Epiphanies and Rant

By Nathansha Kothari

Do you ever feel burned out? Are you struggling to find purpose in whatever you are doing? Is your mind holding a million thoughts, but you are unable to articulate, and you need to vent it all out before your head explodes?

This book is about everything you notice or feel every day but fail to acknowledge. It is about your childhood, adulthood, love, hope, fear, and anything which makes you human. The narratives are experiences and perspectives of a common man. The purpose of the book is to allow its readers to introspect and jot down the very true purpose of life. To pull them out of their mundane routine, and allow them to think and ask "why?"

This book is basically your own story. A reflection of your thoughts and experiences. Everything narrated here is something you would have already experienced. It is safe to say, that it is your very own diary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MINDPOP
• Release date: Dec 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201128333

Nathansha Kothari

Nathansha Kothari is a Chartered Accountant based out of Chennai, India. Nathansha finds solace in words and believes that the ultimate purpose to life is being happy. She finds her muse in every little thing life has to offer and pens it down on the days she wants to escape from the world. She loves to read books and adores a hot cup of tea on a dull rainy evening.

Book preview

Preface

Have you ever been inspired?

By the rage of the waves

The cacophony of the breeze

The aura of the morning’s dew

The colors of the first ray

And the night’s calm haze

Have you ever been inspired?

By the honest smiles

The sad cries

The mundane routine

Or by the billion things you witness every day?

Ice-cream wala

The crevices on the wall portray an aged apartment. He stares at his two-year-old boy and six-year-old girl, playing with the broken utensils, probably the only toys they ever owned. His eyes then fall on his wife, who is cautiously sewing the tear on her child’s trousers for the nth time. The sting of their hunger is now making him breathless. He sighs, craving for the normal to resume.

It is late in the night, and he is aware of the silenced streets, and the closed shutters. But it is not like he has much of a choice. He picks his tattered shirt hanging on the hook behind the door and slips into his black silicon flip flops.

As I stare over the contents on my laptop’s screen, I hear someone ringing a bell on the street. "Tring Tring the bell rings again, and this time it is followed by a voice, screaming ice-cream. Hush! Isn’t he aware of anything? I sulk. And yet again. I press a few keys on my laptop and step out to my veranda to find a middle-aged man, carefully examining the neighborhood. With one hand holding the bicycle and the other a huge red box attached on its back. His eyes, desperate to find a kid who could throw a fuss. He stands there as if hoping to attract the attention of a celebrating house, or maybe a newly married husband, who awaits his wife’s anger to subside, and with all is efforts, once again, he screams ice-cream"

Too tired to think of anything, I walk back into my room, ranting over my undone work, and tight deadlines, naively taking my fixed monthly pay, for granted.

A group of people watching fireworks Description automatically generated

Diwali

I recollect Diwali of my younger days. When I would restlessly pester my parents to take me shopping. Of how back then, we went shopping for the entire family, with the entire family. The picture of my parents standing over the counter of a local nearby shop, flashes right before my eyes. Of how my mother’s eye would fall on something, lying in the deep pile of clothes and she would softly say "bhaiya woh batana". That’s when I would jump to reach the counter and try to have the first look of something that I might be owning by the end of the day. I guess, nothing can ever beat the joy I felt while holding the plastic bag having my new Diwali outfit.

I wonder how soon time has passed. It was only yesterday, when I would come outside after my school to find my dad waiting for me on his bike. That’s the thing about dads, isn’t it? They are always on time. I think of the open days when my parents had to meet my class teacher. Of how they always complained of my bad handwriting, and how I always promised to do better. I recollect the days of my achievements, of how my parents called every relative possible, proudly declaring their triumph. Where celebration to my mother meant homemade halwa, and to my father a large dairy milk.

Today, I wonder, how simple our lives were. Of how we packed food for the beach and the movies. And how we had picnics in nearby parks, with