Skip to main content

Facing the Sun ☀️

It was one of those rare afternoons when time felt unhurried. I found myself standing on the rocky stretch near the water, the world behind me fading away, and the sky opening up in front. The stones crunched softly under my feet, but above them stretched an expanse so wide that for a moment, I forgot where I ended and the sky began.

The sun was half-hidden behind thick clouds, yet its rays broke through stubbornly, casting silver streaks across the lake. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. There was something powerful about that sight:the reminder that no matter how heavy the clouds may seem, light always finds a way through.

I stood quietly, letting the breeze tug at my dress and hair. My thoughts, which had been restless for days, began to settle. It felt like the world was whispering to me: Pause. Breathe. Look at how vast life is. Your worries are only a grain of sand compared to this sky.

Facing the sun, I didn’t search for answers. I simply allowed myself to be present, to belong to that moment. The stillness wasn’t empty,it was full of calm, of strength, of a promise that even in the busiest days, there will always be places where the soul can rest.

As the rays shifted, I realized I wasn’t just standing before the sun;I was also standing before myself. And in that reflection, I found peace.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Silence Is Not Weakness

Today evening, I went to Maa Samlei Mandir in Balangir to witness the Navratri celebrations. The temple was glowing with lights, the air filled with the chants of “Jai Maa Samlei, Jai Maa Durga”, and hundreds of devotees stood in long queues with folded hands, waiting for their turn to bow before the goddess. The idol looked majestic. Her eyes fierce, posture divine, radiating power. But just outside the temple, I saw something that shook me more than anything else today.  A group of men leaned casually near the entrance. Each time a woman or group of girls walked by, their eyes followed shamelessly. Some smirked, some whispered, and a few threw words that were too filthy to repeat. I saw one young woman, dressed in a simple salwar, clutch her dupatta tightly and hurry past, her face turning pale with discomfort. The men laughed louder at her silence, as if her unease was their triumph. Another girl, with her father (maybe a student returning from tuition), froze for a moment, star...
1 comment
Read more

Unspoken, Yet Seen...

I have always felt that I am not good with words. Whenever emotions rise in my heart, they often get stuck in my throat. By the time I find the right sentence, the moment has already passed. But I believe eyes never lie. They hold a language of their own-silent, deep, and impossible to fake. I once heard a story of a boy named Ayu. He too struggled with words. Whenever he was happy, his eyes lit up like morning sunlight. Whenever he was hurt, they carried storms no one else noticed. And when he cared for someone, his eyes softened in a way that silence itself felt warmer. Most people didn’t notice. They were too busy listening for voices, not gazes. Ayu often wondered if he would always remain unseen. But one day, someone looked into his eyes long enough. She didn’t ask for words. She simply understood the quiet messages he carried—the shy laughter, the hidden fears, the unspoken affection. For the first time, Ayu realized he wasn’t bad at expressing. He had just been speaking a differ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Market's Unintended Hearth

The sun rose over Balangir, but it brought no warmth. The winter air, already heavy with the December chill, was now thick with the bitter, coppery smell of yesterday’s ruin. The fruit market, once a vibrant riot of color, argument, and sweetness where mangoes were bartered and guavas stacked high was gone. All that remained was a landscape of charred wood, buckled tin, and sodden ash. It was a monument to loss, wrapped in the cold, sorrowful mist of the morning. Humans came and went wringing their hands, arguing with officials, mourning their livelihood. For them, the fire was the end of prosperity. But for the animals of the street, the destruction was, paradoxically, a kind of beginning. Motii, the street dog, moved cautiously across the black, slippery ground. She was thin and weary, but her focus was absolute. She had a litter of four blind, tumbling puppies who had spent the night shivering beneath a defunct vegetable cart near the railway tracks. They needed three things: shelte...
Post a Comment
Read more