Jatakaa

Daily scribble in Kannada

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

Desert Wind Songs

✏️ Day 29 – Desert Wind Songs
 (UAE)

My pencil rolled across the page like a dune.
Golden curves, soft and endless.
Then—vroom!—a streak of silver sliced through.
A race car!
Right in the middle of my desert!

The pencil laughed,
saying Abu Dhabi loves to surprise.
One moment you’re counting grains of sand,
the next you’re counting laps at Yas Marina.

I drew the city’s edge—
glass towers rising like mirages,
a falcon gliding overhead,
its wings tracing the shape of speed.

Then came a secret:
there’s a hotel here where rooms
overlook the Formula 1 track—
and when cars race by,
the windows tremble with joy.

I signed my name quickly,
half afraid my pencil might take off too.
The wind outside hummed low,
and for once,
it sounded like an engine dreaming.

✨ If your pencil could race the wind, where would it stop to rest?
2