick, she carried herself like a filmi heroine. Then she turned and saw him.
Rijo sat behind her among his friends with pink lips, a soft feminine voice, and handsome eyes that reminded her of Akshay Kumar. She kept looking at him until his friends laughed, “Rijo, look, she is staring at you".
One day he followed her from school, trying to find her house. Smart enough, Rhea entered another gate. Yet one evening, while eating kulfi in her balcony, she saw him cycling nearby, searching for another glimpse of her.
Soon, church became more than prayer. She went hoping to see him. He attended her Confirmation ceremony and watched proudly as she read the Bible with style. Later, they studied in the same college, and even her friends knew about the silent story between them.That one glance became seven years of silent madness.
But there was never an “I love you.”
Then came the rumours of his marriage plans. Around the same time, Rhea’s mother underwent heart surgery, and church people helped their family financially. They were labelled poor. Deep inside, Rhea wondered if Rijo knew she could never bring dowry.
He eventually married a dusky girl, while Rhea, whom many compared to Snow White, was left only with memories, lipstick, and unanswered glances.
Today she laughs without bitterness. “Rijo,” she thinks sometimes, “you were never a superhero, nor a zero. Just a small man with big eyes and a cowardly heart.”
Amrita Mallik -
Title: That Little Girl..
“Ma, today is Mother's Day. Happy Mother's Day..”
In her own broken way, she replies, “Thank you, beta,” with tears rolling down her cheeks.
The morning happens early in this home, especially for the devout caregiver, the youngest girl. She ensures no stone is unturned for her bedridden Ma, her aged father, her pet, Rony, and even for herself. Her elder sister works, and so she is out of the house for the major part of the day. In the evening, although she returns tired, she too joins her in the household work.
"After all, if I'm unfit I can’t take care of my family.”
The younger girl knows her mental and physical strength is of utmost importance. So, she begins her day accordingly.
Ever since the day Ma had suffered a stroke things had taken a drastic turn. The carefree girl had to step into Ma’s shoes- and much more. She knows maintaining her Ma entails a huge cost. She remotely works for a company, realising how her father's paltry pension and her sister's portion are insufficient.
Her father does whatever he can, from oil massaging his wife to adjusting the rented hospital bed for her. However, his age and health don't permit him to strain himself for long.
It's Rony who seems to understand her the most. It quietly sits while she is cooking. Sometimes it gives her Ma company. It never leaves her side. When she breaks down on the roof or in the kitchen, and starts crying secretly, it rushes to give her the warmest hug. Its cold and moist nose against her skin, revives her.
From that blithe, nonchalant girl to an awakened, responsible and ever-alert woman, she has already come a long way. Nonetheless, she cherishes the unbeatable and unparalleled peace in her heart.
Madhu Mehrotra -
At the war torn border of Rajasthan, a teenager stood pleading with the tall, uniformed, armed guard.
“Just a few minutes, I will go till the third door and be back.”
The guard laughed, “No one crosses the border. Disobey, be ready to die.”
The soldier was not to be shaken.
A few months ago, the teenager had visited the village fair across the border. On his way back, he had halted near the third door. Bright ochre designs of circles and wavy lines decorated the palms and fingers that stretched out from behind the curtain.
Two weeks later, he tied a silver finger ring, two dozen bangles and a bamboo flute in a pink handkerchief and left it in the alcove near the third door across the border.
He often thought, “Surely the hennaed hands closed into buds to let the bangles slip to the wrist, as the ring fitted the finger below the tip and the flute sits lightly on her lips. ”
Bansi lay sleepless.
“If only the war would end, I could go across”.
Each passing day, he pleaded, “Just once, let me go to the third door.”
He dozed. He ran to the third door. The pink handkerchief was in the alcove.
Bansi picked it, the flute, ring and bangles gone only a silver neck piece.
The curtain moved,
“Is that you Bansi?”
“Yes, you, Hansuli?”
“Yes, I - Hansuli, my neck piece, so you know my name?”
“The flute, so you know my name, Bansi.”
The arms came out. The bangles on the wrist, ring on the finger, palms hennaed with the entwined name, holding the flute.
The boy unfolded the kerchief, he saw Bansihansuli, embroidered on the pink handkerchief.”
“Wake up.” He turned
“For you.” said the soldier, handing over a silver neck piece.
Anuradha Mahajan -
The orange glow of the late 90s streetlamps always felt cozy, but to her mother, standing by the iron gate, those hours were an agonising stretch of silence. There were no cell phones to bridge the gap, only a ticking clock. When she finally walked up, laughing with friends, her mother’s anxious face would soften. A quick hug, and the irritation would melt into a gentle, "Are you hungry? Tired?"
She would roll her eyes with the fierce independence of a college student. "Why do you always wait? I'm grown up now."
Her mother would smile and whisper, "You’ll understand when you have your own."
Twenty-five years later, the world’s digital, filled with instant pings. Yet, here she was, standing by the window, staring at the empty driveway. Her son’s college lectures had ended hours ago.
When headlights finally flashed through the darkness, her heart did a relieved dance. Her son walked in, looking exasperated. "Mom, you’re still up? You don't have to wait, I'm not a kid."
She didn't lecture him. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped him in a tight hug. As she pulled back, the words slipped out effortlessly: "Are you hungry? I kept dinner warm."
History had recycled its favorite script. Love doesn't need to shout, it survives quietly in the spaces between words, passed down like a sacred heirloom. True affection isn't always loud; it is a quiet, enduring vigil. Waiting is, and always will be, a love language.
“Love never truly requires words to be felt deeply. Its quiet gestures are scattered everywhere around us - in a waiting light, a saved meal, in a hug, in a patient glance.. we only need to open our hearts to notice them."
Vanishree Venugopal -
NOT ALO(VE)UD
I opened my eyes for a second, but the splitting headache pushed me under the blanket. Having a special child, sleepless nights were common, but the extra five minutes under the blanket is something I yearn for, every morning.
Heaving a sigh, I reached out for the balm, I was just better after a high temperature. The clock gave me a hint that I was running behind, by twenty minutes. Cooking for three people is usual on any other day, but a himalayan task, with less time on hand.
Anxious, I rushed into the kitchen. "Check the sugar", my husband handed over a cup of tea, touching my forehead, and went about cutting vegetables. The cooker was on, and he was helping my child with her stuff, amidst all these.
I realised my head felt comfortable already, with just a soft touch and smile from my better half. "Take it easy, I'm here with you", his silent message transferred, without words.
"Sharing is caring". To share responsibilities, help with commitments, without vocalising, is what I have felt with him.
The day's work had worn us out. We needed "caring" beyond expectations, helping each other without queries, not "adjustments". My husband read a story that calmed our child, and also made sure I took my medications. Standing with me, assisting without request was his nonverbal, "I care for you". A look that speaks volumes, and checks if I have had my meal on time. These moments are silent experiences, sans filmy dialogues.
By being present, understanding situations,, spontaneous actions without demands, we communicate love, not just expressed at candle lit dinners, expensive gifts or cakes! A knowing hug, a concerned look, an assuring touch, walking together, are our silent ways of exchanging the three words "I love you ".
Sujata Maggoo -
The house didn’t turn empty overnight.
It took place gradually.
The first thing to go silent was the cluttered desk, followed by the washing machine’s twice-a-day cycle. The fridge started staying full for days, while even the clock in the living room started ringing louder.
When my kids left for foreign lands, everybody around seemed happy for me.
“Surely you must feel proud.”
And they were right.
Time zones came easier to me than recipes. Instead of waiting for morning sunlight, I had to wait until the first kid could take some time off after finishing his/her shift at work and my second child returned home from university. My cellphone was always charged and volume was always on loud.
Every day, I used to cut fruits into three bowls just to find out that only one was needed.
My new audience consisted of plants kept on the balcony. Every time I watered them, I gazed up in the sky and wondered about how many kilometers the clouds travelled when crossing national borders.
There was something new about every festival now.
For instance, Diwali used to be about joyous laughter reverberating across rooms, quarrels regarding fairy lights, missing cushions, loud music blasting from their rooms. But things were much more organized than before.
And yet, every year, I would prepare their favourites.
An extra paratha would stay in foil-wrapped glory.
A particular room would remain untouched.
A specific cupboard would preserve their lingering scent.
Occasionally, late at night, messages came:
“Ma, have you slept?”
Or a photo of the snowfall, burnt pasta, untidy homes, weary smiles.
But I would scrutinize these pictures to make sure that they wore enough clothing.
When having video chats, I did not say a single word regarding missing them.
Instead, I would ask:
“Have you eaten?”
“Are you taking the umbrella?”
“Why do you look so tired?”
And each time the phone conversation was done,I used to enter their rooms for no particular reason—fixing a sheet that nobody slept under, wiping the dust off books that were no longer opened.
It was quieter than before.
But with each flickering light left turned on, each beloved treat kept, and every quiet prayer uttered in the dark—they were still there.
K.B.Janaki -
Extra Sugar
Every morning at 5:30, Arun woke to familiar sounds. The steel tumbler touching the kitchen counter. The spoon stirring tea. Then the television news shouting about rising petrol prices, costly groceries, and ration sugar lasting only twenty days for most families.His father listened to every update carefully.
Sometimes he folded the newspaper and muttered softly, “Everything becoming costly except salary,” before drinking his tea.Appa loved sweet tea. He used to add extra sugar even when Amma warned him about diabetes. But one June morning, Arun noticed something strange.
Appa drank his tea without sugar.“Doctor told me to reduce,” he said casually.Soon, sugar disappeared from his tea completely. Yet he kept warning everyone else not to waste sugar.“
“Sugar is not free.”
Arun found it funny at first.
One Sunday, Arun went to the grocery shop instead. The shopkeeper packed items in the list carefully into covers before sighing heavily.
“What to do nowadays?
Sugar cost is more now. Who is going to reduce the sugar in your house this time?”
The words stayed with Arun all the way home. That evening he noticed something properly for the first time. The sugar container at home was almost empty, but the milk vessel was full till the top.
During tea time, Amma poured milk generously for twins’ tumblers and into Arun’s. None into Appa’s tea. Appa drank the bitter tea quietly without expression.
The next morning Arun woke early. He prepared tea. Added extra sugar and milk into one tumbler placed it before father.
Appa stared a bot. Arun said, “Someone in this house should stay alive.”
For a moment, his father said nothing. Then he slowly lifted the tumbler and drank. Too much milk and sugar. Exactly the way he liked it.
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'Reigning Queen' 👑 of Words, May 2026 is
'Arwa Saifi'
Your writing speaks with depth, grace, and sincerity that never go unnoticed. Every piece you craft, reminds us that true creativity is not measured by presence alone, but by the impact words leave behind. We proudly celebrate you— for your artistry, expression, and the quiet magic you bring to the collective.
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The Reigning Queens:
This feature is a celebration of the remarkable voices we have honoured so far—writers who have stood out not only for their talent, but for the spirit, sincerity, and passion they bring to our creative space. We proudly revisit and celebrate all our Reigning Queens, whose words continue to inspire and leave an unforgettable mark on our collective.
1. Reigning Queen of October 2025 - Sujata Maggoo
2. Reigning Queen of Consistency November 2025 - Poornima Sivaraman
3. Reigning Queen of December 2025 - Nibedita Rajguru
4. Reigning Queen of January 2026 - Shilpa Chakravarty
5. Reigning Queen of February 2026 - Bhawana Sethi
6. Reigning Queen of March 2026 - Anwesha Bhattacharya
7. Reigning Queen of April 2026 - Purnima Santhakumar
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Interactive Corner
Where creativity gets collaborative!
The '1500-word blog' prompt for May is -
"How do you protect your peace without losing kindness?"
Reflect on softness, resilience, and the quiet courage it takes to remain kind in an often demanding world.
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Last month's prompt winners -
1. Halfway there, still figuring it out! -
"Are you sure this is the right way?"
2. Halfway there, still figuring it out -
Halfway there, still figuring it out what to do
A lifelong dilemma
The crawling infant holds the mother's garment, stands upright, leaves the garment, claps, takes two tiny steps, then sits down. Walk or not?
A student in Class Six, at the doorstep of teens age, grown up or not?
Class nine, mid-teen crisis, haven't settled on my core area of learning. Take coaching or not?
School pass out, competitive exams, B-Schools, paper leaks, student loans, study abroad or in the home land?
Career options - nine to five or slog 24*7?
Marriage - age is right or not?
Choice of spouse - arranged or personal decision?
Once married, financially settled, Children - have or not? Two or more?
Foetus in the womb - so warm, so safe, Shall I stay or leave?
Forever, we are half way there, still figuring out what to do… the dilemma of choices - either - or; we can do this or that.
Instances in Literature
“To be or not to be” Shakespeare's Hamlet was not a pioneer in standing at the fork on the road to hold the crown. Reaching halfway there, still figuring out what to do.
The epic dialogue between the youngest son of Kunti, Parth and his charioteer, his dear Madhav, on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, ready for war, wondering if it was fair and just to use his weapons against his own flesh and blood to conclude a family feud. Reaching halfway there, still figuring out what to do.
Before him, Sita, Kunti, Draupdi, Shakuntala and a host of other literary figures found themselves at crossroads, halfway there still figuring out what to do. The choice made and the consequences borne makes them immortal.
Robert Frost sums up the emotions of choices in the 1915 poem - ‘The road not taken'.
The poem highlights the choice of ‘the one less travelled' but the other road is described ‘just as fair'.
Taking any road we will fulfill our destiny, for after all it is just one big circle, with bliss and peace as the logical goals.
Perhaps an indication to destiny ‘kae sara sara, whatever will be, will be'.
Perhaps the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, pre-designed to fit in the perfect place.
Perhaps the string puppets feel they are on show, while the puppeteer stands elsewhere. Nothing is wrong, nothing is right.
Yet the human imagination, the human ambition, the human will guides and goads, no matter even if we are halfway there, we have to work and figure out what to do.
Historical References
Standing on the brink of Jhelum, a world victor, halfway there, ready to conquer the mighty Magadh, measured the pros and cons while figuring out what to do.
Asoka in the land of Kalinga, his last rival, halfway there to see his flag flying in the peninsula, challenged by women in war, measured the pros and cons while figuring out what to do.
Guru Tegh Bahadur, Guru Gobind Singh, Chattrapati Shivaji, Begum Hazrat Mahal, Laxmibai- the Rani if Jhansi, Bahadurshah ‘Zafar', Maharaja Ranjit Singh, Mahatma Gandhi halfway there, faced by their political rivals, were measuring the pros and cons while figuring out what to do.
Revolutionaries world wide, multi- national organisations, alliances, counter alliances, nurturing trade, job opportunities, finances, essential supplies, halfway there with their well meaning pacts measure the pros and cons while figuring out what to do.
Personal Experience
Like everybody else, in matters trivial or matters affecting our whole life, I have often been halfway there, while figuring out what to do.
Four times or more each day, entering the kitchen, halfway there to prepare a meal, still figuring out what to cook.
N number of times in a week, ready to go out, just for a walk or a tit-bit of shopping, halfway there, still figuring out where to go, what to buy.
Umteen number of times, in a month, ready to roll out an article, halfway there, still figuring out what to write about.
Cut the expenses, save some money, halfway there, still figuring out what to do, where to invest.
Service over, amicably superannuated, all the time in the world is my own, halfway there, still figuring out what to do in it, how to utilize it
Ponder when halfway there
Reaching the halfway mark is no mean achievement. Let's pat ourselves, clap for ourselves, give ourselves a treat when we reach the halfway mark.
One may ask “How do I know I am half way?”
A reasonably good answer would be
“Any time we have a choice. Every time we have to shoulder a decision, it's halfway.”
Let not the decision making process sap our energy. Instead let us take a measured audit of our energy. Column A - drain outs, Column B - energy givers. Calibrate on a safe scale of 1 to 100.
Try out the activities of Column B and see how long we can hold them or for what time they hold our attention.
Avoid losing sight of the forest in trying to çount the trees. Focus on the journey, rather than the destination. See the whole painting, not merely the colours.
For step one, adjust our comfort levels, move out of the comfort zone, by increasing the radius. New hopes, new dreams, new visions relying on your core strengths, turning weaknesses to strengths. Failures are the stepping stones to milestones, each milestone is a pause, a breather in the journey begun without our consent but to be concluded gloriously by each us
Step two, we need to take stock of the skills we have gathered, try new things, and trust that our unique background makes us specially equipped for the new adventure.
When confronted by obstacles, challenges and mist-covered peaks, we need to put our foot out, one step at a time, remembering a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. See the writing on the wall, the road blocker is neither a pit nor a rock, it is only I.
An ant can go through any pit, an ant can scale over any rock, so can we, a little retreat sees the pole-vaulter sail smoothly over the bar.
Reset Direction
Continuous comparisons with our peers and society can exhaust us psychologically, emotionally, financially and at times physically. Meeting others expectations to the point of perfection leaves an unfathomable void.
Answering small talk queries
“Which school will you send your child to?”
“What career are you choosing?”
“What? Haven't taken up a job yet?”
“No marriage… ?”
“No kids… .?”
“Is the gym routine not working?”
“When are you retiring?”
should be treated with the same disdain as a sleeping person does “Are you sleeping?” or a dead one treats “Are you dead?”
Nobody's business, my life, my choices, my decisions.
“I wear the colours I like.”
“I speak the language of my choice.”
Halfway there, still figuring out what to do, I can choose another colour, another language, a different kind of cuisine, a new occupation, a new hobby, a new path. My progress may seem slow, different, going on tangent or even a reverse gear move, but it's my joy, my happiness, my bliss and my peace.
Never let anyone, not even ourselves demotivate, deflate or disturb us if it's a case of ‘halfway there, still figuring out what to do.”
Smile and see the caterpillar still figuring out what to do.
Smile and see the tadpole still figuring out what to do.
Smile and see the bud still figuring out what to do.
Smile and see the cloud still figuring out what to do.
Smile and see the sapling still figuring out what to do.
Rethinking Halfway - An advantage
Research points out that being halfway there without a grand plan is an advantage.
Experience brings Maturity: The life skills we have mastered over the years in the form of manners, behaviour, social conduct are fully transferrable. They are always useful and place us at an advantage to handle new situations, new people and new experiences.
Rethinking and changing tracks: Change gives a breath of fresh air, fresh energy and a fresh opportunity.
Unexplored talents: Qualities lying dormant may come to the forefront to outshine a mundane effort on a grand, lifelong passion.
The small project method: Based on a suggestion to focus on a small project increases growth with time. It helps skill based learning, bringing us closer to clarity of self assessment one step at a time.
Learning in Totality includes Unlearning: Knowing what we do not want to do is just as valuable as knowing what we want to do. Every No is a step closer to Yes. As Edison said ‘I know ninety nine ways of how not to make a bulb.’ A classic example of being halfway there and still figuring out what to do.
All's Well
We have to accept, embrace the reality that our life is not a point to point straight line, a linear existence, the shortest distance from birth to death.
It is a wave, a curve, often a circle, a cursive alphabet with loops, dashes and dots.
Happily, blissfully reach halfway, to figure out what to do, if the road is there, jog along otherwise we make a path. Others may take it or may not, but we did figure out our journey from the halfway, confidently, with no shame, no guilt, no punishment.
- Madhu Mehrotra.
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3. Halfway through, still figuring it out -
4. Halfway There, Still Figuring It Out -
There is something strangely emotional about the middle of the year. January arrives with loud promises, fresh diaries, colour-coded planners, and ambitious resolutions that make us believe we are capable of changing our entire lives overnight. Everything feels possible then. We tell ourselves that this will be the year we become more disciplined, healthier, calmer, kinder, more successful, and somehow more organised too. But by the time May quietly walks in, reality begins to settle beside us. The excitement softens. Life, with all its unpredictability, starts showing its true colours.
May does not feel like a beginning. It does not feel like an ending either. It feels like standing in the middle of a long road, looking both ways, wondering how quickly time disappeared. It is the month that quietly asks uncomfortable questions. Am I where I thought I would be? Have I changed at all? Am I moving forward or simply moving? And perhaps the most honest question of all - do any of us truly have it figured out?
The truth is, most people are simply learning as they go. Some are better at hiding their confusion than others. We often assume that adults eventually reach a stage where everything suddenly makes sense. As children, we think grown-ups have secret answers to life tucked away somewhere. Then we grow older ourselves and realise that everyone is improvising. Some are just more confident performers on the stage.
This year, like every year, probably brought lessons nobody prepared us for. Plans changed. People changed. Priorities changed. Maybe friendships became distant. Maybe someone who once mattered deeply slowly became a memory. Maybe you discovered strengths within yourself that only appeared during difficult moments. Or maybe you realised you are far more exhausted than you admit to others. Growth rarely arrives with celebration. Most of the time, it enters quietly through heartbreak, disappointment, loneliness, responsibility, or unexpected change.
There is also a particular kind of pressure attached to being “on time” in life. By a certain age, society expects us to have clear goals, stable careers, healthy relationships, financial security, emotional maturity, and some magical sense of direction. Social media makes it worse. Every day we scroll past engagement photographs, promotion announcements, luxury holidays, fitness transformations, bestselling books, and smiling faces that seem to have discovered the perfect formula for happiness. It becomes very easy to feel left behind.
But what people rarely show are the pauses between those perfect moments. They do not post the nights spent overthinking. They do not show the fear of failure, the loneliness after achievements, the uncertainty before important decisions, or the silent battles with self-doubt. Human beings have mastered the art of appearing sorted while privately feeling lost.
And perhaps that is why the middle of the year feels so personal. It strips away the dramatic excitement of beginnings and forces honesty upon us. It reminds us that life is not a race with identical finish lines. Some people bloom early. Others take time. Some dreams arrive after years of waiting. Some plans collapse only to make room for something better. Some people spend years figuring out who they are, and there is nothing shameful about that.
There is courage in admitting uncertainty. In fact, there is something deeply human about it. Not knowing everything does not make a person weak. It makes them real. We place too much importance on certainty when life itself is uncertain by nature. Relationships change. Careers shift unexpectedly. People outgrow places. Hearts heal slowly. Priorities evolve with experience. Nobody remains the same forever.
Sometimes being “halfway there” means learning to forgive yourself for not becoming the version you imagined in January. Sometimes it means understanding that survival itself was an achievement. Maybe this year did not bring extraordinary milestones, but perhaps it taught resilience. Perhaps it taught patience. Perhaps it taught you how to sit with discomfort without completely falling apart.
There is also beauty in unfinished journeys. We glorify destinations so much that we forget how much life actually happens in the middle. The middle is where people learn who truly stays beside them. It is where dreams are tested. It is where confidence is rebuilt after rejection. It is where ordinary days slowly shape extraordinary strength.
A plant does not grow overnight simply because someone wishes it to. Growth happens quietly beneath the surface long before flowers appear. Human beings are not very different. Sometimes progress is invisible. Sometimes healing cannot be measured. Sometimes becoming stronger looks like waking up every morning despite carrying invisible heaviness inside your chest.
And honestly, perhaps nobody is ever fully “there”. Even the most accomplished people continue searching for meaning, balance, happiness, or peace. Life keeps changing the questions. Just when we think we understand ourselves, a new experience arrives and humbles us again. That is not failure. That is simply life continuing to teach us.
As the year stands at its halfway point, maybe the goal should not be perfection. Maybe the goal should simply be honesty. To honestly acknowledge what hurt us, what changed us, what inspired us, and what still scares us. To stop pretending that confusion is something to be embarrassed about. To understand that uncertainty is not the opposite of progress. Sometimes uncertainty itself is proof that we are growing.
Perhaps you are still figuring out your purpose. Perhaps you are trying to rebuild your confidence. Perhaps you are carrying grief nobody notices. Perhaps you are waiting for life to make sense again. Or perhaps you are slowly discovering pieces of yourself you never knew existed. Wherever you are right now, it is valid.
The middle of the year is not asking you to have every answer. It is simply asking you to pause for a moment and notice how far you have already come. Even if the journey feels messy. Even if the future still feels blurry. Even if your heart still carries questions.
Because sometimes the bravest thing a person can say is not “I have figured everything out.”
Sometimes the bravest thing is simply - “I am still learning.”
Author’s Note: This piece is for everyone who feels caught between who they were and who they are becoming. Life rarely moves in straight lines, and uncertainty is far more common than we admit. If you are still figuring things out, you are not behind. You are simply human.
The classroom smelled of freshly sharpened pencils and the distinct, comforting scent of wax crayons. It was June, and the morning sun was slicing through the windows. And she was busy making doodles in the last page of her notebook.
"What do you all want to become when you grow up?" the teacher asked, her voice dripping with the standard, encouraging sweetness reserved for fifth graders. Around the room, answers popped like popcorn. Astronaut. Firefighter. Princess. Ice cream seller. Teacher. Dancer.
When the question reached her, she didn't hesitate. She didn't really even think. "A doctor," she said clearly. It was the safe harbor of answers, the golden standard of a child’s ambition. Her teacher smiled, patted her back and moved on. The little girl sat back, her tiny shoes dangling inches above the classroom floor, unaware that life was a series of shifting horizons, and this was only the first coast she would sight.
By the time middle school arrived, the landscape of her world had expanded. A heavy, boxy television set had found a place of pride in their living room. While other children clamoured for cartoons, she found herself utterly mesmerised by the evening news.
To her, the news readers were the epitome of grace and intellect. Every evening, without fail, she would sit cross-legged before the screen, watching both the Hindi and English broadcasts. She didn’t just watch the news; she studied them. She knew the names of every presenter, the exact cadence of their voices, and the precise, professional tilt of their heads.
On quiet afternoons when the house was empty, she would pick one of her mom’s saree and try to drape it around her small frame, securing it with a dozen safety pins. Standing before the mirror, holding a hairbrush as a microphone, she would look at her reflection with fierce gravity.
"Good evening," she would whisper to the empty room, her voice dropping an octave. "Here is the news."
But the world kept turning, and technology kept marching forward. A year or two later, the neighborhood witnessed the arrival of the VCR. Weekends became a ritual of renting videotapes wrapped in black plastic cases. This was where her imagination truly caught fire.
As the movies played, she found herself steps ahead of the plot. "He’s the murderer," she would whisper to her cousins. "Watch, the door is going to open now." When the exact sequence played out on screen, her family would look at her in amazement. “You’re a psychic!” they would laugh.
But it wasn't magic; it was an intuitive understanding of narrative, pace, and human emotion. The secret acting in front of the mirror faded, replaced by a deeper, louder calling - she wanted to be a film director. She wanted to pull the strings behind the magic. By the time she completed her 12th standard, the dream had grown too large to keep inside. With a racing heart, she confessed her ambition to her parents.
The rejection was instantaneous, sharp, and absolute.
"The film line is not for good girls," her mother said, closing the discussion before it could even begin.
It was her first real heartbreak, a quiet, internal shattering. She was a gentle, compliant girl, raised in a conservative home where daughters did not argue or slam doors. So, she swallowed her disappointment and went back to the drawing board of her mind. If not art, then justice.
"I want to study law," she announced a few weeks later.
But again, her voice found no echo. Her parents had a timeline for her, and it did not include courtrooms or film sets. Against her wishes, she was enrolled in a local college to study History and Economics, two subjects she utterly detested. She spent three years memorising dates of ancient battles and lines of financial graphs, feeling entirely hollow, a spectator in her own life.
The script her parents had written for her played out with perfect, terrifying precision. Shortly after her graduation, an engagement was arranged. Her fiancé was a software engineer, a man of logic, codes, and predictable structures.
Because they were given a long courtship period, she decided to use the time constructively. She wanted to understand his world, to speak his language. She enrolled in an intensive computer science diploma, spending a year and a half learning languages like C++ and Java. To her surprise, she enjoyed the logic of it. It gave her a sense of purpose.
A few months into their marriage, as the initial whirlwind of setting up a new home settled, she approached her husband. "I want to continue my studies in computer science," she said, her eyes bright with a resurrected hope. "If I finish the advanced course, I can get a good job too."
Her husband looked at her, his expression a mix of affection and practicality. "It’s a very demanding field," he sighed, shaking his head. "If both of us are in software, the long hours will ruin our home life. It will be too tough later on."
Another door clicked shut. Another quiet heartbreak.
Yet, she refused to let her spirit stagnate. If she could not build a career in the grand archives of tech or cinema, she would build a life in the small corners of her home. She joined a stitching class. She learned the meticulous art of making soft toys, stuffing bright velvet and soft fabrics with cotton until they took the shape of bears and puppies.
To fill the quiet afternoons, she began inviting the children from her apartment complex for tuitions. She found a strange, unexpected solace in it. For a few hours a day, her living room was filled with the chaotic, honest energy of childhood. Still, when the children left and the silence returned, she would look at her hands and feel a stubborn, nameless ache. Something was missing.
Change came in the form of an overseas posting for her husband. Suddenly, she found herself uprooted from the familiar streets of her homeland and transported to Europe.
For two years, life became a dazzling travelogue. She walked through cobblestone streets, gazed at Gothic cathedrals, saw tulips garden and watched the snow fall for the first time. It was a beautiful, dizzying distraction.
And then, the universe shifted its axis completely. A doctor's appointment confirmed what her body already suspected: she was going to be a mother.
In an instant, her entire internal hierarchy scrambled. The old frustrations, the buried dreams of film sets and law books, evaporated into thin air. Her priorities narrowed down to a single, beating heart inside her. She immersed herself entirely in the poetry of motherhood.
When her son was born, she looked into his tiny, pink face and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was the happiest day of her existence.
Time, which had once dragged heavily during her college days, suddenly shifted to jet speed. Being a full-time mother was an all-consuming, breathtakingly chaotic, yet most satisfying job. Years blurred into a montage of diapers, giggles, hugs, first steps, and school admissions. She didn't have time to think, let alone feel a void.
When her son started going to school for full days, the quiet returned to the house, uninvited and heavy. And with the quiet, that old, familiar ghost of an unfulfilled self returned. Who am I when I am with me.
Rescue came from next door. A neighbour, frantic over her daughter’s plunging grades, knocked on her door. "Can you please teach her? Just till the exams?"
She agreed. She sat with the young girl, taught her making the subjects interesting for her to feel interested in learning. She taught with empathy, remembering how it felt to be a child forced to learn things without joy.
At the end of the year, the girl passed with stellar marks.
The next term, the neighbour returned, accompanied by three other parents. Year after year, the number of shoes outside her front door multiplied. Her living room transformed back into a sanctuary of learning. She realised, with a profound sense of clarity, that she loved this. She loved watching the lightbulb go on in a child’s eyes. She grew alongside her students.
When people at social gatherings asked her the inevitable question—"What do you do?"—she no longer looked down. She would look them in the eye and say proudly, "I am a tutor."
Thirteen beautiful, fulfilling years passed in this rhythm. Her son grew into a fine young man, immensely proud of the fierce, independent educator his mother had become.
Then came 2020. The world stopped. Covid-19 locked the doors of the world, and the bustling sound of children in her living room fell silent.
Soon after the pandemic eased, another milestone hit - her son left for college, moving into a distant hostel. The house wasn't just quiet now; it was an echo chamber. The old frustration crept back, sharper this time, because she was older now, and the horizon felt shorter.
During a college break, her son came home. He sat at the dining table, watching his mother nervously fidget, looking for chores that didn't need doing.
He reached out and gently took her hand. "Mom," he said softly. "You’ve spent your whole life figuring out what everyone else wanted you to be. But you are an artist. You are a writer, a poet. I remember the stories you made up for me, the sketches you drew. Get back to yourself. Start painting again. Start writing."
His words were a master key to a lock that had been rusted shut for decades.
That evening, she bought a sketchbook and a set of watercolour and paintbrushes. She sat down, not as a five-year-old child, a compliant daughter, a restricted wife, or a busy mother. She sat down simply as herself. Her brush touched the paper, and the colours bled out, vibrant, chaotic, and beautiful.
Now, when she walks through her life, she is surrounded by half-finished canvases and notebooks filled with poetry. Recently, at a gathering, an old acquaintance walked up to her, noting the paint smudges on her fingers.
"So, what is it that you do now?" the person asked.
She thought of the doctor, the news reader, the film director, the lawyer, the techie, the tutor, and the mother. She smiled a serene, beautiful smile, the smile of a woman who had finally realised that a life lived in chapters is far more interesting than a life lived in a straight line.
"To define is to limit," she said softly, quoting a line she had loved in her youth. "So let’s just say... I’m halfway there, still figuring it out."
- Anuradha Mahajan.
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6. (S)miles to go before we sleep -
I checked my bag the tenth time to make sure I haven't missed anything. It was going to be a long distance train travel, without much breaks in between. For the others who were accompanying me, it was just another trip to attend a family wedding. But, for me, or rather, "WE", that's my husband, my child and me, this was another experiment, another experience, which was going to be packed with suspense, thrills, sudden jolts, not to forget to mention, exhaustion too!Ever since my child was diagonised as special, things took a different rough route in our lives. Our minds packed with anxiety, an unknown fear gripped us from all sides, embarrassment too at times, we started trekking the unique road that introduced us to a lot more challenges than we expected. The flooding of emotions, and lack of understanding about the issue, played a major role in shaping our behaviours to a certain extent.
My memory took a rewind, as the train took a sharp turn, without notice, all of a sudden! My child who had been a quiet observer, sitting at her favourite window seat shook with the shock and that triggered her scare. She started making loud noises, tears welled up and she took solace in my chest for some comfort. This was an usual affair while we travelled, so I was prepared for it too. I hugged her, and explained it was of course a sudden jolt, and yes, I too felt it weird. I spoke to her in a soft tone, and that calmed her a little. By then, the others around us started whispering, some of them directly stared at the way my child was struggling to get comfortable. My inner self wished to tell them to turn away, and we were feeling humiliated with their bizarre looks, but my face concealed it, and I gave them all a sweet smile, conveying that all was well. My husband, always a polite person, was already explaining my child's condition and how being different is a bit difficult too. I felt, we were halfway there, but still getting nowhere!
Night travels are normally fun, for the "regular" groups, who sing together, have food, play cards, and other interesting games before going to sleep. But for the three of us, it has always been sitting up through the night due to my child's irregular sleep problem, so sometimes night travels become nightmares too! I read a few bedtime stories to her softly, while we watched others retiring quietly. Lying down close to my child, I watched the stars twinkling, and to me, they looked like the guiding light from above that led the train, through the right track. I started thinking parallel too. The path is always rugged and has a lot of twists and turns, but, with the help of guiding stars, isn't everyone more at ease? Moving forward on our own takes us halfway, guiding lights make it easier, and provides assurance.
The so called "Special" children and their families, are like the train, that need some kindness, and acceptance as guidance, which play the role of companionship and oneness. Getting aware of the struggles that each of them face on an everyday basis, opens the gate of understanding that being different isn't disability. Sometimes, I feel, the caregivers are like swimmers in the sea, who have jumped into the water, just to save their kids from drowning, when they themselves don't know how to swim! The quiet strength in motion isnt projected anywhere. Moving halfway, with a lot of embarrassment and social isolation, gives a sense of left out, stranded without direction or purpose. But, if society gives a handshake, and equal opportunities, the distance doesn't matter at all!
It dawned for the others in the compartment, who went about their routine. My child had just slept, so I took that interval to pause and admire the railway station outside. It looked as if the whole world outside was busy, running towards unknown destinations, a little girl selling flowers, I admired her smile when I purchased some jasmine and rose and could feel her happiness when she held the money I gave her, as payment. She had more to sell, but the look on her face seemed like she had accomplished her task, though just halfway! Somehow I felt that she mirrored my halfway journey! There I stood, watching people moving hastily, though I took the break as a pause to observe, and take in details quietly. I needed to buy a few things, so went about that too while looking around.
When we reached our village, it was a different scene. Though we received a warm welcome, we still felt the stares following us, comments that were shared in hush hush mode, but we have always ignored the negatives from the beginning. Kids, the next generation, were our solace and hope. Kids mingle naturally and dont know to differentiate. Getting such company has always boosted our confidence to move forward with positivity, when stuck halfway.
We are halfway there, still figuring out the path and its safety, though we have miles to go with smiles, like how Keats says, before we sleep.
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Until next time, keep crafting stories that only you can tell. Keep your Ink flowing and your Insight glowing.
- Team Content Crafters Collective.
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