Tales of a Tattler

We rarely notice the silent companions of our daily lives, those that stand by us, not in grand gestures, but in the most quiet and necessary ways. This poem is an ode to one such companion: my handkerchief. In this experimental work, I try to honour its silent services, and its soft presence of that makes moments of distress a little less heavy. 

  Some stories are not entirely ours, but are told anyways. Not because we are mere tattlers, but because they echo something we have lived, something we remember in the quiet corners of ourselves.    Back when the world went quiet, a friend once spoke of a bird. The moment passed, but the thought of the bird, and what it represented, never left.    As you read, I hope you too find a glimmer of something forgotten, something familiar, something your own.

   In all that is shaped and seen, somethings are quietly unmade. I wrote this in recollection of my childhood walks to the church every Sunday morning.  I used to pass down a lane of glassmakers, whose craftmanship were reflected in every glasswork. I remember the mornings, the shimmer, the spectacle, and the silent stories that existed in the spaces between each piece. This poem is about the quiet subjects that are always left off frame. 

  At sharp 00:00 today, Tales of a Tattler went live. No fireworks, no grand launches. Just a quiet click into existence in the vast world of the internet. Planning to announce it at dawn, I went to bed in the pleasant weather of Mumbai, cooled down by a light, unseasonal drizzle.   But the sun rose on a different kind of day. The air was heavy with the news of my country's retaliation to an inhumane act, which might soon become war. And then, a message from a close friend about a profound loss. Suddenly, everything I had planned felt far away, almost out of place.    I also found myself standing at the edge of a familiar feeling — one that has echoed through so many moments in my life. The feeling of getting something, but not quite being able to hold it. Like a line from Anuv Jain’s Husn :  “Milke bhi na mujhe mila...” ( Even after getting it, it was never truly mine.)  This launch felt exactly like that. The prelude to this moment was beautiful w...

  What makes a miracle? Is it surviving against all odds, or being conceived after years of prayers and failed treatments?     This story holds a special place in my heart; it is one of my first stories to take a physical form.  I can't quite remember when I conceived this, but it held on, quietly and steadily, till it found its way onto a page.  Take a walk through this tale of hope, heartbreak, and silent resilience.