Jatakaa

Daily scribble in Kannada

When Reasons Hide

Life’s colours

Some things unfold in whispers,
not for the hurried ear—
they bloom in the hush
where doubt and wonder meet.

The unseen hand moves quietly,
painting cause behind the veil,
each turn, each tear, each tremor—
a lesson sealed in grace.

Blurred eyes see loss and chance,
open hearts see light disguised—
for every ache, a seed is sown,
for every end, an unseen dawn.

So wait, not with fear, but faith—
for reason is not to be found,
it reveals itself in stillness—
when the heart remembers to see.

3

Echoes of the Same Sky

The way of life

They rush, just as we once ran,
Chasing dreams without a plan.
Eyes bright, yet blind to cost,
Hearts half-found and half-lost.

I watch them stumble, proud and bold,
Through stories we’ve already told.
Different toys, new screens, same ache —
The hurried steps that hearts can’t take.

We too had built our fragile throne,
In worlds of “mine” and “me alone.”
Till love knocked softly, time replied —
And ego bowed where care had cried.

Now I see their worlds unfold,
With wiser eyes, yet hands grown old.
I wish they’d learn before the fall,
That giving doesn’t make you small.

For selfish minds can cloud the light,
And love is lost when clutched too tight.
So I whisper prayers into the air —
May they find “we” before despair.

And when their storms begin to cease,
May they too find their home in peace.
The sky is same, the winds just turn,
And every soul must live to learn.

4

The Lamp Within

As I near the twilight curve of life,
memories glow—half ember, half flame.
Once, the street would echo with laughter and clang,
vessels clattering by the public tap at one a.m.,
tiny hands waiting in line, slick with sesame oil—
the ritual to rinse away bad luck,
the dawn bath, the race to light the sky
before the sun could claim the first spark.

Now, the oil burns inside screens—
WhatsApp greetings, pixel lamps,
and faces that flicker, not quite near, not quite gone.
Children and their children dream elsewhere,
and my mother, in her quiet nest,
still lights her lamp the old way,
its glow steady, refusing to learn Wi-Fi.

I sit by the balcony’s hush,
wondering—
is it the spark that’s changed its hue,
or have we traded the warmth of hands
for the hum of notifications?

The glitter fades faster than my breath,
yet somewhere deep within,
a small flame endures—
not dissolving,
just transforming—
from the crackle of fireworks
to the silence of light.
2