Some days, I’m more aware of my shortcomings than I allow others, or myself to see. I see where I fall short, where I hesitate, where I choose comfort over courage. I know my flaws. I do not hide them from myself, and I cannot hide them from God.
And yet, when I pray, something honest rises within me.
I come as I am, not polished, not proud. My prayers are not rehearsed performances; they are pure offerings shaped by need, regret, hope, and longing. I pray because despite everything, I still believe in mercy. I still believe in being heard
Perhaps this is what sincerity truly means. It’s not the absence of sin, but the refusal to turn away. I am learning that returning, again and again, is itself a form of faith. Even when I feel undeserving, I show up. Even when my heart is tired, I speak
Thats how always humbly I place my imperfections in God’s hands. Because I believe, no other can handle it like Him. I do not ask to be seen as perfect, only as honest. And for always, that feels like enough
#roksanatales
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Now tell me, Where do you place your imperfections?
I love travelling. Not in a restless way. More because movement reminds me that I am still alive, still becoming. Somewhere between who I was and what life has slowly taught me, I learned to stop asking myself to arrive.
Some days, childhood returns without warning. I see myself buying a butter bun before school, stopping by the bakery near the gate. The paper was warm in my hands. The bread softer than it looked. My heart light in a way I did not yet know how to name. It was an ordinary joy. It was enough.
I remember sitting between two railway lines, trains rushing past on both sides, the air heavy with fear. I was frozen, breath caught somewhere between sound and silence. I don’t remember how long I sat there. Only that at some point, the noise stopped. Or maybe I stopped hearing it. When I opened my eyes, I ran. As fast as I could. I ran home …
All that time, one thought held me captive: what if the people from the train take me away, and I can never come back home?
That fear was too big for a child. And somehow, it stayed …
Even now, it returns, not as memory, but as feeling. The fear of losing home. The fear of being unmoored. Of not belonging anywhere long enough to rest …
Perhaps that is where my love for travel began. Not as escape, but as a quiet practice of return. From city to city. From prayer to prayer. Carrying my past without announcing it, letting new landscapes make space for old feelings.
I often think of Mahmoud Darwish’s words: “I don’t have enough time to tie my end to my beginning.” Maybe that is why I keep moving. Not to outrun where I come from, but to walk beside it. Trusting that some things do not need to be resolved to be lived with. One day, the tying will happen. Until then, I move forward, gently.
A long long time ago, I believed success had a very clear shape: money, fame, praise, awards, achievements, things that could be named and counted. I thought that was what richness looked like …
However, over time, life has taught me otherwise. Life has a way of humbling you, of stripping away the noise until only what truly matters remains …
Now, when I look around, I realize I haven’t truly chased that kind of wealth. Life unfolds in its beauty all around me. I already possess real wealth, in presence, in love, in moments of belonging, and in the people and connections that make me feel held. These are not things I want to replace or upgrade. These are the things I want to protect, nurture, and let grow …
If anything, this is the kind of wealth I hope multiplies. Not loudly. Not for display. But deeply, steadily, and with meaning.
So yes, in this new year, in 2026, I want to be richer in health, inner strength, knowledge and nourishment, real relationships and self-love, new experiences and hope … and all the blessings life has to offer …
Slow down and come home to yourself, this moment, your life, is already rich with blessings and beauty that no chase can ever outshine …
Sonamarg, Kashmir
What kind of wealth do you want to grow in your life this year?
What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?
If you ask me what I’m most scared to do, the answer is simple and immediate: swim.
What makes it confusing is that I already know how to swim. I’ve learned the technique. My body understands the movement. And yet, fear arrives every time I step into the water
As soon as I enter the pool, my mind drifts to what lies beneath the surface. I become overly conscious, of the depth, of my legs, of the possibility that something could go wrong. Thoughts rush in uninvited: What if I lose control? What if my legs are pulled downward? What if I drown? The water may be still, but my thoughts are not …
This fear isn’t about a lack of skill. It’s about trust, trusting the water, trusting my body, trusting myself to stay afloat even when my mind wants to prepare for the worst …
So what would it take to move past this fear?
Not pressure, and not forcing myself to be brave. What helps is being gentle, entering the water slowly, staying where I feel safe, breathing calmly, and stopping whenever I need to. I remind myself that I know how to swim and that, in this moment, I am safe …
I know fear doesn’t go away all at once. Maybe the goal isn’t to get rid of the fear, but to swim with it, until the water feels less frightening and more familiar …
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
Toruna walks almost every day with her son. These walks are special for her, a time to breathe, notice, and listen to the stories unfolding around. Every face, every moment on the street seems to whisper something to her heart. Walking makes her more thoughtful, more aware of life’s small wonders and struggles …
One evening, on their way to the park, Toruna noticed a tiny woollen cap lying on the road. She stopped and told her son, ‘Maybe a mother was carrying her sleeping baby on her shoulder, and while walking home, the little cap slipped off without her noticing. And then when she reached home and saw it missing, she must have felt sad, that cute little cap of her dear child is lost!’ Her son smiled and said, ‘You’re such a storyteller, Mom.’
They both laughed and kept walking.
But Toruna’s eyes continued to wander, always finding small stories hidden in everyday life …
Near the park gate, she saw twin toddlers quarreling over lollipops, their mother watching with an amused smile. One of the twins looked a bit grumpier, & Toruna observed the mother gently scolding and laughing at the same time ….
A few steps ahead, a woman in niqab (a veil on her face) walked alone on the footpath. She seemed quiet, almost wrapped in her own thoughts. Perhaps she was returning from a long day at work, thinking about bills, groceries, and what to cook for dinner. Her steps were slow, her shoulders slightly bent, as if she was carrying more than just the weight of her bag. There was a sadness about her, the kind that comes when life feels heavy but must still move on. Watching her, Toruna remembered that she would be going for Umrah soon, and wondered if she might wear a niqab then too. The thought lingered as she walked on …
Near the park bench, Toruna saw a dead butterfly, its wings still beautiful, though still. She picked it up gently and showed it to her son who looked at it with curiosity, helped her to put it on the height of the side wall!
As they were walking, Toruna observed that two elderly men walked slowly side by side, leaning on their canes and talking as if the world belonged to only them. Their laughter carried softly in the air. Toruna thought about how friendship, even in old age, keeps the heart alive, how sharing stories can make time feel lighter … she wondered what might be the topics of their laughter!
Then, not far from them, a young girl crouched near the edge of the grass, feeding milk and biscuits to a few stray cats. The cats purred and brushed against her legs. Her sweet smile warmed Toruna’s heart, a small act of kindness in a noisy world …
A little further ahead, a young mother struggled with her two small children, one crying, the other running away. Toruna smiled at this sight of this young mother, remembering her own early days of motherhood. How young she had been, and ever since then, how her children had become her entire universe …
She and her son walked side by side, sometimes talking, sometimes silent. These walks had become their little ritual, good for both their minds and hearts …
That evening, they noticed a young boy walking slowly around the park. He looked a bit overweight and tired. Toruna said, ‘I’ve been watching that boy for a while.’ Her son nodded, ‘Yes, he comes here often. I’ve seen him too.’ Toruna felt a sadness for him. ‘I hope he feels better soon,” she said, ‘Life gives everyone some struggle that other people can never understand’ ….
As the sun began to fade, they left the park, stopping by the nearby general store to buy a few things before heading home. Toruna smiled to herself, ‘Tomorrow we’ll come again,” she thought, and surely, the path would have more stories waiting to be found …
#roksanatales
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Have you ever wondered, how many stories pass by us each day, unnoticed?
She no longer fears missing out, for she has learned that what’s meant for her will never pass her by. While the world rushes to chase trends, gatherings, and noise, she finds peace in her own rhythm. Her joy isn’t borrowed from what others are doing, but born from the satisfaction of being present where she is …
She doesn’t measure her life against anyone’s timeline. She knows that every soul blooms in its own season. She would rather miss a hundred fleeting moments than lose the one that truly belongs to her …
For her, the real richness lies not in being everywhere, but in being whole, right where she stands …
#roksanatales
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When was the last time you felt at peace simply by being where you are?
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?
For the past two months, I’ve been wearing just two simple kameez sets, paired with the same sandals and one trusty bag, wherever I go. Except for a few occasions, this has been my beautiful routine. The colours of the dresses have softened with time, and the sandals even needed a small repair once. Yet somehow, that has only made them feel more alive, more mine, as if they carry the reflective story of my days within their fading threads …
This small choice has brought a surprising calm into my life. I no longer stand before my wardrobe wondering what to wear or how to appear. There’s less noise in my mind, fewer decisions to make. Simplicity has become a rhythm of peace, an invitation to slow down and live with intention. Life, I’ve found, feels calmer when there is less clutter …
In this space of simplicity, I began noticing how much I already have, how many clothes once sat untouched, how often I’ve taken the luxury of choice for granted. Wearing the same things again and again opened a subtle sense of gratitude. I realised how privileged I’ve been: to have more than I need, to be able to choose …
That realisation inspired another small but meaningful shift. Whenever I felt the urge to buy something new, I started setting a portion of that amount aside, for charity, or for something genuinely important. What once might have gone toward another purchase now flows toward purpose. Each act of restraint has become an act of giving. Truly, fulfilment lies not in acquisition, but in redirection …
These small choices have grounded me deeply. They’ve taught me that contentment doesn’t come from adding more, but from cherishing what already exists and letting it serve its purpose fully. Even as the fabric fades and the edges of my sandals wear thin, I certainly know a richness that has nothing to do with possessions …
It has now been over a year since I last bought clothes for myself. And yet, this restraint feels like abundance. There’s something profoundly beautiful about learning to want less, about realising that simplicity itself can be a beautiful form of luxury, one that dresses the spirit far more gracefully than anything we could ever wear …
#roksanatales
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What might shift in your life if you began to embrace a little less, and notice a little more?
Little treasures rest Whispers of time in my hand Treasures never fade …
An entry ticket to the Sherlock Holmes Museum on Baker Street with my little sister in London. It was a bright and sunny day, and we had such a wonderful experience exploring the museum. Walking through the rooms, seeing the famous detective’s study, and imagining the stories felt magical. This little ticket is now a cherished memory of laughter, curiosity, and a special day spent together …
Life’s simple joys are all around; they only need your attention and appreciation to become cherished memories …
A strong woman rises silently when the world expects her to fall knows her worth without apology … blooms in her own time … invites love not to tame her but to accept her fully, unapologetic, unstoppable, and unafraid to embrace her …
One day at a time! It sounds simple, almost too slow for this fast world. But when life humbles you, or pain stays long, you learn it’s not weakness, it’s wisdom …
Many won’t understand until survival becomes sacred, or until plans become hours, and peace is found in small steps …
Only then, suddenly, one day feels like a victory!
I have a deep wish to travel to Tibet someday, and also again and again, explore the areas in and around the Himalayas. There’s something about those mountains, their silence, their vastness, that calls to me in a very personal way …
I don’t just want to visit as a tourist; I dream of living in a quiet Himalayan valley for a while, among the locals, embracing the pace and peace of that life. I feel like I’ll take the silence from nature and the strength from the mountains to keep writing all my thoughts. And in that stillness, I know I’ll paint too, letting the changing light, the prayer flags, the rivers and skies guide my brush. Creating art in that sacred landscape feels like a return to something essential …
The Himalayas feel like more than just a destination, they feel like a kind of home I wish to reach again and again. So yes, they are definitely in my future travel plans, hopefully sooner than later …
If someone listens to a song And she appears in the verse Not summoned, not expected Just felt, like a breeze through a half-open window Then that is love in its gentlest form …
Not loud, not declared But tucked between notes Where memory breathes, and the heart still knows What it never forgot …
And if they play it again Not to relive the past But to feel her near Just once more …
Alas, the song fades! But somewhere in its echo lives a moment They never said goodbye to …
I was listening to a song when a sudden thought settled in, if someone ever hears a song and thinks of me, isn’t that one of the most deeply emotional and sacred gestures?
That moment stayed with me, and I ended up writing ‘When a Song Remembers Her’ … It doesn’t follow any structure or rhyme, but it holds something personal, love, memory, longing …
Maybe it’s a poem. Maybe it’s just a feeling shaped into words. I’m not entirely sure …
But I wonder, what do you think, can something like this be called a poem? Or does a poem need rules to be real, or can it simply be a moment that moves us? Also, I’m just wondering about you, have you ever heard a song and found someone gently returning to your heart through it?
Tell me, Isn’t it beautiful how music remembers what we try to forget?
When R stepped off the small plane that landed in Paro, Bhutan, she felt something shift, not dramatically, but like the settling of dust after a long journey …
The valley stretched wide beneath her, green and golden in patches, framed by distant, unmoving mountains. It was quieter than she expected. Even the wind seemed to move gently, as though not to disturb the stillness that held this place together …
She had arrived not as a tourist, but as a teacher, a woman in her late thirties from Bangladesh, with a degree in English and a quiet but persistent belief in meaningful work. Years ago, it had been just a passing dream, one that took root on a monsoon evening back home, when her father handed her a book after returning from a short business trip to Bhutan: Married to Bhutan by Linda Leaming. She didn’t know then that the book would become more than a gift. It would become a roadmap …
She read it in one sitting, and then again, slower. The words painted a life far from the chaos she knew: one of rhythm, simplicity, joy without extravagance. Something about it stirred her. Not just the country itself, but the idea that a person could choose a gentler life, one rooted in intention. Ever since, the desire to live and work in Bhutan stayed with her, not loudly, but like a thread running through her decisions, pulling her quietly in one direction …
It took years to make it happen. Teaching jobs weren’t easy to come by. There were rejections, delays, moments of self-doubt. But eventually, things aligned. A school in Paro welcomed her. And so she came, with a suitcase full of essentials and a heart full of the unknown …
The school was modest: a few classrooms, basic supplies, and a staff of deeply committed educators. Her students were bright-eyed and curious, some from the surrounding hills, others from the valley towns. They called her Miss R with respect and affection. She taught English, but often, she felt she was learning more than she was giving …
In Paro, life had a slower pulse. Mornings began with mist hanging low over the rice fields. The walk to school was lined with prayer flags and the occasional passing cow. She started wearing the kira on school days, awkwardly at first, then with growing comfort. Suja, salted butter tea, became something she reached for on chilly afternoons …
She missed home sometimes: the sound of the call to prayer, her mother’s cooking, the overlapping laughter of cousins. But Bhutan had offered her something she hadn’t expected, a deep and gentle space to grow. Here, her work felt rooted. Each lesson she planned, each conversation with a student, each moment of solitude looking out at the hills, it all added up to a life that felt fuller, simpler, and strangely her own …
Some evenings, when the rain returned and wrapped the mountains in silver, she would pull out the old book her father had given her. The pages were worn now, the cover faded. But the feeling it gave her, that tug toward a life of simplicity and purpose, still felt as clear as it did all those years ago …
Living in Bhutan hadn’t made her someone new. It had returned her to someone she had always hoped to be: grounded, purposeful, and joyful. She wasn’t searching anymore. She was, finally, living the life she had once only read about …
She is here … Teaching … Living near the mountain valleys she once only imagined … And in doing so, she has become a part of a beautiful story …
And at the end of each day, amidst mountain valleys, in the hush of Paro’s twilight, that felt like enough …
#roksanatales
While there in Bhutan
Bhutan has a sacred place in my heart. I visited once, and it felt like stepping into a world where everything slows down. Peace seemed to rise gently with the mountains …
I remember the kind people, the prayer flags fluttering in the wind, and the quiet beauty of the dzongs. Everything left a deep impression on me …
Rafting was one of the most exciting parts, unexpectedly wild, joyful, and full of laughter. That whole trip was truly an adventure I’ll never forget …
Before leaving, I bought the book Married to Bhutan from Paro International Airport. After reading it, something in me shifted. It changed the way I see life, more simply, more mindfully, and with a greater sense of purpose
Now the evening descends in stillness And the burdens of the day return to the hands of the Divine He knows what the heart held in silence And wraps the soul in mercy, soft as dusk …
Recently I happen to read a haiku by Bashō: Such stillness the cicada’s cry drills deep into the rocks.
It stayed with me. The depth, it felt like something more than words. That’s when I found the Japanese word Yūgen. It means a deep, mysterious beauty that can’t be fully explained. It felt just right for what I was feeling, so I kept it with me, as the title for something I’m slowly shaping in my heart …
Yūgen (幽玄) A deep, mysterious sense of beauty and the grace of the universe, often felt during twilight or in quiet moments
Roksana Tales 