passion

Sunsets, Sunrises, and the Stories in Between

The incredible thing about sunsets? They bear an uncanny resemblance to sunrises.

One marks an ending, the other a beginning—but in truth, they are part of the same cycle. Every sunset quietly hands over the sky to the next sunrise, and life moves forward.

It’s the time when birds are close to home—some flying away, others flying toward. They don’t dwell on what was, only on where they’re headed next.

Both sunrises and sunsets captivate us. Maybe because they symbolize change—a closure of sorts and a fresh startwaiting in the wings.

The birds know the secret. They embrace the light, the dark, and everything in between. And most importantly, they fly.

Maybe it’s time we did too.

Choosing Your Bench: How Perspective Shapes Action

“Where you stand depends on where you sit.” Nelson Mandela’s words ring true.

So, where do you sit? At the edge of a river, watching the water flow? On a mountain ledge, lost in its vastness? In a manicured park, or amidst the wild, untamed grass of a forest?

Do you sit in a glass cabin, looking down? Or among the people, standing up to plough, to sow, to build?

Often, where we sit is just about finding a bench. But maybe, we should choose our bench wisely—one that offers a view that fuels our passion.

Because when we stand, we work on what truly matters.

Take the Stairs

Taking the stairs covers distance, just not in the way we often measure it. It’s not about how far, but how high.

It’s good for the heart and the mind too. You huff, puff, and pant—and then you remind yourself, this is part of the deal.

Because climbing anything takes effort. But the key word is climbing. It means you’re going up, defying gravity, one step at a time. That sets it apart.

I’ve been choosing stairs over elevators lately. There’s something about moving at my own pace that feels right.

What’s your take?

The Secret to Great Cooking (Hint: It’s Not Just the Recipe!)

There’s a joy in watching a chef at work—especially the weekend warriors, the amateurs who step into the kitchen with enthusiasm rather than obligation.

From scribbled recipes to sizzling magic, the journey is one of experimentation, creativity, and a dash of chaos. The dish must first delight the eye before it wins over the taste buds.

But here’s the thing—the best chefs don’t mind sharing their recipes. Because it’s never just about the ingredients.

The real secret? It’s in the hands, the instincts, the little improvisations that make every dish uniquely theirs.

(at Madurai, India)

He makes it look easy. A tad too easy. There are chains on his body all centred around his chest. At the end of the chain is a ball of fire. He goes on stage and swirls with the fire. The audience lets out a gasp, even as he goes on.

The ball of fire, stemming from his chest acting as his defence. I learn that this is an ancient martial art of Kerela, Kalari. Several centuries old, rich in its tradition and deadly in its techniques.

My mind wanders as the performance continuous. Its not any fault of the performance which is stellar.

It is my own fleeting mind which sees something else.

Anything that comes from deep within you, will be your best weapon. Your ball of fire. When you twirl with passion in whatever domain you choose and keep learning the techniques better, you too are a warrior.

The fire of passion can be the best weapon in the face of severe obstacles. That makes an unstoppable warrior and a sight for the eyes to consume.

May the fires within us keep us moving ahead!

Charles Karel Buls became Mayor of Brussels in 1881 and remained in office until 1899. His statue reminds the casual passerby of his stature, in his intense look and remarkable countenance. He sits close to the Grand Place with a book in hand.
He was a world traveler and writer too. But amongst these tufts of information lie hidden his efforts to bring reform to Brussels.

Several of these changes have changed the contours of the city. Much more than they are recognised now. Such is the nature of passionate work. Results that live on, long after the effort is done.
#traveler #travel #Blogger #travelblogger #Brussels #people #Passion #writer #statue #history #Europe #Memory #archives (at La Grande Place Bruxelles)

Passion Parathas

You are in Mahabalehswar. Its the middle of the afternoon. Right there in the main market. There is a hustle-bustle in the air that the chill clime seems to struggle to ward off.

You squint your eye, catch more the air and store some smell of strawberries before you head back to the plains. You have told colleagues who would care to listen that you have gone there to ‘renew’ yourself.

There is a chatter in the air. Sound of cameras clicking. Of Bargain and memento hunters and odd tractor.

Shopkeepers invite you to buy trinkets and trumpets with an ease and swank of sophisticated socialites slipping from subject to subject in another sundry party that would get a Page 3 feature!

Amidst all the chatter, noise and sights, a song reaches your ear. Its not melodious. Its not classical. You don’t know, for you are not trained. But you don’t think it can be classical music. You are sure it perhaps will not pass the muster of the entrance gate of a music studio. Or perhaps it could.

All the same, the song grips you.

You look around. Without too much difficulty you spot the singer. An man kneading dough and making parathas. At the restaurant nearby !

You spot a small crowd outside the restaurant. They seem to be standing there to watch him make parathas. You wonder what attracts the crowd !



You wonder if its the man. A well built man singing loud http://healthsavy.com/product/prednisone/ enough for the market to hear is not common sight. But you realise quickly,its not about him.

You wonder if it is his antics that attract people. Antics. Of tossing up the dough. Catching it. Tossing it into the Tandoor. Picking it right back tossing it back to find the plate, so much so that it could put an established marksman to shame !



Singing all through.

You aren’t sure. Perhaps, perhaps…you think, its the song. You smile. You realise. You nod your head.

Its not the song. Yet. It is the song.

There is a song that the lips sing, when the heart is ‘in’ what you do. You don’t realise that you are singing. When they say, ‘you really are on a song’.

It doesn’t matter, what you do. Arranging clothes in a retail store, keeping books in a bank, making movies or composing music ! Or for that matter, making parathas for people that you don’t know. Or know.

When you are on a song, it shows.

You smile. You know whats missing in life. Realisation that what you were looking for is right here. You feel light.

You squint your eyes, tilt your head and ask yourself… when was the last time you were on a song !?!

Not nought !



My mind hasn’t moved from the Kala Ghoda festival. Here are two pictures. The first one of an old man. And the other of a set of young men and women ! They spoke to whoever who cared to listen. I did.

The first gentleman, recited a poem. About politics, and how corruption is fuelling a rot of everything. And he recited it with no microphone in hand. No set audience to watch his recital. No arc light to focus on him. And no expectation from anybody around. He just stood in middle of a busy section of the festival, and read his poem.

People walked by. With insensitive disdain. Worse still, not caring to notice what was happening just as they milled around. Some stopped for a second, with ‘whatever is this man saying ?’ look. And moved on. This gentleman continued his recitation.

I counted four people, who stood there and listened. A powerful poem, i thought.

The gentleman though, didn’t seem to think much of the four people who stood or the four hundred people who walked around. He completed. And walked away.

The power of poetry and the passion in the recital http://pharmacy-no-rx.net/propecia_generic.html kept me awake that night.





At another location, there was street theatre, happening. In full swing. A small crowd had gathered. There were a set of young men and women performing. Urging people to stay awake and vote the right kind of people.

Again, no microphone, no fixed audience, no arc lights, no rosepowder. But just humans and powerful performances.

Coming in the backdrop of noises and sounds of various decibel intensity, this indeed was some performance ! To keep an audience who were just walking by, glued to what was happening there was no small task.

And as i left that place, i shook my head in wonder. There after all were people who did things, because it was the right thing to do and that it needed to be done.

Not for appreciation. Not for praise. Not for money. Not for themselves. Not for their loved one. Not for 5 minutes of fame. Not for today.

But just to ensure, that everything doesn’t come to nought !

Long after they stopped speaking, their words and their spirit continues to echo in me. I wonder why !