The strangers in this city

Today, while my friends and I were walking down the streets of Calcutta, I saw a woman with her son walking on the pavement. The little boy was holding a raw coconut, bigger than both his palms could properly carry, with more care than he would give to even a Hotwheels truck. They walked up to a lady in tattered rags sitting at the end of the pavement and the woman looked at her son and said, “Go on”. He held it out to the lady. I saw the look on her face as she exclaimed. And I saw the look on the little boy’s face as well. And I can’t get it out of my memory.

We don’t do this enough.

The playgroup in my street

Like Madeleine L’Engle, “I’m apt to get drunk on words”

Every time I open my college notebooks, I start to scribble random lines in-between all the statistics and probability theory and strange formulae.

This is what happens when a girl loves words much more than numbers.

{Reach me down my Tycho Brahe – I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;}- The Old Astronomer by Sarah Williams

{And though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night}- The Old Astronomer by Sarah Williams

{Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?}-
Tyger by William Blake

{Poetry is formed by the cerebrum, which is pink,
And the vocal cords which are red;
And if we spelled our poems in blood,it wouldn’t matter
What colour they came from} – She Asks Me by Phil Kaye

Much love