Droplets

I have no doubt that you are wondering what this blog is about, and how the title is significant. This blog is not about water or rains. Its not about seas or oceans. Its about the small realities of life. The ones that are very clear, just like little droplets falling from the sky. Just like beautiful, clear little droplets on the leaflets of a plant. But the clarity of these realities is made hazy by the fake illusions that our minds create. Those illusions seem much real than these little droplets because we believe what we want to. Not what is real, but what appears best for us to believe. This blog comes straight from the heart of a person who has been trying to believe in these realities for a long time now, and is still a bit too scared. As the saying goes "Truth is always bitter". But is it really? It may seem to be bitter but if we delve deeper into the truth, we find solace. A feeling like no other. Its beautiful, unparalleled. I have felt that feeling, have you?

We live in a fast moving world. Everyone is in a hurry. I won't fail to admit that even I am always in a hurry, no matter what I am doing. Even while typing this, I am in a hurry. But why do we all have such a sense of urgency? Can't we stop for a while and look at the clear little droplets? Can't we just stop and relax for a while and understand the true meanings of life? Or are we all scared, just like I am? Or is the reality presented to us in a way which seems to scare us?

Here is an anecdote from my childhood days.
I was about 4 years old back then. It was school time. We were having cursive writing lessons. Although it seemed beautiful, I was not interested. Perhaps the point of writing beautifully did not impress me. So I just wrote in a way, I found suitable. While checking of the notebooks, my teacher saw my hideous calligraphy. She was maddened at seeing such a creation. She slapped me right on my face. I was hardly mature enough back then to understand what the slap implied. I just assumed that my teacher was bad. But knowing me, one would know that I don't keep grudges. I just kept quiet about the whole thing. But my silence and the expression of my face were enough to convey to my father what had happened. He complained about it to the principal. The very next day, the same teacher was at my doorstep, crying. She was sorry for what she did. My parents tell me this story even today. Even I remember most of it. I must admit, even today it gives me immense happiness to know how protective my parents have been of me. But the message of the slap still remains a mystery. If the slap had been replaced by encouragement or advice, maybe I would have had a good handwriting.