Constant

The Miser Within

It’s not just about money.

I once knew someone who wouldn’t buy an extra helping of dessert — not because they were watching their weight or saving for something big, but simply because “what’s the need?” was their instinctive reaction to anything that felt even slightly indulgent. At first, you chalk it up to frugality. A sensible approach to life, perhaps. But over time, you begin to notice that this carefulness seeps into everything — into how they speak, how they experience joy, how they relate to people.

Because a miser isn’t just someone who won’t spend money. A miser is someone who is perpetually afraid of waste — of time, of emotion, of vulnerability. And so, they scrimp on everything. They’re hesitant to compliment someone even when they are clearly moved. They refrain from expressing joy too openly, almost as if happiness should be portioned out cautiously. Even love, even laughter, come with internal calculators asking — is this worth it?

It’s as if they’re living life like a balance sheet. Every gesture, every connection, every feeling is weighed and measured. What’s the ROI of going out tonight? Will hugging someone back make me appear too available? If I appreciate someone’s work, do I lose some of my own perceived worth? They look for returns before making even the smallest emotional investment — as though the goal is to make life end in the green.

But life doesn’t work that way. Some of the richest moments come with no measurable output. Some of the most generous actions bring no immediate reward. The best conversations, the deepest laughs, the warmest connections — none of these will ever come with a guarantee. Yet these are the very things that make a life full and lived.

What’s tragic is that miserliness, when it becomes a way of being, begins to alienate. People around such a person start feeling unseen, unappreciated, unloved — not because there’s a lack of emotion, but because everything is doled out in such small, cautious doses. The person holding back thinks they’re protecting themselves. In truth, they’re just slowly creating distance — between themselves and joy, between themselves and the world.

So here’s a reminder: don’t live like you’re guarding a vault. Be generous — not just with your money, but with your time, your attention, your words. You don’t always need to weigh the impact before giving something good of yourself. Say the kind thing. Laugh freely. Celebrate fully. Not everything has to make perfect sense. Not everything needs to be optimised.

Because life isn’t a spreadsheet. It’s a series of unrepeatable moments — and the most beautiful ones often show up when you stop asking, what’s the need? and start saying, why not?

The Random Call

 

Part 1
There are random people I know,
With myriad randomness to show,
Who would call me just whenever,

Text me maybe now, maybe never.
But not him. Nuh nuh, not once.
Was there ever a chance,
Of anything remotely unknown,
Any random randomness shown.

Every Friday without fail
Come rain, or snow, or hail,
As the clock struck five,
On his work-to-home drive,
He would always dial my name,
Our chat always the same.
“Oh hey, how do you do?
How has the week been for you?”
“I am doing good, how about you?
Did the week carry something new?”
Some weeks, “Same old, same old”
Sometimes there was news to be told.
Yet the weekly norm never broke.
Every Friday for sure we spoke.

Part 2
Till one such week. No call came.
The clock struck five all the same.
Yet, five became six, then seven, then eight
And it turned into an endless wait.
Ominous thoughts came down hard.
Worries started pumping the heart
Why wouldn’t the phone show his name?
Is it my-side or his-side to blame?
Oh! is it this? Or is it that?
Can't he drop a text or chat??
Friday came, and Friday went.
The worried heart tired and spent,
Stopped waiting for the phone to ring.
Resigned to whatever fate would bring.
Monday came, the clock struck two.
I had lost hope of hearing from you,
When suddenly my poor dear eyes
Widened with disbelieving surprise.

Part 3
“Oh hey, how do you do?
How has the week been for you?”
You said as if nothing had changed
As if this Monday was pre-arranged.
“I am doing good, how about you?
Did the week carry something new?”
I answered, without missing a beat.
My autopilot words on repeat. 
Then, "Why did you skip last Friday's call?
Did you perhaps take a fall?
Was it your brain, or liver, or spleen
Which made you break our routine?”

“Oh no such thing, all is just fine
Calling you had just skipped my mind”

Part 4
And with that, I can conclusively say,
Of all people who have come my way,
He turned out to be the randomest of all.
To beak our 30-year ‘Every Friday’ Call !!!

Termites

I spotted a termite hill sneaking,

from behind the almirah today.

A tiny trail of buff dust,

which was easily flicked away.

And the place was treated thus,

with some medicinal spray.

Then dusted and neatened up,

And made ready for display.

Yet behind that neatened wall,

untreated by that spray,

the worms went on and on,

nibbling and chipping away.

Grinding their teeth under the wood,

hollowing the fake display.

The termites went on nibbling,

ignoring the noxious spray.

I knocked on the wood to hear,

Fervently hoping that I may,

not hear the vacuous hollow,

behind the fixed display.

But the termites had been busy,

chipping the wood away.

Now, all that's left is the veneer,

bravely holding it in today. 

Urge

 

There is a song playing in my head,

like many-a-times it does.

Today it suddenly grows wings,

and raptures into an urge.

An urge to run away from the day,

and seek out a pie of dusk.

An urge to wrap a soft lace shirt,

fragrant with oud and musk.

An urge to gather the swirling pinks,

of the dusty, cloudy skies.

An urge to call the fingernail moon,

and indulge sleep to eyes.

An urge to lullaby away my thoughts,

and pillow them into dreams.

An urge to caramelize the pie of dusk,

and dance on midnight’s beams!

But the sun never sets in slumber town

 

The evening fades, sun goes down.

Then shines again in slumber town.

Behind our lids, by a riverside,

On golden sands in soft daylight,

A footprint yours, a footprint mine,

Ageless strokes on sands of time.

A new day dawns and life goes on,

But the sun never sets in slumber town.

Same story yours with the story mine,

Never does end on the sands of time.

HIDDEN

 

Two knocked knees, a flurried heart

A caught breath, with lips apart.

A lowered lid, a hidden smile,

Two fingers twisted like a twine.

A tapping toe on a resting foot,

Thoughts which stray off the route.

Gently dancing, sparkling eyes.

Breath laced with faithless sighs.

Jaunty laughs which hide the fumble,

Of vacuous words in voice atremble.

Stiff white linen with a lacy trim,

And a love story that’s hidden within.