BREATHING ROOMS, LIVING MEMORIES

 

Breathing Rooms, Living Memories ........

After weeks of business travel, I finally stepped back into the sanctuary of my home. The moment I crossed the threshold, a wave of familiar scents wrapped around me—warm, grounding, unmistakably mine. The air itself felt like an embrace, soft and intimate, stirring memories tucked into corners and cushions.

During my journey, I had stayed in a variety of hotel rooms, each space offering its own palette of sensations—distinct textures, moods, and subtle olfactory whispers. I found myself attuned to the energies of each place, absorbing their quiet stories through scent and atmosphere.

Now, back in my own space, I could feel the difference—not just in comfort, but in resonance. Home doesn’t just smell familiar. It feels like truth.

Homes Are Not Built—They Are Breathed Into Being

A home is so much more than a structure with walls and a roof. It’s a living entity, sustained by the emotional rhythms of those who inhabit it. As we spend our days and nights within a space, our energy—our hopes, worries, laughter, and silence—seeps into the very foundation.

Every chai shared in the cozy confines, every tear shed during a tough time, every quiet moment of reflection—it all leaves a mark. That’s why a newly bought house often feels cold and empty until it’s infused with our unique vibrations. We are the ones who give it a soul, making it a sanctuary that reflects who we are.

The Invisible Imprint of Emotion

When you step into a house that has been lived in before, you can feel it immediately. It’s not just the furniture or the layout; there’s a certain feel in the air. Maybe the rooms feel warm and welcoming, like someone left behind love and laughter. Or maybe there’s a heaviness, a quiet discomfort you can’t quite explain—like the eerie stillness in a thriller film.

These aren’t just spooky stories. They’re subtle energies absorbed by the walls, the floors, even the air. Just as you can sense tension after a fight, homes carry emotional fingerprints. And as new occupants, we have a choice: to ignore those energies or to gently shift them.

Transforming Space with Intention

The beautiful part is, we have the power to transform any space. Just like we clean the floors and repaint the walls, we can also cleanse the emotional atmosphere. Playing music, lighting a diya, laughing with loved ones, or simply sitting quietly with good thoughts can shift the mood of a home.

Even placing fresh flowers or cooking a meal with love can bring warmth into the space. Think of it like planting seeds in a garden—what you nurture will grow. You can’t control what happened before, but you can choose what happens now. Your energy becomes the new heartbeat of the home.

The Sacred Responsibility of Atmosphere

Ultimately, the atmosphere of your home is your responsibility. It’s up to you whether you want to create a space that feels like heaven or one that drains you. If you fill it with kindness, patience, and joy, it becomes a place of healing and comfort. If you let stress, anger, or fear take over, it can feel like a trap.

A home is a living thing—it listens, it responds, and it reflects. The energy you put into it is the energy you get back. And that simple, powerful exchange is what makes a house truly a home.

THE BOMBAY LOCAL LOVE STORY

 

The Bombay Local Love Story........

 

Every morning on the busy Bombay local, something quietly magical was happening.

Advait, a shy South Bombay guy, always had his nose buried in a book or a newspaper, even with people squished around him. Aditi, full of life and chatty, was from the suburbs and studying engineering. Their paths crossed every day—usually at Dadar station. He always managed a window seat. She often stood in front of him, holding the bar overhead. It wasn’t love at first sight. Not in that sweaty, noisy train. But something soft started growing.

First, they’d steal glances. Then came a smile over a funny headline in his newspaper. On a rainy day, the train stopped suddenly between stations, and the lights went out. In the dark, Advait gestured and offered Aditi his seat and a piece of "thepla" (a type of Indian bread) which his mom had packed. She laughed and took a bite. That tiny moment broke the ice—and made the whole train compartment warm up to them, too.

Soon, their commute became the best part of their day. They talked about everything—college stress, silly Bollywood news, and who sold the best vada pav. Advait, usually quiet, started opening up thanks to Aditi’s cheerful nature. And Aditi, who once thought South Bombay boys were snobby, found Advait sweet and surprisingly funny.

Their chats didn’t stop with the train ride. They’d walk together till the exit, not wanting to say goodbye. Their friends teased them, calling them "train wale lovebirds." Eventually, their dates moved beyond the local train—Marine Drive sunsets, roadside chai, wandering through Colaba lanes. But the train always felt special, like their personal Cupid.

Of course, they had their share of little fights—missed calls, late trains, small misunderstandings. But just like the rhythm of the local, they always found their way back to each other. Through the madness of city life, they found comfort in each other's company.

And now, years later, they’re settled and have a family of their own. But whenever they hear the sound of a local train, it brings a smile. It takes them back to stolen glances, shared theplas, and a quiet love that grew in the heart of Bombay’s chaos.

Their story isn’t flashy. It’s soft, simple—and full of heart. Just like Bombay itself.

 

WITH LOVE

 

WITH LOVE 

 

WITH LOVE

The night wrapped around me—heavy, silent, unrelenting—just like my eyelids. I couldn’t fight them anymore. And then came the tears: hot, helpless, endless. They spilled for you, my love. I wept, remembering you, remembering the winters we spent so warm and safe in each other’s arms.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t let this break me. I truly believed I could stay strong. But how could I not fall apart when you left me with so much? So many pieces of you, scattered across my life—memories that still scream your name in every quiet corner.

How do I bury something that was never just a part of my past, but my entire idea of a future?

How could you walk away from us? How could you go searching for love again, as if what we had meant nothing? Did you ever stop to think about the thousands of hours, the quiet glances, the laughter, the tears—the life we built together—before you decided to walk away? Was I so easy to forget?

It feels impossible, almost inhuman, to be someone’s everything one day and mean nothing the next.

No matter how hard I try to move on, no matter who stands in front of me—even if they’re everything I ever thought I wanted—I can’t. I’ve tried, really, truly tried. But every time I close my eyes, I see only you. I hear only your voice. I feel only your touch.

It’s a mystery to me—how you could turn away and never look back. Because even after all the pain, after every hurt, I was still there. Still yours. Still believing. Still loving you with everything I had.

And now? Now I feel completely lost.

With love, Me.