ChirpyQuill

Tara, a young girl with braided hair and bright smile always carries an aura of happiness, lived in a small village tucked between gentle hills. Her entire existence was centered around a mysterious gong whose vibrations marked the passage of each day. Tara woke up each morning as she heard the quiet hum of a gong. A loud tune of the gong announced the start of her schoolday. A steady and slow rhythm signaled her bedtime. Tara's relationship with the mysterious gong deepened as she grew. It turned into her life's pulse, incorporating a distinct cadence into every day experiences. The locals were in awe of her ability to harmonize her life with the metallic instrument's throbbing echoes. As the years went by, Tara grew and moved to a bustling busy city in pursuit of growth and learning. Initially Tara missed the comforting sounds of the mysterious gong and was pulled into the busy tunes of the vibrant city of New York.  As years progressed, Tara found a new heartbeat in the

  It’s not a typo. I really mean 2024, the year that was, in past tense. We understand time in linear fashion. A sequence of events that transpire one after another, in a neat little series of seconds and minutes laid out for us, that we hop into helplessly, ceaselessly… like during the hopscotch we played as kids. Sun rises, we step into hour one of our day, then another, then another… days and months, months and years… youth, old-age, death. Lifetime.  The question to ponder though is, how much, if any, of the ensuing moment’s happenings come out of our volition and in how much of life’s happenings we just are mute observers and involuntary participants? Really, how much? A little? A lot? Do we create the next moment or merely step into it?  Are we flowing into the gates of each moment like a journey through thousand gates of Fushimi Inari Shrine in Kyoto, Japan where each moment is a pre-constructed Stupa and we just pass under it. Or, is it more like we are a being in a Cosmic ocea

  Whenever the sound of the gong crosses my thoughts, I'm reminded of the gentle ring of bells. Whether it's the soft notes during a    pooja at home or the resonant sound of a priest's bell in the nearby Hindu temple in my home town, the simple melody never fails to evoke a sense of spirituality and calm within me. Whether brief or lingering, soft or cascading, the sound of bells grounds me, prompting a reflective pause and a deep appreciation for those sacred moments amongst a busy day. The vibrations touch somewhere deep inside my soul and makes me  bow down to the supreme power almost involuntarily. Church bells became part of my life earlier on since I attended all girls Christian school. Regular visits to the church on campus, particularly before exams, ingrained the deep resonance of its bells in my memory. Their majestic presence, with each profound toll, seemed to reach into the depths of my soul. This powerful sound became a consistent echo in my mind, that I carr

The Sound of the Gong…. The First Time The sound of the gong….. At temple doors, the sound of the gong brings in a sense of awakening, clearing and unclogging the mind of clutter. It brings in a sense of peace, almost like a primal whisper for the soul. And so in our life too, at some point, we all experience that sound of the gong, that one moment when suddenly, amidst confusion and chaos, the path forward suddenly seems to be clear.  The other day I was speaking to a very close friend of mine and something she said made me recollect my very first time . And before you start imagining things, let me clarify, it's NOT the first time that most of you would be thinking of …… I am speaking of the first time I saw my article published in Woman's Era magazine, a leading lifestyle magazine in India. Nothing can surpass that adrenaline rush of seeing what you’ve written, in black and white, and knowing that that article would be read by so many people all over India.  Thinking back, t

A while ago, but not so long There lived a beautiful shiny gong Its beauty was famous far and wide And caused it a lot of arrogance and pride Alas! There was but one concern The gong was mute, to hear its sound all did yearn To the gong, life felt purposeless and unfair Always silent, in the throes of despair Others would try to give comfort and advice Even a broken clock is right twice - And other such platitudes came for free With each one of them the gong would disagree A swarm of questions plagued its mind Answers to which it hoped to find Why can’t I be like my friends, the boisterous drum? Or the happy guitar being strum? Is the bronze on my back broken? Is that the reason I haven’t yet spoken? It traveled to lands far and near With this cross that was hard to bear One fine day on its quest It met an old sitar that wouldn’t rest Can you help me oh wise one! My voice has come undone One look and the sitar could see Why the gong couldn’t fulfill its destiny Your pride has made you

  I am privileged in many ways. I share the company of these compassionate and feeling individuals who have the innate ability to comprehend every one of their life experiences more profoundly, in many more dimensions and colors than most people. They are bold and unafraid to show their soft underbelly, and they pour their souls on paper for the world to see and perhaps even judge. It is a privilege to be in the company of these brave, exalted writers and poets. Some fight with swords, we make love with quills. Our fearless leader threw down a gauntlet in our band of merry writers, go forth and describe the sound of a gong, he said. I pondered for weeks on end on the premise of this article, it was onerous, infuriating even, describing the sound of a gong. How indeed? A gong sounds like, well, a gong! Or does it? I had a eureka moment one day. He had not meant the sound or the instrument in its literal sense, had he now? As I let that sink in, I remembered that feeling of euphoria,

Men from far and near have tried to enter my beautiful home. One rang the bell only once. I couldn’t hear it ringing, so he must have left without trying again. One rang the bell everyday, that too multiple times a day. I didn’t open the door.     I had been hearing a lot of rumors about that one! I just didn’t feel safe letting him in. One rang the bell just enough number of times to get my attention. I opened the door just enough, albeit, with the security chain on. We had a brief chat, but I just wasn’t buying what he was selling. I instantly caught his bluff and sent him away. One even tried to break in without ringing the bell, but I screamed so much that the neighbors called the security. That indeed was a close save. Yet, another one waited patiently by the door, thinking it would miraculously just open someday. He waited and waited come sun or rain or hail. To this date, I don’t know why didn’t he just ring the bell? What was he afraid of? Was it that I wont open the door or th

Chapter 1 : Startled, Shai wakes up again in the middle of the night. The same dream, The same sound. The Sound of The Gong.... 'Wake Up Kay....Your loud snoring is now sounding like a gong in my dreams." she laments to her husband sleeping peacefully by her side. "Only if...." she mutters beneath her breath and walks away to the window overlooking the mountains in the sleepy town of Solan Shai aka Shailaja and Kay aka Kamal met during their college days in Pune. As different as chalk and cheese they hailed from different cultures and cities. She, a Mumbai girl & He a Delhi boy. Their craziness and zest for life bound them together. They married and settled in Mumbai. The daily big city commute was strenuous but love prevailed during those early carefree years. "Go to sleep, Shai" Kay gently pleads placing his hand on her frail tense shoulders. "Did you see him, Kay?" "No."  His heart was aching within... "The mountains look so

  I was happy. It was 6:30 am, Nov 18th 2023 and I was there, at the starting line of JFK Ultra in Boonsboro, Maryland. That was the only promise I had made to myself for this race. That I will show up. There had been enough reasons to not to. But Gods of Ultramarathon held my hand through them and let me be there. I was grateful. The shot rang in the air and all 1020 aspirants, on cue, started their slow march of madness. On the far side of the 50.2 miles, a round metal piece with a generic engraving of “Finisher”, was pulling them like the Ring did to Frodo. It had power over them that they couldn’t resist. It had had power over them way back, 3, 6 months ago when they lay in their beds but could not sleep. It’s madness corrupted them to change what they ate and how they lived their lives. Now they were in the vicinity of Mount Doom and the Metal’s power was palpable. They were gonna get to the other side and destroy their prior self. The self that wasn’t an Ultra athlete. And so the

Some of you may have read my previous article on Aesthetically Astute Athleticism.    Please see here for reference  Aesthetically Astute Athleticism (AAA) by Atul Singh  if you have not.  The article generated a variety of responses and reactions. The most polarizing word in the article seemed to have been “vanity”. Some people did not relate to it, some found it downright offensive and others quietly accepted the import of it in the context in which it was served. For assuaging those concerns let’s modulate the drivers to be internal and external. External being the yearning to count for something in the peer group that one respects. As a follow up to that article I present another case study in similar realm, that of Ryan Hall. I just reference it here for people to read since this article speaks to it more eloquently than I ever could.  https://www.mensjournal.com/health-fitness/marathoner-ryan-hall-transformation I also think that the definition of a perfect body regularly gets re