Santhara or The Art of Dying | Flash Post 361
Why are we writing on a morose subject like the art of dying?
Why are we writing on a morose subject like the art of dying?
Haven’t you called one of your earlier posts by the same title? If I remember right, that was a post about our four-legged babies looking gorgeous with flower braids in their hair and that elf-like flower you spotted and clicked.
Times such as these are extremely agonising and humbling, Button.
Button, what I am about to tell you, seems straight out of a Hitchcock film. I watched Birds years back but the film still sends shivers down my spine.
Button, when I was young and seventeen, I remember my father trying to find a groom for me.
Button, it was a beautiful Sunday morning this morning and barididi and I decided to take our pets for their morning walk.
Button, when we first got Messi home no bigger than a rat, his favourite hide-out used to be behind the backrest of our king-sized bed where he would huddle up in a foetal position and fall asleep instantly.
Button, while brushing my teeth this morning, I suddenly noticed a teeny-weeny spider slowly trudging along.
Button, looking out of the airplane window en route to Kolkata, the sparkling fluffy white clouds caught my attention.
Button, I heard the flautist playing a beautiful melody on his flute this morning after many months and my ears perked up hearing the lilting sound I love so much.