We leave places behind, but pieces of them keep travelling with us ….
Tag: blogging
Stories Along the Path
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 …
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Have you ever wondered, how many stories pass by us each day, unnoticed?
Freedom from FOMO
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 …
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When was the last time you felt at peace simply by being where you are?
Behind her Sunglasses
She has always loved wearing sunglasses …
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?
Her eyes carry stories the world is not
yet ready to read
I♥️
Bravery
Climb the hill
Then jump across the small gap
Bravery feels free …
Turona’s Mountain
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 …
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?
Already Enough
Even when the path is unclear
You keep walking
Trusting that each step will find its ground …
The world shifts around you
But your courage stays steady as breath …
There is no need to rush
No race to win
Just the unfolding of your becoming …
Every doubt carries a lesson
Every pause a gentle renewal
Every moment a seed of strength …
You are here
You are trying
And that is already enough …
Musings
Even in your uncertainty, you’re brave, you’re trying, and you’re already enough …
No Chase Outshines This Moment
Slow down and come home to yourself, this moment, your life, is already rich with blessings and beauty that no chase can ever outshine …
What does ‘home’ feel liek to you wthin your own heart?
Wonder
I am made to notice the world in all its color, light, and wonder, to gasp at butterflies, scent flowers, and follow what stirs my joy …
To force me to ignore it is to ask my very heart to break, for I’m curved to hold love, beauty, and life fully …
What would you see if you let yourself notice the world as fully as you were made to?
A Strong Woman
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 …
Musing
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!
Ikigai
In a world that pulls you in every direction, protect your peace, honour your pace, and remember: the way you treat yourself shapes everything …
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Ikigai (生き甲斐 – Japanese)
A reason for being; what gives life meaning
Soru
Keep asking, not because you doubt everything, but because that’s how you grow, lead, and stay true to yourself …
Soru (Turkish)
Question, simple and bold
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What if the question is the answer? Just asking YOU
Presence
Sometimes, the kindest thing in the world is
A friend who sits beside our sorrow
Not asking it to leave
But making space for it to breathe …
I♥️
Let It Be Your Compass
In a world of noise
Slow down and listen
Choose what feels calm …
Not all paths are yours
Let go of the loud ones
Follow what brings ease …
You owe no one more
Peace is not weakness
Let it lead you home …
I♥️
When a Song Remembers Her
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?
I♥️
Between Valleys and Dreams
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 …
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
I hope to return to Bhutan again and again
Musing
Out of life’s deepest tragedies often rise the wisest truths : pain becomes the teacher, and time, the witness …
Yūgen
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 …
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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
The Place
The Place
Remembers your hands
In the turned soil, the creased pages
The teacup left just so on the counter
Grief here is not loud
It is the creak of a door you once touched …
The Place
Holds your laughter in the walls
Not echo, but residue
Like how a tree remembers spring
Through it now stands bare
We walk through it, careful not to forget …
The Place
Speaks in your language
A photograph tilted
A coat still hanging as though time stilled its breath
Even the light bends the way you used to
When you leaned into a story …
The Place
No longer waits
It has folded you gently
Into its grain, its breath, its silence
And yet
Every corner aches like a closed book mid-sentence …
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Just a few days ago, my best friend’s husband passed away, so suddenly, from heart failure. There was no warning, no long illness to prepare the heart for what was to come. One moment he was part of the constant wave of their lives, and the next, a stillness settled in that no one knew how to hold. Their home feels unbearably silent now, not just in sound, but in spirit. Every corner dictates his absence. The people left behind are trying to carry on, but their movements are slower, their eyes heavier. It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t shout, it whispers, lingers, and reshapes everything …
I’ve been thinking a lot about how fragile life really is. We plan, we dream, we hope, and yet so much is out of our control. I can only pray that my best friend finds strength in her memories and comfort in the love that surrounds her now …
Dust
People keep asking, ‘How broken are you? Should we try to fix you?’
But someone please tell them you can only fix what’s in pieces …
I’ve been crushed so finely, I’ve turned to dust
Endure
When clouds gather without warning
You steady my breath with your stillness
We’re brave weather, together …
When the day feels heavy with silence
Your presence makes room for light
We’re brave weather, together …
When a door closes I wasn’t ready for
You sit beside me without needing words
We’re brave weather, together …
When I fall behind the confusion of things
You slow down so I don’t feel lost
We’re brave weather, together …
Even when the air shifts, and so do we
Nothing is the same, but we remain
Because we’re brave weather, together …
Aren’t we?
I♥️
Someone Like You, Somehow
She was in a car, paused at a red light, when a bus slowly pulled up beside her …
It was one of those older city buses, painted white, a bit weary-looking, as if it had seen too many monsoons and memories. Most of its windows were cracked open halfway, resting in a kind of in-between. But one window stood wide open. And there, beside it, sat a young man …
He had AirPods in, so she assumed he was listening to something, music maybe, or a podcast, or perhaps just the sound of his own solitude. His face was quiet in the way people sometimes are when they’re thinking of something that doesn’t need to be said …
There was no moon that night. Just a vast, bare sky stretched like a curtain of silence …
And she smiled to herself …
Not because she knew the boy, not even slightly. She didn’t know his name, his birthday, his favourite tea, or whether he believed in stars or horoscopes. But something about him … reminded her of someone …
A young man she had been exchanging emails with for years now …
They called each other penpals, and that’s probably what they were. Words had passed between them like little paper boats, floating across years, without a single meeting, or even a real photograph …
Though she feels that he’s ‘full of emotions’, thoughtful, sometimes a little too serious, sometimes surprisingly light. He’s a practical young lad. And though she knew so little about him, nothing really concrete, she still felt like she knew him …
And somehow, seeing this boy at the bus window stirred up the memory of one of his old lines, one she never quite forgot: ‘If someone can’t read between the lines, you gotta unfold their blinds’ …
She had laughed when she read that. She smiled again now, under the faint flicker of a streetlight. And his presence stirred something, like déjà vu, like a soul remembering a face from a dream …
Her car was still. The bus beside her, alive with passengers. The boy at the window, lost in the sky …
And she …
She almost wanted to wave, but she didn’t …
Instead, she sat there, lost in her own musings
Soulmates cross lifetimes, meeting again and again, each time in a different form.
Perhaps in one life, he was the brother her soul leaned on. In another, the friend who understood her silences. And maybe, in a life half-forgotten by time, he was the one her heart called home …
In this life, she found him in letters, digital now, yes, but no less tender. Somewhere beneath the playful tone and thoughtful replies, she wondered if fate was quietly weaving its magic …
She was still thinking …
After all, soulmates don’t always arrive with introductions …
Sometimes, they just show up at red lights …
I♥️
Fragrance
Some hearts remain close
Not by presence but by pulse
Like fragrance held in memory, felt deeply
Though the flower is long gone …
Withstood
It’s not possible for you to see, feel, or understand
How many times she has been unseen and unheard
And still, she chose to show up …
It’s not quite possible for you to know
What it takes to carry on
When the world never learned to make room for her pain …
You see her laugh, light up a room, carry joy in her voice
But you don’t see the weight behind it
Every smile is a decision, not a default …
It takes quiet, relentless courage
To choose hope after growing up in chaos, confusion and fear …
To rise each day and still
Believe in goodness, in light,
is a strength many will never understand …
She isn’t just surviving
She’s rewriting her story, one brave moment at a time
That’s not just resilience
That’s power …
And when was the last time you truly saw someone, without needing their smile to prove they’re okay?
Tell me!
Silent Moves
Build, love, and strive in silence. Then arrive with grace, not noise; after all, why reveal your next move when the final one will speak for itself!
Are you guarding your vision or giving it away too soon?
Reflect and focus on your vision …
Solace
Dear Me,
I know you’ve been holding a lot lately, not just in your hands, but in your heart. You care so deeply, and it shows in all the little ways you’re trying to help, to listen, to stay steady. I see how much thought you’re putting into what might ease someone else’s pain, how to show up not just with love, but with wisdom …
You may never have the perfect words or solutions, and that’s okay. It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about being there, consistently, quietly, with care. That kind of presence does matter. That kind of love is enough …
It’s also okay to feel tired sometimes. To question if you’re doing enough. To wonder if your efforts are really helping. Just remember: your intentions are rooted in love, and love is never wasted. Rest when you need to. Trust that showing up with honesty and patience is a healing act in itself …
Keep going gently. You’re doing better than you think …
With kindness,
Myself
I♥️
The Grace in Falling Apart
Even on the days when your strength slips away and your heart feels too heavy to carry, know this, it’s okay to rest, to feel, to fall apart, because your worth was never measured by how well you pretend to be okay …
The Weight of ‘Okay’
How many times I say
It’s okay
Even when I’m breaking inside …
How many times I say
It’s okay
While swallowing truths I cannot express …
How many times I say
It’s okay
And hide the tremble in my voice …
How many times I say
It’s okay
Though it was never really a choice …
How many times I say
It’s okay
Till I forget what peace feels like …
Saying ‘It’s okay’ can become an invisible shield we wear to protect others from our truth, but healing begins when we let our silence speak, and allow ourselves the grace to not always be okay
Even nature does not hide its hurt; the sky weeps, the trees shed, the earth cracks, and in doing so, it finds its way back to balance. In embracing its own cycles of pain and release, nature teaches us that healing is not found in silence, but in allowing ourselves to feel, break, and begin again. So must we …
How many times I say
‘It’s okay’
But know that it’s okay to be not okay …
Express yourself. Be vulnerable
Won’t you?
I♥️
Roksana Tales 