It doesn’t always look like this, but there’s always tea in my mornings. It’s more than a ritual; it’s passion that makes me reach out to that cup letting off slow steam and steady scent.
I took this photo during a holiday in Thekkady a few months ago. I woke up to the little light seeping through my bedside window, illuminating my cup of tea and my soul.
I looked at her
as she lay in my bed
her eyes closed in peace
slumber I never knew
the curls of her hair
sway with blowing breeze
the blond of her curls
boiled jealousy in my veins
and while she lay there
unsuspecting, unknowing
and I there, all too knowing
I reached out, couldn’t help but,
a hand to caress her tresses
she remained still as a leaf
on a windless summer’s night
as I twisted a longing finger
through her summoning swirls
but she stayed immobile as always
darling dearest, my gift, my doll.
It’s not about studded shoes and decked dresses or dinner parties with seven wines.
It’s not about fresh bills in a Coach, Chopard on the wrist, and stacks in the account.
It’s not about lean legs, tiara-topped heads, or Louis Vuitton handbags.
It’s not about bedside pools, or poolside bars, or bayside resorts.
It’s not about dabbling in pearls, or dawdling in Rolls.
It’s not a trendy summer vacation, a honeymoon destination, or a cruising expedition.
Not about the glitter, the possessions, or positions.
It’s the hot chocolate on rainy days, the comforting book on bad days, and an extra scoop of ice-cream.
Luxury is contentment in the small things.
Sometimes you can’t help but wonder. What would it be to be a published author? I’ve wondered that since I was 13, and now, I have a chance.
Inkitt.com is running a contest, and they call it Story Peak Novel Contest. I’m in. And so is my novel, Praveena.
I posted one chapter of it a day last November during the National Blog Posting Month. Whether you read it then or not, you can now.
And if you do like it, please consider reserving a copy. The best three novels that get 100 readers or more will have a chance to get published. It’s a small ray of hope I’m clinging to.
I’m counting on everyone of you reading this now to help me get there. I’d appreciate it a lot.
Read it here: My novel on Inkitt.
Again, if you think it’s good, please reserve a copy for yourself (and tell everyone you know to reserve their copy, too).
She was twenty-five already, and all friends were settled for life. A high-earning fiancée, a well-planned wedding, a fancy honeymoon, and a lifetime ahead of baking and eating. They had the money, they had the luxe, they had the looks. When days were free, they went to the movies, shopped for love, and selfied their vanity. Life was busy.
She still lived in a dingy lone apartment. She’d wake up each morning, work out, walk to work, get worked up, and walk back home to her books. Some weekends she’d get drunk and binge on Friends. And when she felt like it, she trekked untrodden ways and chased sunrises. Life was good.
The Chaos Within 