As I walked down a narrow street today I saw an old couple coming from the opposite end. Wrinkled, fragile they walked hand in hand as if they were each other's walking stick. Holding onto each other for support they made a very pretty picture.
We bumped into each other at a small bridge which the old man was vary of stepping on. As I stretched my hand in order to help he extended his hand along with hers held tightly.
Maybe this is what they meant when they coined the terms," together forever" and "till death do us apart".
P.S: The title of this post is borrowed from Nicholas Spark's book of the same name. I somehow felt it does justice to this sweet tale.
"Love stories are never created. They always existed around us, waiting to be written, to be heard and to be spoken about."
Many times I am asked how do I find the ideas to write stories. I have always loved stories, from time immemorial. And the writer in me, never fails to catch the whiff of a story bubbling around. Like last night, when I was fiddling with my YouTube playlist.
On the eve of Rakshabandhan I cannot help but miss my dearest brother as he is away from all of us in a different country trying to carve a niche for himself. This post is specially dedicated to him, just to let him know what he means to me. I know most of the times it is all understood, but sometimes it just needs to be told and expressed.
On a crisp Saturday morning, I decided to wriggle out of cozy comforters and get some writing done. The October sun was warm and soothing. Not to forget my writing desk, bathed in the golden hue from the sun rays looked exceptionally inviting. And so, I occupied the throne.