« It was the commonest of conversations. Nothing harsh was said. Nor anything sad or dramatic. And yet a relationship that had never begun, died. A sentence left incomplete before the paragraph was born. A bridge project shelved. Why do I grieve so? » ~Bhavana Nissima
« Some catch fire on first strike and light a candle or lamp. Some catch fire on second or third strike. Few catch fire but are blown out by wind before they can light a candle. Some cannot light because the wick is damp or there is no oil or it is way too burnt out. In a quiet room, with candles closely stacked together, couple of matchsticks manage to light several of them. And then there is this one. You strike her repeatedly but no fire. Either because the sides have worn out or her edges have been blunted or your hands were wet. The more you strike, the more the edges peel off and she wilts. You fling her away saying “Poor quality matchstick.” Was she? » ~Bhavana Nissima, FB
« Sometimes floodwaters enter our homes, sometimes they enter our lives, soaking, wiping all that we take for granted—our social beliefs, our skillsets, our place in hierarchy of things, our access to resources, our relationships, everything. We are forced to evacuate structures we called home — that which IS and WILL BE— and find ourselves in the relief camps of life. Here we sit stunned by loss, with uncertain days and bewildering tomorrows, at the mercy of strangers and systems beyond our control. Here we sit as refugees from hope, haunted by a yearning for better days.
Here we discover the other side of the world, that which always was. Like the shadow of silence between our words — emptied of meaning, emptied of intention.
Only some of us get to return home. For others, we have to learn the art of making sea our home. » ~Bhavana Nissima
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