Sangeetha Kamath

  It was pre-dawn and still dark. The shrill alarm jolted me from the depths of a death-like sleep even as I tried to cling on to the fading vestiges of a sweet dream. I was just within reach of seeing its mysterious ending but it was gone. Like a wisp of smoke! I tried to slowly blink away the remnants of sleep from my eyes---heavily lidded and which just refused to open even a crack at a grim time like this. The alarm was ringing incessantly. Could it be a mistake that I set it to go off so early? At this bleak hour?!  Uh! Hold on, it wasn’t the alarm but a phone call for crying out loud!” At this unearthly time, when most of this side of the world was asleep, I dearly hoped that it would be from one of the two sources--Either from **Piny Woods Primary School or **Woody Pines Primary School. Yes, Thank God! I was right! I recognised ** Carrie’s number of **Piny Woods Primary School. Phone calls during pitch-black hours did tend to give me the chills, driving me to think only...

Standing in my spare room, surrounded by the accumulation of years' worth of possessions, I feel a sense of overwhelm wash over me. The piles of clothes, the stacks of books, the scattered trinkets and mementos – it's all too much. But as I begin to sort through the chaos, something shifts within me. I start to see the beauty in letting go, in releasing the burdens that weigh me down. It's a liberation, a freedom from the constant distraction and clutter that fills my space. Danshari, the art of decluttering, is not just about getting rid of stuff; it's also about releasing the emotional attachments to them. Continuing to sort and purge ruthlessly, I start to notice the little things. The things that I don't have any use for as of today. Drawers holding bits and bobs, some duplicates of the possessions that I own, some chipped china, shelves holding curios that are faded and worn out, collections which don't evoke the same sentiments in me as they once did, item...

  As usual, at the dot of 8 pm, the Guzheng plays its stirring chords, the haunting notes beginning a slow sweep, rising to a powerful crescendo and alternating with a tranquil ebbing of melody surfing me along the waves of soul-stirring, yet a serene stretch of an hour every day.  I make it a point to sit right beside my dining room window to bask in this lulling sound therapy as my neighbor downstairs diligently plays on this zither, oblivious to my admiration. What a luxury it is to have a live orchestra while I savour the last meal of the day. It's a welcome distraction to the otherwise jarring squabbling of the playful neighbourhood children.  The Chạ̀wkhrāw of this– that the musical household might move one day is a foreboding thought. Foreshadowing this, deeply ingrained in me is the shattering news I had received upon returning to Singapore after an 8 month absence here.  The Ramadan festive season was fast approaching at the end of March but the apartm...

  In my quiet moments, I pause the world from its frantic pace. In that stillness, I wistfully gaze into the distance and just let things unfurl as they please. I let my thoughts flow, absorbing nothing. Internalizing nothing. And just like that, the strands of tightly woven twine untangle and the knots come loose. Today, as usual, I found myself caught up in the hustle and bustle of daily grind. I was rushing to get things done, stressing about deadlines, and feeling overwhelmed by the sheer amount of tasks on my to-do list. But then, I took a deliberate pause. With a deep breath, I stretched, stepped away from my desk, and walked out onto my balcony. Leaning on the railing, I looked down at the familiar lanes of my neighborhood, twirling around the corners behind the blocks of apartments.  The park and playground stood deserted at noon amid the cluster of flowering trees and surrounded by the hedges lining the curbs. I gazed at the sky, feeling the warm sun on my face and ...

The waves are soft and frothy. Laced with gossamer frills tenderly kissing the tips of my toes covered with the grainy sand of the rugged seashore where I'm sitting, wistful. A gust of briny breeze tousles my hair as I gaze as far as my eyes can see.  A flock of terns wheel overhead, their sharp, shrill cries punctuating the air as they dive and swoop over the surfs. A lone frigate bird, its crimson belly dazzling like a jewel skims majestically above, its long, slender wings outstretched as it rides the thermals high above the ocean. I absorb the sights and sounds of the late afternoon while absentmindedly scooping seashells beside me. As the afternoon phases, the furthest rim of the ocean is fringed in a gilded hem and the sleepy sun yawns, its dipping glow streaking the sky in a mellow tangerine and warm cherry. As I continue sitting there, the ships and yachts appear --specks of light from the portholes glimmering in the distance, reminding me of the phrase “That ship has saile...