whimsicalsunflower

Click, Click, Click … A dog, a random street, an iconic building, a flower, the sea waves and much more are a part of a photographer’s collection of pictures. Not  always does a photographer click pictures to please his or his audience’s eyes. He captures ‘moments’. The pictures are the world through his eyes. It’s not just a     passion. It’s more like a way of life. Sure, it does involve some technicalities but     once a person starts living it (photography) all the technicalities come naturally to him and later on, they won’t really matter. Why? Cause it won’t just remain a subject to learn but an integral part of one’s life. One’s way of life.       Photography doesn’t just mean to set the angle right and with a high resolution camera, click pictures. It means to capture the beauty of the moment. To capture something that adds meaning to one’s life. Some call photographers,   ‘lost’. Little...

          I was sitting by the window. It was raining. A few water droplets planted themselves on my face, delicately. Effortlessly, I began to sing a song. There wasn't any particular reason but it just felt good. On listening more carefully, even the raindrops had a little song of their own, it was more of a rhythm. The birds had their own rhythm. The trees, the little creepy crawlies, the wind and everything else had some rhythm to it. In fact, even silence has its own rhythm. Makes me wonder, what is it about music? Is it just various sounds compiled together? Or just another rhythm that pleases our ears? I guess music is beyond that. Its roots are deeper than the old banyan tree's. It unites minds of various backgrounds irrespective of age, cast, creed, and religion. Music doesn’t require a particular language. It has its own language. When in love we listen to music, when out of love we listen to music. Sometimes, even while working automatically, we sta...

It was winter. Ranveer was sitting on the bench outside a park, alone. Suddenly, it started snowing. The snowflakes planted themselves on his coat, hat and hope. Hope to meet Avanti. He opened his palm and a snowflake rested itself there. He made a fist and held it close to his heart. It felt like her, delicate and innocent. A tear rolled out of his eye. But he kept the promise, wiped it off and left for home which was less of it since Avanti left. He opened the door and walked in. It was dark. Not just the room but also his mind. He dropped himself on the couch, a dim light on and a book in hand. He missed his Avanti today, a lot more than usual. Maybe because years back they had met on the same day. He decided to her. He opened the book.. Avanti had always been Ranveer's first. His first friend, first crush, first date, first love, first kiss and only wife. He had never felt so complete before. He decided to propose to her. Being a struggler doesn't pay you off that well ...

      "Should I? Should I not? I think I should.. No I shouldn't. Ugh! What should I do? I won't go only for the party. Not a single appropriate outfit. I need to shop!" Well, the mirror didn't respond. "Who are you talking to?" asked my mom. "Myself," I replied. Myself? Talking to myself? Sounds normal to me but it didn't to her. I had always been communicating with myself but today it felt different. Maybe, cause for the first time I witnessed this conversation.        We all have been gifted with the right to communicate ever since we were born. We have been communicating with ourselves more than we do with others but the fact skips our attention. As I'm writing this, I'm not only communicating with you'll but also myself. Approving and disapproving every word, every thought. Our entire life has been a conversation. Just that this conversation has no particular purpose or no particular language. Neither it has a particular ...

                                          It was another Friday evening. With computer, coffee and thoughts as my companions I thought of writing a blog post. 'But what do I write?' was the first thought that came to my mind. Then another thought and then another. A moment out of this vicious circle of thoughts, I wondered what exactly are these "thoughts"? Where do they come from? Do they ever have an end?         There ain't perfect definition of thoughts cause thoughts are imperfect and incomplete themselves. Every microsecond a thought arises and vanishes. Some we hold on to and some we let go, maybe not on the gross but definitely on the subtle. Someone had once mentioned that - "Thoughts are like shoppers in a supermarket. They enter and they leave. If someone stops a shopper for reasons like inappropriate haircut or unusual dressing style in a su...