I came across the idea of Swedish death cleaning today, and it stayed with me longer than I expected. Not because of the word death, that part feels inevitable and oddly neutral, but because of the tenderness behind the idea: easing the weight for those we love …
Margareta Magnusson writes about sorting not as an ending, but as an act of care. A way of saying, I see you. I don’t want to leave you overwhelmed. That makes sense to me. Deep sense …
Sorting through a person’s life after they are gone is a herculean task. Grief itself already bends the spine; belongings can make it heavier. Each object asks a question: Should I keep this? What did it mean to them? Am I dishonouring them if I let it go? I wouldn’t want my family to carry that weight on top of their sorrow …
The biggest declutter I dream of is invisible, yet massive: millions of photographs. Faces, skies, meals, moments, saved out of love, fear of forgetting, or the hope that one day they’ll matter again. I wonder if they will feel like treasures… or burdens. Perhaps it’s not about deleting everything, but about choosing what truly tells a story …
Then there are my words. Countless musings, half-written thoughts, simple musings, & reflections stored away for “someday.” I imagine my grandchildren, & great grandchildren, curious, gentle readers, finding joy not in everything I ever wrote, but in the pieces where my voice is clearest. Maybe my task is not to preserve all my words, but to organise them with intention, like letters rather than clutter …
And the coins. Oh, the coins! Little metallic memories gathered from here and there. Each one once felt like a discovery, a moment of wonder. I don’t want to lose that magic, but I also don’t want them to become meaningless weight in a drawer. Perhaps they deserve a story, a frame, a reason to exist beyond accumulation …
Magnusson says you don’t have to be old to begin. Even in your thirties, when drawers no longer close and closets resist you, it’s already time. I like that permission. It takes death out of the centre and places living there instead …
I don’t know how far away I am from the end, and maybe that doesn’t matter. What matters is this: decluttering feels less like letting go, and more like choosing what love looks like when I’m no longer here …
For now, I will begin gently. Not with fear. With care.
#roksanatales
a vision board of decluttering and organising things in an aesthetic style
I began these mindful drawings in a fragile, unsettled state of mind. My thoughts felt scattered, restless, overlapping, too many at once. So I picked up colours and let them move without planning, without forcing sense or structure. I didn’t try to control the flow; I let the flow carry me. As the colours settled, so did parts of me.
While doing this, a thought stayed with me: Is this even anything? Later, that thought came back through others. Some asked, “What kind of painting is this?” Some said, “It has no meaning.” Some looked longer, trying to extract logic, trying to name it, trying to make sense of it. Others simply found it beautiful.
I noticed how familiar this felt. How people always want to define, label, approve, or dismiss. How art becomes a mirror for their own need to understand or control. And I realised, this is not new. This is human nature.
But this wasn’t made for explanation. It was made for survival. For breathing. For letting my scattered thoughts land somewhere gentle
I don’t need everyone to understand it. I don’t need to defend it. People may say so many different things. They always will. And what we need to do is to continue to do what we do, quietly, honestly, and with care! That’s enough!
And somehow, in the midst of all this, these paintings reside in a foreign land, resting there with a grace that still surprises me!
When people ask, with curiosity, what I do all day, I usually smile and reply, ‘Nothing much.’ It is a convenient answer, simple, unprovocative, and often enough to satisfy the questioner. The conversation moves on, and so does life
But the truth is far fuller
Much of my day unfolds inside a creative bubble. It is a space where ideas are constantly forming, dissolving, and reshaping themselves. I move from one thought to another, from making to unmaking, from observing to imagining. This kind of work rarely announces itself loudly. There are no fixed hours, no visible milestones, no obvious outputs that can be easily measured or displayed
In a world that often values productivity by numbers and material outcomes, such labour can appear weightless, almost invisible. Creative work is frequently compared to financial gain, and when it does not immediately translate into income, it is easily misunderstood or undervalued. Yet the rewards it offers are profound: a sense of purpose, inner clarity, emotional resilience, and the satisfaction of creating something meaningful from within
That said, it would be dishonest to romanticise creativity as something detached from real-world needs. Financial independence matters. It matters for everyone, and artists are no exception. The ability to sustain oneself lends dignity, stability, and freedom to any form of work, creative or otherwise. Passion alone cannot replace the need for security, nor should it be expected to
Perhaps the gap lies not in the work itself, but in how we perceive it. Not all labour is loud. Not all effort leaves visible footprints. Some of the most valuable work happens in silence, slowly, patiently, and away from public validation
To say ‘nothing much’ is easier. But in reality, it is a life silently lived in attention, imagination, and continuous becoming. And that, too, is work, deep, deliberate, and very real
As a teenager, she would watch her sisters tilt their faces toward the light, their lashes casting long shadows over eyes that shimmered with beauty. When she looked in the mirror, her own eyes seemed smaller, plainer, framed by short lashes. It stung her heart a little, like a tiny splinter she couldn’t quite pull out …
Over time, she began to reclaim them. She traced deep kajol along her lids, soft & dark, like ink drawing a doorway. Her eyes lookd wider, more alive. People began to say she looked striking, and for the first time, her eyes felt truly hers …
Then life changed. Grief came quietly, like water filling a low space. In her reflection, she noticed it, the sparkle that once danced in her eyes had turned gentler, dimmer, like smoke fading after a flame. Her eyes began to carry stories of long nights and silent endurance. She didn’t always want others to read them …
So she reached for her sunglasses. The cool plastic rested against her temples, the tinted lenses washed the world in sepia. It felt like drawing a curtain over a window. Behind them, she had privacy. No one could see the sadness flicker and ask, “Are you okay?” …
She’s learned something through this little ritual, and that is, sometimes covering up isn’t vanity; it’s survival. The layers we wear, sunglasses, kajol, even a careful smile, are small stitches tht hold us togther until we’re ready to heal …
Sometimes, she still wonders: what would it feel like to step into the light barefaced, to let her eyes tell their truth, and to trust the world not to look away?
#roksanatales
Her eyes carry stories the world is not yet ready to read
There was a small village at the foot of a mountain. The village was called Shantipur. In that village lived a little girl named Turona. Every day, Turona would gaze at the big mountain from afar. In the morning, the mountain sparkled in golden sunlight, and by evening, it glowed in a soft reddish hue …
One day, Turona decided she would climb to the top of that mountain. Everyone said, ‘It’s too high, you won’t be able to.’ But Turona smiled and replied, ‘How will I know if I don’t try?’ …
The next morning, she set off with a bottle of water, some fruit, and a notebook. On the way, she grew tired, her feet ached on the stones, yet she didn’t stop. Sometimes she sat down to rest, listening to the sound of the wind and watching the birds fly …
Finally, after noon, she reached the top of the mountain. Looking down, she saw how beautiful her little village was, green fields, tiny houses, and a silver river flowing gently through it …
In her notebook, Turona wrote, ‘The joy of reaching the highest place only comes when you refuse to give up.’ …
Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The air smelled of freedom, and inside her heart, there was peace …
She realized that the real mountain wasn’t outside, but within her. And that day, she had conquered both …
#roksanatales
How we used to write short stories when we were young! I remember how every night I’d make up stories to tell my little sisters before they fell asleep. I used to jot down bits of them in my notebook too. Often, I’d go up to our rooftop with that notebook, gazing at the distant sky until my thoughts drifted away. I wanted to write, and sometimes, I did. Other times, I simply got lost in my own imagination!
I’m sure it happened with you too!
Anyways, now tell me, What is the ‘mountain’ in your own life that you’ve been afraid to climb? Or tell me, When was the last time you tried something even though others doubted you?
After arriving in Malé, my son and I took a short ride across the water on a cheerful little troller and arrived at Villimalé, a quaint residential island just a breath away from the city, yet carrying a world of its own. We really loved it from our first glance
At Malahini Resort, we met quite a few Bangladeshi brothers. One of them was Anwar, from Cumilla. He would often talk to us and check in to see how we were doing. The day before we were to leave the resort, he found out that we’d be spending a day in the capital, Malé. That’s when he suggested, ‘You should visit Villimalé (Villingili). It’s really beautiful, peaceful beaches, and you’ll get a glimpse of how the locals live by the sea.’
My son and I decided to follow Anwar’s suggestion. And that’s how after arriving in Malé, we took a little time to check in and freshen up at the hotel and then set off for Villingili
Vilimalé greeted us like an old friend, quiet, colorful, and full of life in the most unassuming ways. We arrived in the afternoon, when the sun had begun to soften and the island was slowly waking up from its midday rest. We strolled along the beach, letting the rhythm of the waves guide us, and quickly realized that this wasn’t just a place, it was a gentle rhythm of living.
Everywhere we looked, there were tiny glimpses of humanity, sweet nothings, really, but the kind that make a place unforgettable. We saw two youngsters sitting on a swing, lost in deep conversation, as if the world around them had vanished. Just a little further down, two elderly citizens mirrored the same scene, also on a swing, equally absorbed in their own quiet exchange. It struck me how conversation, across generations, had found its sacred space here
The island had spaces carved out for everyone. Recreational areas were sprinkled thoughtfully across the land, inviting both the young and old to step out, breathe, and belong. As the sun began its descent, we saw more and more people emerging from their homes, children playing, families gathering near the shore, neighbors leaning against colorful walls exchanging daily stories. There was a profound simplicity in it all, a culture of connection, held together by time, tradition, and tide
One thing I adored was the palette of colors, houses in hues of blue, pink, and green added a joyful softness to the streets. Local buses trundled along quietly, connecting corners of the island, making life easier not just for tourists like us, but for the people who called this place home
At one point, I stopped by a humble juice stall and, with a bit of curiosity, asked the shopkeeper if he had any old coins to exchange for my Maldivian rufiyaa. To my surprise, he smiled warmly, searched through his collection, and found some for me. It wasn’t just a kind gesture, it felt like a small act of honor, a way of saying we see you, and we care. That exchange stayed with me; you know, respect can live in even the smallest interactions
Vilimalé may be a little island, but it left a great impression on us
True that beauty lives not just in landscapes or luxury, but in everyday warmth, in shared swings and sunset talks, and in the quiet magic of simply being present, with a place, and with someone you love
If you ever visit the Maldives, don’t forget to stop by the little island of Vilimalé. Whether you’re there for a stroll, a swim, or simply to slow down, Villimalé feels like a hidden corner of everyday island life
Sometimes, I find myself simply observing those who seem ‘normal’, the way they speak, the words they choose to describe their experiences, how they react, or how they present their abilities with such careful confidence. Their ease in communication fascinates me, as if they instinctively know how to navigate social expectations.
At times, being among them makes me feel out of place, as if I exist on a different wavelength. Yet, I take myself lightly, even when they joke at my expense. I do not mind, because their amusement does not define me. In fact, I feel a strange sense of joy when they fail to understand me, because, deep down, that’s exactly what I prefer.
Those of us who are born different, who experience the world through a mind that society struggles to categorize, are often labeled with terms and diagnoses. But these labels do not define us. We are nature’s unique creation, wired to perceive life in ways they cannot grasp. And perhaps, they do not need to understand us.
Only a few people ever truly see us for who we are, and that is the rarest gift. The most powerful truth is that we are the ones who teach them how to understand us. It is not luck that allows them to connect with us, it is our choice to let them in. And for that, they are truly fortunate …
A tale from a psychologically challenged soul
#roksanatales
Cherry blossoms in Ravenscourt Park, London
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Étranger/ french Meaning is ‘Stranger’. It reflects the sense of being apart from the norm, of existing on a different wavelength, and not being fully understood by society
She walked slowly, But now she walks even slower …
She talked freely with the right person, But now She barely talks at all …
She mingled happily with her best friend, But now She avoids everyone …
She expressed herself openly, But now She keeps everything inside …
She used to dream of the stars But now She barely looks at the sky …
She used to dance in the rain But now She stays inside, dry …
She used to laugh with abandon But now Her smiles are rare and shy …
She used to sing her heart out But now Her voice is just a whisper …
She used to chase after adventures But now She hesitates to even try …
She used to believe in magic But now Her wonder seems to die …
She lost her beloved, her heart’s anchor, Now she drifts, untethered and forlorn …
Grief has woven shadows in her days, And joy, once bright, feels tattered and torn …
#roksanatales
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Ya’ Aburnee/ arabic (n.) lit. ‘may you bury me’ a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person because of how unbearable it would be to live without them
I have a fondness for breaking apart A fascination with the fragile The delicate dance of hearts Walking unsteadily on the edge … In love …
I have a fondness for breaking apart At times it seems Love’s other name is Broken hearts … An echo of longing … A symphony of cracks …
I have a fondness for breaking apart In love, I find A beauty in the fracture, In the spaces … Where light seeps through the wounds Where the raw and the real collide In a blaze of truth and tenderness …
I have a fondness for breaking apart It’s a mosaic of Shattered dreams Pieced together with hope … A courage of feeling The audacity of connection …
I have a fondness For the breaking … For the way love demands vulnerability … For the way it strips us bare … For the way all its flaws are revealed I have a fondness For my unguarded heart Breaking apart …
For in the breaking, We find the depth of love The resilience of the beautiful soul … The beauty of a heart That dares to love Even knowing it might break … That’s how I have a fondness For breaking apart …
In puzzled ponder, a name I’ve heard Though “Roksana” my soul preferred … Yet as time passed by A fondness did arise Love’s influence moves my heart … Let the name be my tender song In love’s embrace, I truly belong …
You cannot save anyone. You can be present with them, offer your groundedness, your sanity, your peace. You can even share your path with them, offer your perspective. But you cannot take away their pain. You cannot walk their path for them. You cannot give answers that are right for them, or even answers they can digest right now. They will have to find their own answers.
Restless I feel … My heart aches deeply … He captivates my heart …
My thoughts are scattered … Right now … Oh dear! I continually shatter my heart, Dispersing its fragments Until they touch The depths of your being, My beloved …
A university degree, four books, and hundreds of articles and I still make mistakes when reading, You write to me “good morning” and I read it as, “I love you” …
Desires unmet, dreams fade Yet, gratitude fills the heart Finding joy in what we have …
#roksanatales
Discovering happiness doesn’t always involve fulfilling your desires.; it’s about cherishing what you already possess and expressing gratitude for it …
Finding Joy in life’s simple yet priceless pleasures, like
-relishing solitude at home -preparing homemade meals -writing letters in such era of emojis and instant messaging -engaging in agenda less conversations with loved ones -spreading joy with smiles and laughter -lighting fragrant candles -tending to plants, and -expressing ‘I love you’ selflessly and unconditionally -coming back to home by walking and appreciating the friendly neighbourhood and the beautiful surroundings with greenery and flower blossoming
And many more of such things ….
Please do share some of your small moments in which you find joy ….
I reconnected with that girl anew – Who once embraced life fully … Who danced with every step and radiated joy Whose eyes were some sunflowers, blooming And whose soul ignited fireworks, dazzling …
I played music for that girl again … In hopes that its melody would ignite her spirit within Creating a haven for her to emerge from the shadows And dance once more under the stars …
Knowing that she would find solace within these moments With each sunset painted in hues of gold And each gentle breeze whispering Through the trees …. I hoped to create a sanctuary where she could feel safe enough to reveal herself once again …
Deep within, I felt her presence stirring, A flicker of recognition amidst the silence … Longing for my kindness and effort that shimmered with possibility I vowed to nurture her return To guide her back into the light Where she rightfully belonged .. She belonged to the poetry within her …
#roksanatales
Little Roksana
The pic is from the archive of memories of a young girl; another of her mirror image. She was travelling by train, from Kolkata to Delhi ….
On this day, he reflected, “I recall she used to attend her prayers for Jumma day.” …
On this day, she reminisced, “I recall he would probably meet the girl.” …
Today, he worried, “She has been feeling a bit unwell. Will she still be able to go to the mosque for her prayers? Perhaps she should rest today. Will she ever heed my advice?” …
Today, she pondered, “When will he meet the girl? Will it be in the evening? That would be preferable. It’s quite hot outside today; they might not feel comfortable meeting in such humidity. I hope their meeting goes well.” …
Despite feeling unwell again, she went to the mosque for Jumma prayer, then in the evening she prayed for him before falling asleep …
In the evening, he met the girl, and they enjoyed their time together, discussing their future life …
Throughout all this time, they remember their memories, Yet they never announce their presence, Simply flowing directly into their hearts …
#roksanatales
I appreciate your prayers for me.
Tell me if there’s anything else you wish to put in this story ….
…
Gunnen/ dutch (n.) to find happiness in someone else’s happiness because that’s how much you love them …
A self-portrait captured In the window’s reflection … Streets refreshed, cars in repose, As the breeze sweeping by … Your absence is there deep within, Even in the hustle of life … A smile graces my lips in this bustling race Thinking of you …. Contemplating …. Life carries me well forward With an unconditional love for you …
#roksanatales
Agape/ greek (n.) The highest form of love. Selfless, sacrificial and unconditional love; persists no matter the circumstance …
Do you realize the depth of my longing, the relentless ache for your words that consumes me day after day?
As time slips away, I find myself bereft of the anticipation that you’ll come to me with your thoughts woven into words …
Every passing day feels like an eternity, a solitary bird yearning for the life-giving touch of rain …
I yearn for you incessantly, akin to a tearful child yearning for the comforting embrace of its mother …
My wait for you echoes the patience of a patient seeking their cure …
Do you understand the extent of my yearning, how it wraps around me like a heavy fog, casting shadows of melancholy and confusion?
You are a constant presence, flowing like a river, your thoughts swirling within me, sometimes quietly, always tumultuously …
I ache for you, as if my very spirit is on a quest to find you, while my physical self remains anchored in the depths of my heart, waiting …
I long for the days filled with twinkling moments shared between us, each one a precious gem amidst the vast expanse of time .
#roksanatales
Wonderwall (n.) someone you can’t stop yourself thinking about all the time; the person you’re completely infatuated with …
According to Gallagher, Wonderwall‘ describes ‘an imaginary friend who’s gonna come and save you from yourself; a source of support and strength; a soulmate …
Often these days My thoughts are spreading out to you With too many questions hovering upon me.. Is the heat too intense where you dwell? Are you navigating it with ease? What’s the moisture like in your realm? What’s the humidity level there? I sense the weariness in your words; It seems like a struggle for you; Are you truly alright?
Here, we’re also dealing with scorching heatwaves – Yet, amidst the swelter, my mind wanders to you How do you cope up in this relentless weather? Often these days It crosses my mind …
Do you think of me too, Sometimes?
Do you remember my disdain for humidity, And how it worsens my headaches …. Do you remember my aversion to doctors, Yet now they’re an inevitable part of life?
My heart, already broken by your absence, Feels the toll of days passing … I find myself overthinking, Lost in thoughts of you, Especially in these days, Days of relentless heat, Days of suffocating humidity ….
Though You may never grasp … There’s an essence about you that I can’t shake Even amidst these sweltering heatwaves … A grip on me akin to The greatest tale left untold …
So,
Could you narrate an episode or two from your journey? Could you paint a tale of your eccentric existence? Could you recount an experience For me? To me? In these sweltering heat Amidst the scorching waves there? …
Meanwhile Take care, my dear, Know that I pray for you … In every moment In every humid day and night Of these days ….
Yours truly ^^
#roksanatales
I do drink lots of water in these scorching conditions. I do keep my body cool. Though I hate to use sunscreen, just I avoid sunburn. I do like coconut water a lot. And Nimbu Pani too ☺️. Then I love ice cream too 🤷🏿♀️
Reflect on ‘Who are you going to be’ From ‘What are you going to do? ….
You know you want to do right things. Then if you know who you are going to be, then You’ll choose to be KIND in whatever you do.
It is said, ‘“If you have the choice between being right and being kind, choose being kind”, a quote taken from American philosopher, Dr. Wayne W. Dyer.
This quote makes me think about the impact of kindness on other people’s lives …
Consciously choose to be kind …
#roksanatales
Just was getting ready to take a picture in front of Buddha Dordenma Statue but the click was done just like that! So an untimely mistake of a moment gone by – captured … but they say nothing is untimely … everything happens at its own pace and in its own time …
Blooms glow … Hope is in petals bright Nature promises in breeze …
#roksanatales
Part of my morning rituals are spent in my little varandah garden! It refreshes me …. Love the sound of the chirping birds, the warm light, smell of the wind and greens and flowers … Some days I read here with a glass of warm honey water and some days a cup of tea … with a little conversation … These days are Ramadan days, the most blessed days and I’m healing from my broken finger …. I hope it’ll be alright soon … and everything too
Most days, when it’s Friday, I remember that on such one Friday I entered his city, and he didn’t show up …
Do you know what I was thinking when I stepped out of the airport? I never been to this airport and unfortunately I was going to stay only the night at his city ….
Our hotel cars were outside the airport. We girls got into the cars and the car was passing through the airport road to get to the city centre … the full moon was racing with us, I was watching it through the car window …with my wandering heartbeats on …
I wanted to believe that he will be there to surprise me. So without any contact with him, I was still hoping that I may see him in there at the hotel lobby and for that I was feeling a bit nervous, ‘What if he actually comes!? Should I go outside to grab coffee with him as he wanted to take me out for a coffee, or should I ask him to have dinner at the hotel restaurant as it was already late because of the delayed flight. We won’t get time for a coffee break somewhere else.’ – to be honest I was feeling very nervous too. And more importantly, I needed to give him the gifts that I’ve been carrying throughout my whole trip,… So I needed to unpack my luggage!”
“Oh no! That would be a mess!” – I was thinking about all these in my mind …
Then we reached the hotel. The lobby was normal with less people. I looked around a little bit more. “Was there any face that was searching someone?” – I was looking here and there and was thinking about this – “Oh! better if he doesn’t come now.” As if I can recognise him. I never saw him even. How stupid and pathetic I was! I was thinking, ‘I want to freshen up first and then I’ll be coming down again for dinner, and may be by that time he would come and I may offer him dinner Dosa at the hotel restaurant’ … I still can’t believe that I was thinking all of these even without any confirmation from him to meet me here! Feeling too much angry at myself ….
However, after the hotel formalities were done, we went up to our room and then I came down with my travel mate and by that time I grew a feeling of no expectation that he would come. ‘If I expect, it’s going to hurt me. It’s alright’ – I was thinking to make myself feel better and now I’m waiting for my dosa with an expectation of having a good dinner, because I was so hungry by that time through so many things and all of these unsure traumas …
Unfortunately -A delayed flight disappointed me … -‘He’ disappointed me (He didn’t come. He didn’t confirm he would come though. Still I felt disappointed as if it’s all his fault…. ) -Dosa disappointed me (I was so hungry and I was craving dosa, but it was a disaster)
Now what?
A dilemma …
To keep or not to keep the gift packet at the reception desk!
My poor little handmade gifts for him, and few other things – should I keep my gift packet for him to pick later on when he gets to know that I was at his city and about all of these!
Poor me and my surprise gifts!
Wish he would know how brave it was for me to accept his coffee date for sometime in the middle of the night …
It won’t make sense if he never comes and by that time I started having headaches. I must sleep for sometime, and so I did, having a medicine …
It was 3 AM in the morning, again our cars were on the road of his city to reach the airport. This time I took some videos of the road as a memory of the city.
Long ago when the young girl in me visited this city, she was a carefree young girl who didnt know what does disappointment means! At that time she treasured the memory of visiting the famous amusement park with her siblings – it was full of fun, laughter and pure innocent joy. That time she left the city with delightful memories.
Now she’s leaving the city with the gift she so lovingly brought here for someone she never met before, but whom she thought she knew for a long time ….
This time she was innocent too, as her feelings were so deep and true, but she didn’t understand why she would be disappointed for someone who didn’t even know about the gifts she’s been carrying for him.
But for what reason, she was upset – she didn’t understand though she’s not a carefree young girl anymore …
But she was upset, confused and disoriented because now she was carrying the gifts to bring back home and carrying a strange unknown heart leaving a bit of her heart in this dark city!
Dark, because she entered it with a strange unknown feeling and it was nighttime though the moon was there (a relief to my eyes) and dark, because her heart was broken for a completely unknown, strange, unspecified reason so she was in denial for long …
It was a Friday night entering his city and on the morning of Saturday my flight took off from his city …
So on Fridays, most times it reminds me of that Friday when I was in his city, and he didn’t show up …
A delusion!
#roksanatales
It’s a long post. I’m sorry for that. If you’ve read the whole story, thank you and tell me if you’ve ever felt the same? Or any instance that you might have felt ….
Roksana Tales 