With every day that passes, the weather here seems to be getting moodier.
Splashing water on the face in the mornings has begun requiring more courage.
Sitting with the legs folded on the floor has begun taking a toll on the thighs.
Keeping the windows open at night has become a rebellious act.
Some mornings, I set out on the heroic journey of buying milk from the shop down my street without wearing a sweater/sweatshirt. "Let me test my body's tolerance limit", I tell myself on those walks. But it is more a matter of mental tolerance.
During these journeys, I cross a construction site with a small stone-walled room beside it. The room, which would approximately be the size of the kitchen in many middle-class homes and the size of the washroom in many upper-class homes, shelters a family of three.
Whenever I get the privilege of crossing this tiny paradise when its door is open or when its inhabitants are out, playing with the sand and gravel from the construction site, I notice a constant smile on the faces. They seem to have realized that happiness seldom cares about its environment.
I wish people who visit spiritual centers in search of happiness visit this humble home too.
There are nights when my generally brave blanket starts shivering. At such times, I get really close to whining. But I stop myself from doing so, thinking about the family in the stone-walled home.
Comforted by solid concrete walls and roofs, protected by woolen clothes and blankets, am I not inequitably lucky than they are?
I then hold my shivering blanket tightly and express my gratitude to life.
For some days, I kept wondering where the family of three took its motivation from. "What will they be grateful for?" I thought.
Later, on one cold night, I saw a street dog lying outside the gate of an apartment, its body and legs held as closely as possible.
Watching the dog, I understood how life, gratitude, and happiness worked.
Splashing water on the face in the mornings has begun requiring more courage.
Sitting with the legs folded on the floor has begun taking a toll on the thighs.
Keeping the windows open at night has become a rebellious act.
Some mornings, I set out on the heroic journey of buying milk from the shop down my street without wearing a sweater/sweatshirt. "Let me test my body's tolerance limit", I tell myself on those walks. But it is more a matter of mental tolerance.
During these journeys, I cross a construction site with a small stone-walled room beside it. The room, which would approximately be the size of the kitchen in many middle-class homes and the size of the washroom in many upper-class homes, shelters a family of three.
Whenever I get the privilege of crossing this tiny paradise when its door is open or when its inhabitants are out, playing with the sand and gravel from the construction site, I notice a constant smile on the faces. They seem to have realized that happiness seldom cares about its environment.
I wish people who visit spiritual centers in search of happiness visit this humble home too.
There are nights when my generally brave blanket starts shivering. At such times, I get really close to whining. But I stop myself from doing so, thinking about the family in the stone-walled home.
Comforted by solid concrete walls and roofs, protected by woolen clothes and blankets, am I not inequitably lucky than they are?
I then hold my shivering blanket tightly and express my gratitude to life.
For some days, I kept wondering where the family of three took its motivation from. "What will they be grateful for?" I thought.
Later, on one cold night, I saw a street dog lying outside the gate of an apartment, its body and legs held as closely as possible.
Watching the dog, I understood how life, gratitude, and happiness worked.
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