Varchasva

Varchasva 
Apne hone ka yakin jaata raha, 
Apni dhundhali yaadon ke saaye mein, 
Us sunhare sooraj ko aaj bhi daanto se pakade baitha hun

The Bonfire

Daddy use to light better fire.  Daddy’s fire was so bright, so happy; shades of color I had just learnt would all come together and swirl about over the logs and under them. Gentle, yet strong, as flames engulfed bit of dried leaves and twigs, it crackled. Urged on by my father, the flame grew with spurts of rich orange and red.

Mom says all fires are alike. But I don’t think she has an eye for things like these. I think moms afraid because Dad’s fire went out.

I think Dad’s fire was lit with more than a few matches. It could never go out or be extinguished. Daddy’s fire just moved

The Jigsaw

In the end, he had to admit, he didn't really understand her. He didn't understand women. He didn't understand men. He didn't even understand children very well. All he really understood, he thought, was himself and the rest of the universe. Neither anything like completely, of course, but both well enough to know that what remained to be discovered would make sense; it would fit in, it could all be gradually and patiently fitted together a bit at a time, like an infinite jigsaw puzzle, with no straight edges to look for and no end in sight, but one in which there was always going to be somewhere for absolutely any piece to fit.