Tag: nostalgia

  • Some Things Refuse to Age✨

    Some Things Refuse to Age✨

    What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?

    The oldest thing I’m wearing today
    is the way I still fall in love with tiny things. 🌸

    .

    Tiny joys.
    Tiny moments.
    Tiny unnecessary happiness that serves absolutely no purpose except making life feel softer.

    .

    I still look at the moon like she personally came to visit me.
    I still pause for orange skies, old songs playing from another room, cold pillows, and the smell of books I had no intention of buying.

    .

    Some people became cooler with age.
    I became the kind of person who whispers “the sky looks so pretty today” like it’s confidential information.🫣

    .

    I still listen to songs older than me like they’re personal memories.
    I still open cupboards just to touch my mother’s old sarees sometimes
    soft with time, carrying the quiet fragrance of another generation.
    And somehow, certain fabrics don’t just hold threads,
    they hold festivals, old conversations, familiar laughter, entire versions of home.

    .

    And honestly, I think that’s the oldest part of me.

    .

    Not my habits.
    Not my memories.
    Not even the emotional damage carefully marinated over the years.

    .

    Just this stubborn little ability to be delighted by life.

    .

    And truthfully, I wasn’t always like this.
    There was a time I thought happiness had to arrive loudly
    as achievements, big moments, big plans, big miracles.

    .

    But the last few years quietly taught me otherwise.

    .

    Now I think life mostly happens in smaller ways.

    .

    In warm tea.
    In window seats.
    In hearing your favorite song unexpectedly.
    In someone remembering how you take your chai.☕️
    In old songs drifting through another room while the evening slowly settles around you.

    .

    Maybe growing up was never supposed to mean becoming less amazed.✨
    Maybe the real tragedy is how many people stopped noticing the softness around them.

    .

    Meanwhile, I’m still out here treating fairy lights like a spiritual experience and old sarees like heirlooms from another universe.

    .

    And frankly?
    I hope that part of me never ages. ✨
    Someone has to keep reacting to flowers and clouds like they’re celebrity sightings. ☺️

    Warm nostalgic artwork with old sarees, books, tea, and the title Some Things Refuse to Age ✨
    Some softness never really leaves us. 🌸

    With Love,

    —Rajeshwari 🧿💕

    © Nihshabd by Rajeshwari. All Rights Reserved

  • I Don’t Read… I Disappear Into Stories✨🌙

    I Don’t Read… I Disappear Into Stories✨🌙

    What book could you read over and over again?

    .

    I don’t reread books…

    not because I don’t love them

    but because once a story gives away all its secrets,

    it stops playing with me.

    .

    And I like it when stories play back.

    .

    Because somewhere between the lines,

    there’s always something hiding

    something that doesn’t reveal itself easily…

    something that makes me lean in a little closer.

    .

    And I…

    I crave that first spark.

    .

    The moment I open a new book,

    something inside me shifts

    like a window suddenly opening,

    and in rush

    a thousand restless, mischievous thoughts.

    .

    Dragonflies skim across my mind,

    light and fleeting…

    Fireflies glow softly in hidden corners,

    like tiny secrets waiting to be found…

    and clouds

    they don’t stay still either.

    .

    They change, they drift, they play,

    painting my thoughts

    in colors I didn’t know I carried within me.

    .

    I don’t read…

    I run after them.

    .

    I try to hold onto a moment,

    but it slips away laughing

    playful, untamed

    and somehow, I end up smiling too.

    .

    And then…

    everything softens.

    .

    Like time slows down,

    like I’ve stepped into a place

    where imagination runs free

    careless, curious, alive.

    .

    Books, for me, are never just stories.

    They are worlds

    and I don’t visit them,

    I dissolve into them.

    .

    My thoughts don’t stay still there…

    they wander, they chase, they tumble,

    they turn into colors, into laughter, into quiet wonder

    like a piece of childhood

    that never really left,

    just hid between the pages.

    .

    Maybe that’s why I don’t read the same book twice

    because I’m not looking to remember a story…

    .

    I’m looking to lose myself

    in a new one,

    again and again. 🌙

    .

    A dreamy illustration of a woman reading a glowing book under a starry sky, surrounded by fireflies and dragonflies, with magical light flowing from the pages, titled “I Don’t Read… I Disappear Into Stories” with “Nihshabd” written below.
    Stories don’t stay on pages… they linger inside me. 🌙

    .

    —Rajeshwari 🧿💕

    © Nihshabd by Rajeshwari. All Rights Reserved

  • When “Being Big” Was the Only Plan

    When “Being Big” Was the Only Plan

    When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?

    When I was five,

    I didn’t want to be something…

    I wanted to be everything

    (with zero effort, obviously).

    .

    Doctor

    because I owned a plastic stethoscope

    and confidence levels higher than actual doctors.

    .

    Teacher

    just to say,

    “Silence!”

    to people who weren’t even talking.

    .

    Pilot

    because I thought waving hands

    could control air traffic.

    (Still think that sometimes in traffic jams.)

    .

    And sometimes…

    I just wanted to be my mother.

    .

    Wearing her saree,

    standing in front of the mirror,

    fixing pleats that never stayed,

    pretending I had somewhere important to go.

    .

    No job title.

    No big dream.

    .

    Just… her.

    .

    Then came the real ambition

    to be “older.”

    Not successful.

    Not happy.

    Just… older.

    .

    Because older people

    had no homework,

    no bedtime,

    and unlimited authority

    to say “because I said so.”

    .

    Scam of the century, honestly.

    .

    I also wanted to be rich

    so I could buy

    all the chocolates in the world…

    and still cry over the wrong toy.

    .

    Priorities were clear.

    Logic was not required.

    .

    Funny thing is

    nobody asked,

    “What will you actually become?”

    .

    Because at five,

    dreams didn’t need backup plans,

    or Excel sheets,

    or self-doubt.

    .

    They just needed

    a random Tuesday afternoon

    and a little imagination.

    .

    Now people ask me that question

    with deadlines in their eyes.

    .

    “What do you want to be?”

    .

    And I almost say

    five again.

    .

    Because back then,

    I wasn’t confused…

    .

    I was just

    limitless without pressure.

    .

    Now I’m focused…

    .

    …on pretending I know

    what I’m doing.

    .

    —Rajeshwari 🧿💕

    © Nihshabd by Rajeshwari. All Rights Reserved

  • Almost There…

    Almost There…

    Name an attraction or town close to home that you still haven’t got around to visiting.

    There’s a park three lanes away

    with a swing that still creaks politely,

    waiting for someone who isn’t in a hurry.

    I’ve never sat there.

    I pass it daily,

    like an unread message.

    A close-up of an empty wooden swing hanging by metal chains in a quiet, misty park, with a blurred bench visible in the background.
    An empty swing waiting in stillness—like a pause life keeps offering.

    The tiny tea stall near the signal

    the one with chipped cups and heroic ginger

    I always say next time.

    Next time has excellent attendance,

    but never shows up.

    A steaming kettle and two glasses of chai on a rustic wooden tea stall counter, surrounded by jars of snacks and blurred city lights in the background.
    A small tea stall and its quiet warmth—always close, always postponed.

    A bookshop hiding behind the stationery store,

    smelling of dust and old afternoons.

    I know it exists.

    I just don’t know it personally,

    There’s a temple, a bakery, a quiet bench,

    a road that bends instead of rushing straight

    all close enough to wave at me,

    far enough to be postponed.

    A warmly lit old bookshop beside a rustic chai stall on a quiet, winding road in the evening, with steam rising from kettles and a lone cat sitting in the misty distance.
    “A place I know exists… just not personally.”

    Weekends arrive like they’ve grown wings,

    Saturday yawns, Sunday sprints,

    and suddenly it’s Monday again,

    asking what I did with all that freedom.

    Life keeps happening in the big, loud things

    alarms, lists, groceries, deadlines

    while the small places sit patiently,

    unbothered by my excuses.

    Maybe one day

    I’ll take the long way home

    just to meet them.

    Not as a plan.

    Just as a pause.

    —Rajeshwari💕