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The Lost Art of Writing

Connecting on a deeper level

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Running out on time

Photo by John Baker on Unsplash

Running out on time.
I wonder how I would do without you.

I find you everywhere.
In my thoughts,
In my mouth,
In my breath,
In my arms,

And who knows
If you’ll still be there
When I’m gone
Or I’ll start finding you less.

I take you within.
Your every sight,
Your every smile,
Your every beat,
Your every inch,

And who knows
If you’ll still be there
When I’m gone
Or I’ll start finding you less.

Running out on time was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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holidays kerala nostalgia tropical-weather writers-life

This is why I love the tropical weather .

The beach is calling and I must go.

by Nisha Karthigeyan

(Photo by The News Geeks)

It is one thing to walk into a star hotel, being greeted with cold towels, strings of fresh jasmine draped around our necks, and sandalwood paste on our foreheads as a sign of welcome before receiving a fresh coconut… all the while flower petals rained down on us from above. Is this real life?

In this tropical Paradise of North Kerala, I have spent my childhood summer vacations watching the sun rise over rice fields filled with lotuses and watched it set among the palm trees.
It is no secret to anyone that knows me, even marginally well, that I love the sea.

I never tire of being able to view the sea. Its endlessness transfixes me. I have always been a true blue beach bum by heart (Okay I absolutely love the Jungles too).

But, to stay on topic – I love the beach. Period.

There is a relief when I am around salt water. My stress drains out, my senses come alive, and I can block everything else out. ( the sea need not be your thing, any other kind of place that one can go to put the world on pause for a little while and just be alone with one’s thoughts and the sounds around.) It is where I long to go when I am craving to be away from responsibilities and weighing expectations.

It is where I go when I feel like I need to creatively recharge. It is my escape and should I ever decide I want to run away from home, it would not be very difficult for those who love me to locate me. On a lighter note, my personal GPS would guide me there when I need it most. It is where I can just be.

My husband knows (and expects) that there will be a day at the end of each summer or early autumn where I beg to pack up and head off for the routine unsurprising visit. I bring my simple notebook and a pen. I bring my thoughts. And, I sit for a few hours.

There’s something about the beach that always lures me in. Maybe it is the empty open spaces filled with blues. Or maybe it is the sound of the waves challenging the shore each time. Maybe it is the alluring dance of the beautiful coconut trees.
The big vast waters, the beach lined with trees, and the stretch of nothingness brings me enough calm.

Looking forward to the next visit.

(Thank-you for reading this article!)

My passion is writing. Everything I write about is geared toward things that I deeply cares about—experiences, thoughts, drama, and emotions. A full-time mom to two handsome boys—11 and 4—I built a career around insurance underwriting and later, teaching of English literature and language in high school, before vanishing into full-time mommy responsibilities. I believe that life is not meant to be serious all of the time, and that we should have fun as much as we can. Besides writing, I enjoy watching spy network series and living it up by creating laugh memes with my two lovely young boys!

To follow my work on.

This is why I love the tropical weather . was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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journey life memories nostalgia travel

The slow deliberate life, along the railway tracks.

I’m a firm believer in trying everything once.. but this is one thing, I want to do again.

by Nisha Karthigeyan

(Photo by Rick Elkins from Flickr)

Haven’t we all, once in our life, travelled in trains.
Besides getting chatty with friends and relatives who come to see us off, watching co- travellers or strangers across platforms…varying anything from people enjoying meals, to beggars asking for alms, exuberant children with exhausted parents ..or the woman in the purple clothes who is exceptionally catchy…surfing the book stall especially magazines, comics or sundry sipping on the irresistible chai from the mobile chaiwalla…we even don’t mind catching up on lost sleep where our baggage doubles up as a head rest.
Talking about chai… in the stations of kerala, I particularly have an eye for the seasoned ‘pazham pori’. It’s a delicious evening banana snack.

(Photo from Getty Images)

I remember witnessing passengers travelling without confirmed seats, walking through numerous bogies jostling with crowds and virtually fighting their way through at times, to reach the officer and tried to explain the situation to him, making desperate attempts to explain their predicament.
In all these years, my favourite indulgence on railway platforms is without doubt, brooding, contemplating and ruminating. Thinking deeply about life left unattended..revisiting past events to give them a second chance in my head or the favourite one always… dreaming about what could be.
My favoutite thought is ..rail journeys are always about ..going home. It’s nostalgic. I hope I take more such trips and it brings me most of what I wish for..

Now that’s the beginning of an adventure right there.

(Thank you for reading this article!)

Do follow my work on.

The slow deliberate life, along the railway tracks. was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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My Heart Is A Ghost Town

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love memories nostalgia poetry relationships

Ticking hands


She gifted me a watch so that I remember her every time.

I don’t wear it anymore.

I wish she’d known that I didn’t need ticking hands to remind me how my heart skipped a beat thinking of her.

I didn’t need free time to remind me of all our beautiful encounters.

I didn’t need flashy displays to miss her ever beautiful face.

All I ever needed was her time; her.

I wish I could tell her she was the best I’d ever met. The best I’d ever meet.

She was the most beautiful person I’d ever known.

She looked pretty when she smiled, prettier when she was upset and prettiest when she cried.

The comfort, warmth and happiness I felt with her were like no other.

That love always finds its way even after numerous heartaches.

That it’s okay to cry but necessary to come back strong.

That I cherish our first kiss more than my first kiss, our firsts more than my firsts.

That all firsts are special, but it’s the seconds and thirds where we realise what our heart’s looking for.

That pasts are great lessons but present, the best present.

Ticking hands was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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creative-writing heritage memoir nostalgia past

From Dibai to Karachi

A brief memoir of my heritage

Photo courtesy: Tourism India

I was born in Karachi, Pakistan, but my roots belong to a small town, Dibai in Bulandshahr, Uttar Pradesh, India. I never got a chance to visit the place, but I have heard many interesting stories from my elders. Gandhi and I were born on the same day, October 2nd. The only characteristics we share are sexual frustration, anorexia and a deep need to realise Truth. I’m not sure if those 3 are related in any way.

My birth, just like the partition of India, was no coincidence, in fact, I believe it was a great conspiracy of angels and Jinn (demons). It’s not necessary that Jews are behind every strange event that occurs in the world, as many people in the Muslim society like to believe. If the Jinn were Jewish, then that’s another story. How my ancestors left everything behind and migrated to Karachi, was indeed a painful journey. All that struggle lead to my creation. It was agonising yet liberating, for us Mohajir (migrants)

I was an extremely lethargic child. While eating, I would place the bite on the corner of mouth like naswar (tobacco snuff) and lose myself in my dream world. It seemed as if I was stuck in limbo. Sometimes, flies would start roaming around my mouth, celebrating my death, and suddenly, I would wake up, distracted by their buzzing, leaving them disappointed, otherwise, my parents would snap me out of my trance, just before the food would begin to decay. This is how I grew up, mostly day dreaming. You can imagine how my childhood must have been. If you can’t get a clear picture, then please allow me to explain further.

In the early 90s, I came to my senses, and found myself in Nanoo’s (grandmother) house in Sea View Apartments. We used to live in a joint family, and it was quite a violent household, with everyone arguing and fighting. Some one would either pull the other person’s hair or you would hear them cursing. Things would hardly be fine. If it was quiet, it was most likely because they were ignoring each other.

Besides neurosis, we all had a disease called TV. No, that’s not an abbreviation for “too-much violence”, it’s the original term, television. This common but non-threatening condition had no cure, back then. It made us all sit together in front of a huge box with an antenna. We would all be mesmerised by the transmission on the screen. Every weekend, my aunt and cousins would join us, and we would watch our favourite show, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie.

Grief runs in our blood, since we belong to a Shia Muslim family. That explains the lack of peace. The noise of my dysfunctional childhood still echoes in my mind. But sometimes, a curse can also be a blessing in disguise.

In the last 31 years, there hasn’t been any struggle or tragedy in my life. Like any other person, I carry the burden of my past. I too have suffered from loss and heart break, but life has its mysterious ways of healing you.

They say, if you want to make God laugh, then tell him about your plans.”

From Dibai to Karachi was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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ireland nostalgia poem poetry travel


A poem about Ireland where my mother was born

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The Nostalgia of Old Houses

Leaving the home you’ve always known: a personal account

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cooking food mental-wellness nostalgia passion

Cooking is a form of expression for me

How I correlate my dramatic cooking and kitchen accessories to my mental well-being

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